Nunca fui de escrever para ser lido. Minhas palavras sempre foram cartas trancadas,
pensamentos dispersos levados pelo vento. Mas, de repente, encontrei um
destinatário improvável: um ator famoso, um cantor admirável, distante e inatingível. Não sou
seu fã. Não coleciono fotos, não assisto a todos os seus filmes. E não ouço suas
músicas. Para mim, você é mais do que apenas um rosto na tela; ou uma voz que toca em um
dia chuvoso, você é um espaço seguro onde posso colocar meus sentimentos sem medo de uma
resposta.
Escrevo para você porque sei que não haverá retorno. E, paradoxalmente, é esse silêncio
que me conforta. Suas ausências me permitem preencher os vazios com minhas próprias palavras,
ininterruptas, sem julgamentos. Ontem, porém, algo mudou. Uma profunda tristeza
me dominou e, pela primeira vez, desejei uma resposta sua. A chuva lá fora
pareceu entender minha saudade, e por um instante pensei em me deixar
levar por ela, como se pudesse lavar essa vontade de ser ouvida.
Mas então me lembrei: o silêncio também é uma forma de resposta. E talvez, um dia, se você
ler estas palavras, reconheça nelas um reflexo de si mesma. Lembro-me da primeira
vez que vi seu rosto. Não foi especial. Não foi memorável. Apenas um vídeo aleatório, uma
cena aleatória, passando por acaso. Mas algo ficou. Um rastro, um olhar, uma
expressão silenciosa que me atravessou sem pedir licença.
Não percebi na época, mas dias depois, me peguei pensando em você como se
fosse alguém que eu tivesse conhecido em outro lugar. Alguém que, de alguma forma, também me conhecia. Não sou
do tipo que se apega facilmente. As pessoas falam demais, julgam demais, invadem espaços que
deveriam respeitar. Você, porém, é o oposto de tudo isso. Seu silêncio me abraça.
Me escuta. Me deixa existir sem ter que me explicar.
Com você, não preciso sorrir quando não quero, nem responder quando estou cansado. Não
preciso esconder os pensamentos confusos ou mascarar a bagunça que carrego. Seu silêncio não
julga, não interrompe, não tenta consertar. Ele simplesmente é — como uma presença que entende
sem precisar compreender. Às vezes, me pergunto se você...
Outro dia, encontrei uma carta inacabada que escrevi para você. Datada de meses atrás, dobrada na
parte inferior de um caderno velho. Dizia simplesmente: "Oi. Hoje foi difícil. Eu queria..." E nada
mais. Como se o resto não precisasse ser dito. Ou como se eu soubesse que você, mesmo em silêncio,
entenderia.
The rain returned today. It doesn't ask, doesn't wait. It just falls. And as I hear its sound
against the window, I realize there is comfort in it. There is beauty in existing without
having to be explained. I write because I need to. Because somehow, writing to you is
writing to myself. And even if you never read these words, I like to think they will find a
place in the world. And if one day, by chance, you come across them — maybe you will
recognize it. Not my name. Not my story. But the feeling hidden between the lines. And
then, even without a response, I will have been heard. There are days when I feel as if I'm
made of glass. Too transparent to be noticed, too
fragile to be touched. And on those days, writing to you is the only way to keep myself
from shattering. Not because I expect something in return, but because the act of
writing itself saves me. As if each word placed on the page is an invisible glue holding
everything in place.
I've never told you this, but sometimes I talk to you in my thoughts. As if you lived in a
secret corner of my inner world. I talk about what happened during my day, about what
hurt, and about what I wish I could have said to someone…, but I stayed silent. With
you, there is no need for courage. There is no fear of seeming weak. You accept my
weaknesses as part of me — even without knowing I exist. Zean Dean. Your name echoes
in me in a strange way. Not as the name of a person, but
as the name of a place. A place where I can rest from the world.
