To honour a love that once shaped me, without expecting anything in return. A love long gone.

                                         🌹


He was my first real love.

Not the fantasy kind, but the real kind. The kind that forced me to face myself. The one that cracked open something in me I didn’t know existed. And the one I lost before I ever really knew how to keep.

We were young — and I was drowning in trauma, in fear, in confusion.
He tried. God, he tried.
He offered calm in the chaos, patience in the storm, care when I couldn’t care for myself.
I gave him what I could, but it wasn’t enough. Not because he wasn't enough — but because I wasn’t ready.

I remember the first times we were together, how at peace I felt. It was something I had never felt before.
The chocolates we both brought, not knowing we were thinking the same thing.
The rose he gave me, and how I kept it.
The way he laughed - silly, goofy and light - breaking my heaviness and sadness — and the way I laughed with him, like a child again.
How I used to fell asleep wrapped in his arms, feeling safe for the first time ever. His arms felt like home.

I remember seeing snow with him for the first time in my life. The pure childlike joy I felt. The way he allowed me to be a child at that moment.
His patience teaching me how to drive (while praying I wouldn't damage his car, possibly).
Taking care of animals together. He was so gentle with them. All of them.
The silly things he'd say that always made me laugh. He was soooo silly... and I loved it.
The way we stayed on the line until one of us drifted off.
He called his grandparents "velhices", his parents "velhinhos" — it made me smile and laugh every time.
He was light. He was home.
He was there.
He was there more than anyone ever had been.

I remember the admiration I always had for him, and still do.
The way his eyes lit up when he spoke about his brother — such pure love in them.
Looking back now, I see a deep sadness in them too. A silent battle he was fighting that I didn’t know how to see then.
I thought my pain was bigger. I thought my traumas were the only ones that mattered. I was wrong.
My traumas were loud, chaotic, unhealed.
He was quieter — his pain tucked behind long silences, tight lips, avoidance. A pain I see even more clearly now.
He had his own wounds. He just hid them better.
I wish we had learned to hold each other better.

I remember how, in my own way, I tried to show him how much I loved him. With every gesture. Every touch. Every kiss on the forehead. Hoping he'd feel how I admired him. How I truly respected him. How grateful I was for having him. How much I loved him with all I had — even if that love was tangled in fear and brokenness.  Even when my fears and pain distorted it. Even when I didn't know how to show it right.
Even when I couldn’t be who he needed.


I remember the way it felt to hold him, to hug him tightly.
To trace my fingers along his beard, his hair, his lips, his body. Trying to memorize and love all his details.
Even now if I see him — even just from behind, even far away — I recognize him instantly. His presence, his body, his energy. It's like my whole being still knows him. A kind of quiet, old comfort emerges. Not because there's any hope, not because there's anything to return to. Just… something familiar in him that my heart remembers.

I remember the Asterix and Obelix bedsheets. They were really cool.
The feeling of his embrace — like nothing else mattered. Like everything was going to be okay. Like for one split second all that mattered was him.
Even just sitting in silence beside him was enough.
We never looked at the stars together, but he liked them. I wish we had.
There’s a version of us I imagine, sitting on the sand, watching the sky, the past between us. No need to fix it. Just a shared moment. No words, only the sound of the ocean and that old familiar peace.

He gave me chances.
I didn’t know how to take them. I didn’t fight for him — not because I didn’t care, but because I was frozen in all my mess.
He tried to understand me — through all the confusion, the family ****, the walls I didn’t know I had.
He stayed longer than most would have.
He listened when it was unbearable to even hear myself.

There’s one moment I’ll never forget. When he asked “This is never going to change, is it?”

I blamed myself for everything.
I told him that he deserved better.
I told him I was broken.
And in saying it so many times, I ended up making it true.
I couldn’t see what I had in front of me — a kind, steady, patient soul,
someone who kept showing up despite the chaos.
Maybe I needed someone to shake me, scream at me, tell me to fucking stop — to wake up to what I was destroying. But he never did.
He stayed silent.
He always stayed silent.
But maybe he didn’t know too.
Maybe he was tired too.


Maybe to him I'm just a past mistake. A difficult ex. A shadow. A storm. A closed door. Maybe nothing at all. But for me — he was home.
I imagine others came after me and gave him things I couldn’t — intimacy, ease, peace. I hope so.
I probably seem like the messy girl he should’ve left sooner.
But for me, he was never forgettable.
He was truly home in the storm. He was a shelter. He was love.

And I wish I had shown it better.
I wish I had fought harder.
I wish I had healed sooner.
I wish, looking back, that I had crossed the chasm that opened between us at the end.
But I wasn’t ready.
I didn’t know how to fight for someone without destroying myself.
I didn’t know how to stay.
Now I do.

I loved him. Deeply. Honestly. With everything I had, even when that wasn’t enough.

He wasn't perfect.
Neither was I.
But it was love. At least for me.
And it mattered.

He was my first real love.
He’ll always be that.

And still, after so many time...
Older, with more maturity, with more life experience, more clarity, with other people by our side...

If he ever needs a place to land — not to stay, not to return, but just to pause — I’ll be here. Not with expectations or hidden hopes. Just… here. For a kind silence, for swearing at the sky, for a soft place to speak or not speak .Even if we’re in different cities or countries,
even if we’re with other people, there will always be a small, innocent corner that belongs to him — no strings, no weight... Just care.

Thank you, Pedro Francisco.
For what we had.
For all that you were to me. For teaching me what love and being loved is. For teaching me that I deserved it all along.
For the part of me you helped awaken.

