O Lado B do A

The room pulsed with an almost illicit energy that evening. The front door concealed more than just a space; it held a secret. Outside, passing figures flickered in the glass like ghosts, blind to the transgression breathing behind these 987 square feet, a passion that should never have existed. Inside, time unravelled. Reality wove itself into something indistinct, tangled between longing and inevitability.  Robin always arrived first, a silent ritual. Perched in the blind spot at the top of the stairs, phone abandoned on her lap, gaze anchored to the vacant wall, she measured time not in minutes but in the rhythm of her own pulse. The waiting wasn’t agony, it was proof. Elliot would come; he always did.  And that was the problem.  Beyond these walls, London moved unbothered, indifferent, but here everything funnelled down to two bodies navigating the weight of a decision already made. The sharp click of a key turning in the back door snapped the moment in half. Always t...

A falta é o não haver. E haver vem de existir. Mas que confuso tudo isso se torna quando, no silêncio dos meus dias, é justamente você quem mais se faz presente. A ausência pesa, ocupa, grita baixinho nos cantos onde sua voz costumava morar. Saudade é palavra pequena para o universo que carrego no peito. É solidão acompanhada. É o eco de uma presença que insiste em continuar mesmo depois da partida. Ela vem sorrateira, se espalha pela casa, deita comigo, caminha lado a lado. Não dói como uma ferida aberta, mas arde como uma memória viva que insiste em se repetir. E como arde.  É estranha essa saudade. Não pede licença. Rodeia meus dias e minhas noites. É a alegria em lembrar dos momentos bons; é o vazio de não poder revivê-los. É lembrar do riso, da conversa, dos olhares e, ao mesmo tempo, entender que tudo virou lembrança. Talvez o mais bonito, e mais cruel, talvez, da saudade seja essa dualidade: ao mesmo tempo em que consola, machuca. Não existe palavra em nenhum idioma que cons...

O som do pneu deslizando no asfalto molhado desperta algo antigo em mim. A porta entreaberta espera por um sopro de vento fresco.  Estou na cama, meio despido, com papel e caneta nas mãos, rascunhando as últimas palavras de um livro quase pronto.  É verão, e chove.  Tudo parece distante e, ao mesmo tempo, presente demais.

I’m awake. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s my thoughts. Can’t sleep. The pills don’t work anymore.  How much can you miss someone? I’m staring at the ceiling.  3.02 am No answer.

We were a theory, not a plan. You bloom where the sun lives. I burn and sulk. You chase light like it owes you joy; I chase shade like it owes me peace. Six hundred thirty hours of sun, and I’m radiant, ghost-pale and grinning, the happiest contradiction in London’s golden Spring. You? Probably glaring at the sky, wondering how it got so loud. I think it's because of me. I wish I could say this to you. But you’d only close your eyes, turn your face to the light, and forget I was ever in the shadow. And then there is water. And I don't know how to swim. She loves the water. I wish I could watch her body move beneath the surface.  Me? I’m always on the edge: afraid the water will pull me under before I learn to float.  You say water heals; I think it’s a language I never learned.  While you disappear in its quiet depths, I’m left standing, dripping, wondering if love is the same, something you can sink into, or something you only watch from the shore. I wish I could say t...

If I could choose my words more carefully today, it wouldn’t be to dazzle you, but to find a language vast enough to carry your beauty. The coffee would be ground fresh, its scent blooming through the rooms like a soft promise. Beyond the window, the sea stretches endlessly, dissolving into sky, blue meeting blue. The sunlight brushes your skin, unveiling you slowly. You’re caught in the wind, eyes closed, smiling like the moment belongs only to you. I watch in silence. I registered it on 35mm. The rest of the day? Laughter echoes between songs. Tangled sheets. Words whispered in the hush between breaths. Today is yours.  Entirely.

It’s funny, really. I used to think birthdays were just about the day itself: cake, noise, fun t-shirts, the moment everyone sings off-key, and you don’t know where to look or what to do with your hands. But then came you . You, with your quiet wisdom and sideways way of seeing the world. You were the one who said to me, “Why not celebrate the last day of being thirty-eight?” Like it was obvious. And it stayed with me. Especially now, as your day draws closer, I keep imagining how you're moving through this week, how you're closing your cycle, quietly marking the last days of your old age. I imagine you walking slower, noticing the sky, counting moments in sips of coffee and pages turned. You said your birthday didn’t matter, called yourself boring, as if your life didn’t deserve candles and confetti, and I hope, more than anything, that you remember what you taught me: That ageing isn’t a loss. It’s a gathering. So, whether you mark it with cake, or candles, or quiet, whethe...