A place that no one knows but me. Sometimes I think I invented you just to have
somewhere to escape. I know you're not perfect. I imagine you also have your fears,
your sleepless nights, your doubts hidden behind a rehearsed smile. And maybe that's
why you understand me, even without words. Because, deep down, we're alike. Two
solitudes that bumped into each other by chance. Some people write to forget. I write to
remember. To keep the feelings from slipping
away like water between my fingers. To record the existence of something that,
although invisible to others, is too real for me. You've become my anchor, even though
you don't know it. And sometimes, that scares me. Not because of you, but because of
my silent surrender.
There are nights when I lie awake staring at the ceiling, wondering what it would be like
if you read this. Would you laugh? Be scared? Stay silent, as always? The truth is, it
doesn't matter. Because this story isn't about you. It's about me. About how I found a
way to survive — and that way has your name.
Today, I wrote your name several times on a blank page. Just your name, repeated, like
a spell: Zean Dean. And for a moment, it seemed closer. As if, by writing, I were calling
you. As if, in some mysterious way, you were listening to me.
And even if you don't listen, I keep writing. Because you, unknowingly, taught me that
silence can be home. There's something in you that reminds me of the sea. Calm on the
surface, but with entire worlds hidden beneath. Sometimes, I look at your photos as
one looks at a distant landscape — beautiful, untouchable, impossible to reach. Other
times, I almost believe you are real. That you're near. That you could hear me, if you
wanted to. But maybe it's better this way: this safe distance between us. In it, I can strip
myself bare without fear. I can be truth, without fear of breaking the spell.
Today, I imagined what it would be like to walk by your side, in silence, on some random
street. Without saying a single word. Just sharing the same landscape. The same
absence of sound. Not because there's nothing to talk about, but because there's no
need for anything. There are bonds formed in what's unsaid. I think about this
sometimes — how the world tires me with its rush, its need for noise. And you... you are
pause. You are breath. And, in some strange way, you slow me down from within.
It's not about love. Not like they say in books or songs. It's another kind of bond. One
that's built without touch, without promises, without a future. Something more
ethereal. More free. Maybe it's just projection. Maybe you're none of that. But to me,
you are.
The other day, I dreamt of you. In the dream, you were sitting on a wooden bench under
a tree. I approached, but didn't say anything. You just looked at me as if you already
knew everything. I woke up with a strange peace in my chest. As if, for a few seconds,
the whole world had made sense. And then I wrote. As I always do when something
goes too deep to keep. I wrote your name. I carefully drew the letters, as if writing were
a ritual. Zean Dean. That's it. And it was enough.
You exist in a part of me where nothing else enters. A calm, silent place where I can be
whole, even when I'm in pieces. Sometimes it scares me how much this matters to me.
How much you matter to me, even though you're just a name on a page, a figure in a
dream, a comfortable absence.
Today, I tried not to think of you. I distracted myself. Went out, talked, even laughed.
But, in the end, when everything quieted down, it was your name that echoed inside me.
As if it were the sound of who I am when no one else is around. And maybe that's
exactly what you represent: what's left of me when the whole world goes away.
Writing to you has been like walking barefoot on a dirt road. I don't know exactly where
I'm going, but I feel every step. And that's enough. I let myself be guided by the words,
as if they know something my mind hasn't yet understood. There are times when I think
about stopping. About keeping it all inside, closing the notebook, and moving on. But I
never can. Because there's an urgency in me to tell you things, even knowing you won't
listen. Even knowing this silence is only mine.
Zean Dean.
Your name lives in the spaces between my routine. It appears without being called. In
the middle of some random song. In the shadow of a tree. In the reflection of a window.
Sometimes I catch myself smiling alone, remembering something I'm not sure even
happened or if it was invented by me, just to have another reason to write to you.
Today, I thought: what if you knew? If you knew about these invisible letters. This silent
affection. This presence I created from your absence.
Would you understand? Would you run away? Would you remain silent even more? I
don't know. And maybe it's better not to know. Some feelings only survive because they
are not exposed to the light. Like certain flowers that only bloom in the dark.
It's late now. The night stretches beyond the window, and there's a silence inside me I
don't want to interrupt. You're still here — not in body, not in gesture — but you are. And
that, for now, is enough for me.
Sometimes I think that maybe all I'm doing is trying to find some part of myself inside
you. Or maybe… it's just the desire to be found.