You don't have to remember me.
But I’ll always carry a piece of who I became because of you.
And I will always be rooting for you.
🌹

To honour a love that once shaped me, without expecting anything in return. A love long gone

                                            ...


He was my first real love.

Not the fantasy kind, but the real kind. The kind that forced me to face myself. The one that cracked open something in me I didn’t know existed. And the one I lost before I ever really knew how to keep.

We were young — and I was drowning in trauma, in fear, in confusion.
He tried. God, he tried.
He offered calm in the chaos, patience in the storm, care when I couldn’t care for myself.
I gave him what I could, but it wasn’t enough. Not because he wasn't enough — but because I wasn’t ready.

I remember the first times we were together, how at peace I felt. It was something I had never felt before.
The chocolates we both brought, not knowing we were thinking the same thing.
The rose he gave me, and how I kept it.
The way he laughed - silly, goofy and light - breaking my heaviness and sadness — and the way I laughed with him, like a child again.
How I used to fell asleep wrapped in his arms, feeling safe for the first time ever. His arms felt like home.

I remember seeing snow with him for the first time in my life. The pure childlike joy I felt. The way he allowed me to be a child at that moment.
His patience teaching me how to drive (while praying I wouldn't damage his car, possibly).
Taking care of animals together. He was so gentle with them. All of them.
The silly things he'd say that always made me laugh. He was soooo silly... and I loved it.
The way we stayed on the line until one of us drifted off.
He called his grandparents "velhices", his parents "velhinhos" — it made me smile and laugh every time.
He was light. He was home.
He was there.
He was there more than anyone ever had been.

I remember the admiration I always had for him, and still do.
The way his eyes lit up when he spoke about his brother — such pure love in them.
Looking back now, I see a deep sadness in them too. A silent battle he was fighting that I didn’t know how to see then.
I thought my pain was bigger. I thought my traumas were the only ones that mattered. I was wrong.
My traumas were loud, chaotic, unhealed.
He was quieter — his pain tucked behind long silences, tight lips, avoidance. A pain I see even more clearly now.
He had his own wounds. He just hid them better.
I wish we had learned to hold each other better.

I remember how, in my own way, I tried to show him how much I loved him. With every gesture. Every touch. Every kiss on the forehead. Hoping he'd feel how I admired him. How I truly respected him. How grateful I was for having him. How much I loved him with all I had — even if that love was tangled in fear and brokenness.  Even when my fears and pain distorted it. Even when I didn't know how to show it right.
Even when I couldn’t be who he needed.


I remember the way it felt to hold him, to hug him tightly.
To trace my fingers along his beard, his hair, his body. Trying to memorize and love all his details.

I remember the Asterix and Obelix bedsheets. They were really cool.
The feeling of his embrace — like nothing else mattered. Like everything was going to be okay. Like for one split second all that mattered was him.
Even just sitting in silence beside him was enough.
We never looked at the stars together, but he liked them. I wish we had.
There’s a version of us I imagine, sitting on the sand, watching the sky, the past between us. No need to fix it. Just a shared moment. No words, only the sound of the ocean and that old familiar peace.

He gave me chances.
I didn’t know how to take them. I didn’t fight for him — not because I didn’t care, but because I was frozen in all my mess.
He tried to understand me — through all the confusion, the family ****, the walls I didn’t know I had.
He stayed longer than most would have.
He listened when it was unbearable to even hear myself.

There’s one moment I’ll never forget. When he asked “This is never going to change, is it?”

I blamed myself for everything.
I told him that he deserved better.
I told him I was broken.
And in saying it so many times, I ended up making it true.
I couldn’t see what I had in front of me — a kind, steady, patient soul,
someone who kept showing up despite the chaos.
Maybe I needed someone to shake me, scream at me, tell me to fucking stop — to wake up to what I was destroying. But he never did.
He stayed silent.
He always stayed silent.
But maybe he didn’t know too.
Maybe he was tired too.


Maybe to him I'm just a past mistake. A difficult ex. A shadow. A storm. A closed door. Maybe nothing at all. But for me — he was home.
I imagine others came after me and gave him things I couldn’t — intimacy, ease, peace. I really hope so.
I probably seem like the messy girl he should’ve left sooner.
But for me, he was never forgettable.
He was truly home in the storm. He was a shelter. He was love.

And I wish I had shown it better.
I wish I had fought harder.
I wish I had healed sooner.
I wish, looking back, that I had crossed the chasm that opened between us at the end.
But I wasn’t ready.
I didn’t know how to fight for someone without destroying myself.
I didn’t know how to stay.
Now I do.

I loved him. Deeply. Honestly. With everything I had, even when that wasn’t enough.

He wasn't perfect.
Neither was I.
But it was love. At least for me.
And it mattered.

He was my first real love.
He’ll always be that.

And still, after so many time...
Older, with more maturity, with more life experience, more clarity, with other people by our side...

If he ever needs a place to land — not to stay, not to return, but just to pause — I’ll be here. Not with expectations or hidden hopes. Just… here. For a kind silence, for swearing at the sky, for a soft place to speak or not speak .Even if we’re in different cities or countries,
even if we’re with other people, there will always be a small, innocent corner that belongs to him — no strings, no weight... Just care.

Thank you, Pedro Francisco.
For what we had.
For all that you were to me. For teaching me what love and being loved is. For teaching me that I deserved it all along.
For the part of me you helped awaken.

He doesn't have to remember me.
But I’ll always carry a piece of who I became because of him.
And I will always be rooting for him.
🌹