18h30 - shorts

it was late afternoon and the salt still clung to her skin.
her hair, already dried by the wind, held stories from the sea, the kind you only tell with your eyes closed and your skin tingling.
Lia had caught three good waves and an unexpected compliment on the shore.
she slipped on her shorts at 18:30, her skin still warm from the sun.
she ran to the fish market before it closed, came back with fresh figs, papaya, and slow-fermented bread.
she walked barefoot on the sand, laughing with friends, like someone who already knows she’ll be remembered like this: sun-kissed, free, with a soul as light as someone who eats well and sleeps with a clear conscience.

Simão, from the other side of the beach, was still watching her.
and it wasn’t just because of the cut of the shorts (though that helped). some presences linger, and he knew that.
because there was something about lia that stayed, even after she was gone.

later, during an improvised dinner lit by the soft glow of a lantern,
they talked about the tides, about not wanting to go back to the city,
about how some moments seem to pause time.
Simão, without even noticing, wasn’t looking at anyone else anymore.
just her — or rather, what she left hanging in the air.

because some people dress our thoughts, even without touching us.

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