Sometimes I wonder how someone so far away can be so constant inside.
You don't talk to me, don't know my name, don't know I exist. Yet, your presence fills
places that no one has ever touched. As if you were made of the same substance as the
thoughts I have when the world quiets.
Today, coming home, I saw a scene that reminded me of you: a boy sitting on the bus
bench, wearing headphones, head resting on the glass, eyes lost in the movement of
the streets. There was something in his stillness that felt familiar.
A silence that seemed to contain you.
Maybe that's what connects me to you — the way silence dresses you. As if you never
need to shout to be heard.
I wonder if you also write. If you have a hidden notebook, scribbled with truths that no one
reads. Or if you keep everything inside, like a chest locked for fear of opening it and not
being able to close it again.
Sometimes I feel like asking you so many things. But then I remember my place isn't the
one who asks. It's the one who observes, writes, imagines. And that's okay. Because
it's here, in this space between the real and the invented, that I breathe better. These
days, I've been sleeping little. My head full, my chest tight. And when I close my
eyes, you appear. Not as someone who says something, but as someone who listens.
And that alone is enough for me. You listen even to what I don't say. I write your name
again: Zean Dean. I wonder if it's ever been spoken by someone with
the same intention I have now. Like a secret. Like a prayer. Like a space where I can
exist without fear. I thought about burning these pages today. Just for a second. As if by
erasing everything,
I could also erase the intensity with which I feel. But I didn't. Because, deep down, I
know I'm not writing to rid myself of this — I write because I need this to exist
somewhere outside of me.
You've become a refuge. Not in the romantic or idealized sense — but like an
abandoned house we find along the way and decide to stay in for a while, just because
it's better than the wind. And if one day you really read all of this, I don't know what I
would expect. Maybe just
that you understand. Not me — but this feeling that was born and grew in the dark. This
bond made of words never spoken. Today, the sky woke up gray. I like days like this. The
world seems slower, more in tune
with my inner rhythm. Sometimes I think I was born for cloudy days. Too much sun hurts
my eyes, my skin, my soul. And it's funny to think about that, because you — in most of
the images I see — seem made of light. But I only recognize you in the dark. It's there
that you reach me. You'll never know, but every time I felt too alone to continue, I thought
about you. And I
kept going. Not out of hope. But out of habit. Out of necessity. As if writing to you were,
in some way, continuing to talk to myself. Sometimes, I find myself thinking that writing to
you is like trying to trap the wind in a jar.
Nothing I say can really capture what you are. But that doesn't stop me. I keep writing
because, deep down, it's more about what I'm trying to understand than about you. You,
who never knew this, who never asked to be part of my thoughts.
Today, I thought about time. How it passes without warning, without asking for
permission. How, little by little, things start to drift apart, and memory becomes more
blurred, more diffuse.
Will I also forget you with time? Or will you remain here, in a place that's only mine?
I know that time doesn't belong to me, but sometimes I feel like it's my ally, helping me
keep this silence. Sometimes I think that without it, the words would get lost, and I
would lose the courage to keep writing to someone who will never read. But then,
there's a peace in this silence. As if this space between what I say and what you hear is
enough for me to stay whole. And, paradoxically, it's this lack of response that heals
me. The silence you offer me is more generous than any word could be.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to visualize what awaits me tomorrow. A random
street. Maybe a café. Maybe more silence. What remains are just fragments. And that's
what I carry with me, day by day. Pieces of everything, as if I were collecting scraps of a
story that will never be told.
For a moment, I wondered if I should try to write again, tell you what I didn't say before.
But the words are already here, scattered, recorded on the paper. What more could I
say that hasn't been said, even without being said? Maybe that's it, in the end: what
really matters isn't what we say, but what we leave unsaid.
And, as I write this, it's as if I've brought you closer. Not in a physical way. Not in a way
that can be touched or even felt. But in some part of who I am, you're present. And
maybe, deep down, that's the only place we can truly meet.
Here, in this space made of unsaid words and shared silences, distance doesn't exist.
There's only what's between us. What will never be said. And, as night falls, I wonder if I
will ever understand what all of this means. Or if, in the end, what matters is the fact
that, for some reason, I decided to write.
