Escrevo porque já não sei mais como suportar em silêncio. Escrevo como quem deixa um bilhete na mesa — não para anunciar um fim, mas para pedir que alguém leia, que alguém saiba.

There are days when my house is silent.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No movement except the light shifting across the wall.

When I was fifteen, I was looking for love the way a teenager looks for everything — urgently, dramatically, with the kind of intensity that turns any feeling into a storm.

Back then, I wanted fairy tales.

She wasn’t part of the plan.
Not at first.

Maya was writing in her journal, and I was writing Maya.

Ela não estava nos planos.
Não no início.

Maya escrevia em seu diário, e eu escrevia Maya.

Not every love speaks in words.
Some stay.
Some breathe beside you when you can’t.

I’ve been through noise — of thoughts, of fears, of rooms too bright for a tired soul.

Não pela saúde — que também importa —
mas pelo julgamento.

Desde os 8 anos, o mundo decidiu que meu corpo
era assunto público.
“Gorda, baleia, saco de areia!”
Cantavam os meninos.

Some writers say their characters come from imagination.
Mine come from conversation — mostly the ones I have with myself. Then, I open the door and let them in.

There’s a reason I write.
Because words behave better on paper.

When I speak, it’s like my internal software starts buffering — too many tabs open, too many metaphors trying to load at once. My poor mouth just can’t keep up.

I write because I can’t carry silence anymore.
I write like someone leaving a note on the table — not to announce an ending, but to say: this is what it feels like inside me.

Some words arrive in English.

Quietly, politely — as if asking for permission to sit beside me.

Others insist on coming in Portuguese, all rhythm and warmth, with no regard for the silence I was keeping.

Am I a writer?

Sometimes I ask myself this while staring at a blank page, or peeling the skin off a stubborn thought.

What does it mean, really, to be a writer?

I was peeling potatoes the other day.
Which is funny, because in my family I’m famous for never peeling them. Every meal with potatoes — and in Denmark, that means almost every meal — comes with eyes turning toward me. I can read their minds: Will she dare? Or will this one also come from a jar?

Love doesn’t always arrive with fireworks.
Sometimes, it comes like a letter.

The kind people once wrote with ink-stained fingers, leaning over paper with patience. Each word chosen, each pause intentional.

I used to dream of being a writer.
Not in a grand, public way — but in a teenage, notebook-filled kind of way. I had journals bursting with poems, wandering thoughts, short stories, and one "novel" that never made…

I don’t just write stories.
I build them with fig trees, suitcases, dogs, fog, voices, and stars — each chosen not by chance, but by emotional intention.

Some words are funny just by being themselves.
Goofy, for instance — it’s perfect.
It sounds like its own punchline.

Maybe you’ve done it too —
Listing reasons to hold on,
As if affection could be graphed or proven.

There’s something strange I’ve noticed about myself.

I never try to use logic when I’m falling in love.
But I do when I’m trying to stay.

My room always felt alive to me.
Sometimes it was a mirror. Sometimes a whisper of what I should be, or what I hadn’t become yet.

They say some trees know how to wait. The fig tree is one of them.

It doesn’t bloom with urgency. It doesn’t ask for attention. It grows in its own time — rooted, quiet, steady. And maybe that’s why I chose it, or maybe it chose me.