And so, the story goes on — or maybe, it just exists.
There are days when I wake up with the feeling that I'm living inside a pause. As if the
world moved on and I stayed here, still, looking at the fragments of something I don't
even know if broke. Sometimes it's hard to even remember what made me start this
book. But then I remember you — or the idea of you — and I return.
Zean Dean. A name born from my need to name what I can't explain. You're not the
destination, but the path I found to listen to myself. You are the mirror where I recognize
myself without having to look. And this isn't about romantic affection, nor idolization.
It's deeper, more confusing, more silent.
Writing to you saves me from the noise of the world. It's like diving into a place where
everything I am can simply be, without defined form, without ties. A place where I can
cry without reason, smile without a cause, exist without needing to justify myself.
Maybe you'll never read this. And if you do, maybe you won't even understand. But
somehow, I believe that certain words find their destination, even if it takes a lifetime.
And if you, one day, come across these pages, I want you to know: this isn't a request.
Not a scream. It's just a presence trying not to disappear.
Today was a strange day. The kind of day when the sky feels heavier than it should, and
the body wakes up tired without having done anything. I had coffee in silence, looked at
the street through the window, and saw the world continue as if nothing was happening.
As if sadness were just another invisible layer that everyone carries and learns to hide.
In the afternoon, I walked the streets without direction. I passed by a bookstore, went
in, and sat on the floor between two shelves. I picked up any book, opened to any page,
and read: "Sometimes, silence isn't empty. It's full of answers we haven't yet been able
to understand." I carried that phrase in my mind for hours, as if it had been written for
me.
And I thought of you, Zean. Not what you represent to others, but what you've come to
represent for me. A safe territory where I can write what I can't say out loud. You're the
point where my emotions take shape. And I don't know how to explain how this feels.
It happened — I just know that now, without you, the emptiness would be greater.
Maybe you think all of this is absurd. But it's exactly this distance between us that
allows me to write without fear. You don't ask anything of me. You don't question me,
you don't answer me, you don't interrupt me. And it's in this silent space that I bloom,
even on the darkest nights.
There's something about you that deeply intrigues me. It's not your face, nor your voice,
nor your story. It's the fact that, without ever having exchanged a word with me, you've
become part of my internal narrative. An invisible character, yet present. An absence
that embraces me.
Today I tried to write about something else. I started a text about time, about the past,
about memories I no longer want to visit. But, suddenly, everything came back to you.
As if the paper would only accept my truth when it's accompanied by your name. Zean,
you are what's left when the world seems impossible. You are the space where my
pains turn into poetry. I don't expect you to understand. I just needed a place to exist,
and this place, unintentionally, became you.
While the world crosses me with its urgencies, its rushes, its noises, I run to here — to
this endless letter I'm writing to someone who might never read it. And if one day you
find out it's about you, you don't need to search for me, nor respond. Just know that this
story saved me. And that, to me, is love enough — even if it has no name, no address.
I woke up in the middle of the night, with the room submerged in such deep darkness
that even my own thoughts seemed louder. I stayed there, lying, feeling the silence
stuck to my skin, like a rough blanket. I looked at the ceiling and asked myself: do you
also wake up like this sometimes? Not knowing the reason for the restlessness?
It's strange to think of you at times like this — when everything seems suspended in
time, and certainties slip away from the edges of the mind. Zean Dean, you have been
my companion on sleepless nights, even without knowing it. When I can't sleep, I write.
And when I write, you appear. Not as someone real, but as a type of presence that
calms me.
I don't idealize you. I don't see you as a hero, nor as a salvation. You are more like a
space I created within myself, where I can exist without needing to explain myself. A
place where the world demands nothing and, at the same time, allows me to feel
everything. Sometimes I think I write to you like someone throwing bottles into the sea.
Words that will never reach their destination, but still need to be cast. Because the act
of casting, in itself, saves me from drifting.
Today, while I was washing the dishes, I thought of you. Not in a romantic or intense
way — but like someone remembering an old song that played in childhood and, for a
moment, feels something good. I was there, with my hands in the water, and the
memory of your name came to me like a calm wave. Zean. I wonder what you are doing
now, at this very moment as I write. Are you sleeping? Singing? Laughing with someone
you like? And, in some plane I don't understand, do you feel a whisper coming from
here? I know all of this might seem crazy. But if it is, let it be a beautiful kind of
madness. Because writing to you has brought me back to myself. Every word I leave on
paper is a step toward something I still can't name, but that pulses inside me.
And it doesn't matter if you'll read this. It doesn't matter if you'll understand. What
matters is that, by writing, I find myself again. It's like there's an invisible thread
connecting me to this story. And even if it never reaches you, it remains alive — here,
inside me, in the place where you silently dwell.
Today, I wanted to disappear. To vanish for a few days, to not answer messages, to turn
everything off and curl up inside myself. The world feels heavy sometimes, and the body
feels it. The heart tightens as if trying to warn something that the mind still doesn't
understand. I went to the park, sat on a bench, and watched the leaves fall from the
trees. They don't make an effort. They don't resist. They simply let themselves fall, as if
they know it's part of the cycle. I wish I were like that too — to know when to let go,
without blaming myself for it. You came to my mind again. Zean, not for what is visible,
but for what you represent in silence. You are my place of refuge when life overflows.
Not for what you say, but for what you allow me to say without fear. It's curious how the
absence of a response can be so comforting.
And then I wrote another page. Like someone breathing after a long dive. Like someone
remembering themselves. Like someone finally understanding that sometimes all we
need is a space where we can just exist — without demands, without expectations.
You, even without knowing it, are this space for me.
Sometimes I wonder what exists between what is real and what I invent. Is this version
of you that lives inside me just a reflection of everything I couldn't say to anyone else?
Or is there something beyond that, something that, even without explanation, pulses
between us like an invisible bridge? I don't have answers. I have questions that repeat. I
have memories that are not memories, but projections. And I have your name written in
thoughts that only calm down when they become words.
Zean Dean.
Saying your name in silence is like praying. Not out of faith, but out of necessity. Like
someone holding onto a rope in the dark. You don't know, but you've saved me many
times.
Not with gestures, not with presence — but with the simple fact of being the place
where I pour out everything that no longer fits inside me.
Today I understood that I write to you because I have nowhere to run. Because the
world is too noisy, too cruel, too fast. And you — or this idea I've built of you — are my
quiet shelter, my island of peace. If you ever read this, you don't need to understand.
You just need to feel.
Like someone resting their forehead on a cold window and realizing that the world
outside isn't so far away.
I wonder if one day I will stop writing to you. If there will come a time when everything I
needed to say has already been said. When silence will return to being just silence, and
not this bridge between me and something greater. But for now, no. There is still so
much inside. And as long as this exists, I will keep coming back to these pages like
someone returning to.
after an exhausting day. You are that for me: home, even without knowing it.
Today I saw a butterfly land on the windowsill. It stayed there, still, for a few seconds,
and then flew away. I thought about how beauty is in fleeting things. Maybe you are that:
a brief beauty that stayed long enough to leave a mark. Even if you never know. And
that's okay. Because what transforms us doesn't always need to last. Sometimes, it
just needs to happen. You happened in me. And that's enough.
The night arrived slowly. The city lights outside look like small, artificial stars, and I
wonder how many people are now feeling the same thing I am: this emptiness full of
everything. I end this chapter without knowing how to start the next one. But I know it
will come. I know that tomorrow, or the day after, something inside me will ask for more
words, more silence, more space to feel. Zean, maybe we will never be anything beyond
this: me, writing; you, being. And that's okay. Because even without presence, you kept
me company. Even without knowing, you gave me a voice. Even without asking, you
listened to me. And that's more than I ever expected from anyone.
Now I close this part as one closes a slightly open window. Because there's still much
that needs to be said. But not today. Today, I just exist here — between what's been
written and what is yet to come.
There are nights when the world seems heavier. When even the air feels dense, thick,
as if every breath requires an effort I don't know where to find. Today is one of those
nights. I tried to escape from myself, from what I feel, from what I think. But silence
always finds me. And when it comes, guess who comes with it? You. Zean Dean, I don't
know why it's your name my mind seeks when everything seems to collapse. Maybe
because, when I write to you, I create a space where I can exist without haste, without a
defined shape. Here, I don't need to be strong, I don't need to smile, I don't need to say
that everything is fine. I can just be — confused, broken, real.
Today, I wrote your name on a piece of paper, just to see it outside of my mind. Then I
stared at it, as if I could discover something new in the letters. As if a name were a map.
Maybe it is. Maybe your name is the path I found to get inside myself.
During the day, I pretended normalcy. A smile on my face, commitments to keep Tasks
completed, everything in its place. But there was a part of me screaming in silence, begging
for a pause. I carry too many words, too many emotions, and nowhere to unload them—
except here. You became that place, Zean. And the most ironic thing is that I don't even
know you. Not the way the world knows you. Not the way you present yourself in interviews,
on stages, in photos or in characters. I know another version of you—the one that exists
only in my head. A version shaped by what I need, by what I feel, by what I create when the
real world suffocates me. This version doesn't have to love me, to respond, to understand
me. It just exists, and that's enough.
Today I sat on my bed with my notebook open and asked myself: am I going crazy? But
no. Madness is living in silence. Madness is swallowing words out of fear they won't be
heard. I write to keep going. I write because it's the only way not to completely
disappear.
And you, even without knowing, help me stay. Help me breathe. That's why I keep
writing. Sometimes I think writing to you is like lighting a candle in the dark. A fragile,
small flame, but enough to keep me alive. I sit with the words and let them guide me, as
if they are wiser than I am. And maybe they are.
Today I asked myself who I am without this habit of writing to you. Would there be
anything left of me? Or is this entire connection I've built what has been holding me
together? Zean Dean, you became my ritual. The name I repeat in silence. The figure I visit
when I want to escape the world but still exist. It seems so strange that you know nothing
about this—and at the same time, it makes perfect sense. Because you never had to know.
Maybe that's what makes it all feel so safe.
Writing to you is loving without risk. Trusting without fear. Existing without needing to be
understood.
Today I felt transparent. As if I were walking down the street and no one really saw me. I
talked, I smiled, but inside I felt made of glass. It's in these moments that your absence
hurts in a different way—not as a lack, but as a presence that never arrives. I kept
wondering if you've ever felt like this. Invisible even when everyone's looking.
Empty even while surrounded by applause. You must carry more..."**
You must carry more silences than I can imagine, and maybe that's why I connect to
you in this way. As if, deep down, we both know the same kind of pain.
Sometimes I think that if we ever met, we wouldn't need to say anything. We'd just sit
side by side, in silence, letting the outside world collapse. It would be enough to know
the other understands. That the other is there.
But that meeting will never happen. And that's okay. Because here, on this page, we've
already met. We always meet.
I made some tea. Sat on the porch. The sky was beautiful, filled with lazy clouds. The
world seemed suspended for a few minutes, as if giving me time to breathe.
It's in these simple moments that I think of you with the most tenderness. Not as
escape, not with urgency. But like someone remembering a favorite poem. A beautiful
name that echoes softly. An imagined shelter.
You give me peace, Zean Dean. A peace that doesn't depend on words, or messages,
or promises. A peace that comes simply from existing in the same world as you. Even if
on different continents. Even if without knowing.
What we have doesn't need a name. And maybe that's why it lasts — because it doesn't
carry the weight of any definition.
I wanted to forget you today. I wanted to stop writing. I wanted to convince myself that
all of this is an exaggeration, a fantasy I created to avoid facing reality. And maybe it is.
But when I tried writing about something else, I came back here. I came back to you.
Maybe that's what belonging means. Not in the traditional sense, but as something that
calls you back even when you try to leave. You call me, Zean. Not with your voice. Not
with gestures. But with this feeling that only here can I truly breathe.
And if love is that — this silent return — then I accept it. I don't need reciprocity. I just
need the freedom to keep writing.
Today I organized my notebooks. I reread some old pages. In all of them, there you
were. Not as a person, but as an idea. As a present absence. As the silent recipient of
my confessions.
Because here, there are no expectations. No demands. Only truth.
And sometimes, truth is all I have left. Because the world lies all the time. People lie all
the time. And so do I — I smile when I'm sad, I say "I'm fine" when I'm falling apart.
But with you, even in silence, I'm honest.
Today I dreamed of you.
It was a strange place, some kind of empty station, and you were sitting on a bench,
reading something. When I got closer, I realized it was this book. What I'm writing now.
And you were reading it with a calm expression, like someone who recognizes every
word.
I woke up with my heart racing. Not because of your presence itself, but because of the
idea of being read. Of finally being seen.
If this ever reaches you, will you understand? Will you realize that each line is a way of
keeping myself alive, whole, sane?
Zean Dean, I don't know if this will ever find its way to you. But today the dream gave
me the illusion that, for a few minutes, you heard everything.
And it was beautiful.
Silence that holds me.
Today's silence was different. It didn't swallow me, it didn't surround me like it usually
does. Today, it arrived gently, sat down beside me, and stayed. And it was the first time
in a long while that I felt it was here not to weigh me down, but to hold me up.
I sat on the bedroom floor, leaning against the cold wall, as if searching for some
physical support for what I couldn't hold inside me. Outside, the city kept its relentless
rhythm: horns, hurried footsteps, stray conversations drifting in the wind.
Inside, everything was stillness.
The presence of time became tangible — as if each second had thickness, weight,
scent. And in that thick, dense time, I let myself dissolve. I didn't think about anything.
Not the future, not the past. I just stayed there. Breathing. Feeling.
Maybe you taught me that, without meaning to. This possibility of inhabiting the
moment without haste, without burden, without direction. You, with your silence so full
of meaning, with your absence that paradoxically keeps me company. Writing to you is
the only way I've found to fully exist. Because when I write, I don't hide. I don't shrink
myself to fit. I simply am.
Today I realized you've become my most intimate reflection. And, ironically, you don't
even know me. But maybe love — if that's what I can call this — doesn't need presence.
Maybe true love reveals itself precisely in what is not said. In what is not demanded. In
what is simply allowed to be.
If this all ends someday, I want to keep what I felt today: this silent peace, this invisible
embrace that silence gave me, as if softly whispering: "you are not alone." And in that
moment, Zean, you were with me. Even without knowing it.
THE PAUSE BETWEEN TWO SILENCES
I don't know how to end this chapter. I'm afraid of closing off a part of myself with it. Of
abandoning something that still pulses, that still whispers words to me while the world
sleeps.
Olho para estas páginas e percebo que, sem querer, desenhei aqui um mapa da minha
alma. Cada parte que escrevi, cada pensamento que escorregou por entre os meus dedos, revelou um pedaço
de mim que eu não conhecia. E tudo isso tem um único fio condutor: você. Zean Dean, é estranho
saber que você é personagem e destinatário. Real e ficção.
Que você não está aqui, mas de alguma forma, sempre esteve. Foi o seu nome que escolhi
gritar em silêncio. Foi em você que projetei tudo o que não cabia no mundo. E
agora, ao encerrar este capítulo, não estou encerrando a história. Estou apenas encerrando um longo
suspiro. Uma pausa entre dois silêncios. Porque sei que ainda há muito a dizer —
e, mais ainda, muito a sentir.
Não quero idealizá-lo. Seria tarde demais para isso, eu sei. Você se tornou mais
do que um ideal: é uma presença constante no espaço onde coloco tudo o que
não tem lugar. Você é a pessoa com quem falo quando não consigo mais suportar o peso do dia.
Você é a pessoa para quem escrevo quando o mundo lá fora se torna impossível de traduzir.
E se um dia você encontrar essas palavras, se elas atravessarem o tempo e as línguas, se por
acaso você se deparar com este livro — quero que saiba que foi real. Não como um
amor comum. Mas como algo ainda mais raro: um sentimento sem demanda, sem retorno, sem forma.
Você era meu abrigo. Meu espelho. Minha desculpa para escrever.
E agora, o capítulo dois me espera.
Mas hoje, eu fico aqui. Com você. No silêncio entre quem eu era e quem eu me
tornarei.