Oipaengia

Spring in Cascais dripped in heavy shades—purple jacarandas bleeding into the air, red bougainvillea clinging to stucco like bloodstains. The town, clothed in a tapestry of colors, mocked me with its radiance. I couldn’t stand its brightness; the air itself felt like it mocked me, weighed down by the life I could no longer feel.

Yet my neighbor, a photographer, seemed to glide effortlessly through this world, a smile trailing after her like perfume. She was the first person I saw when I moved in a month ago—hers a polite nod, that almost imperceptible smile lingering a second longer than necessary, as if we shared a secret, though neither of us had spoken. I couldn’t place what about her that made her presence feel so magnetic, but I felt it the moment I saw her. Something in the way she moved, like the earth bent toward her, like the flowers and trees knew her, loved her, whispered secrets in her ear.

The landlady said her name was Didi, “a breeze of a lady.” That was a strange way to describe someone, but it soon made sense. She and I lived parallel lives in this quaint seaside Portuguese town by the sea. She lingered wherever the flowers bloomed, her fingers brushing their petals as if listening to a language only she could hear. I, on the other hand, slinked from my apartment to the train station and sat in a musty Lisbon library reading room. She lived in the world, while I withdrew from it.

One afternoon, when the sky turned gray, she found me collapsed on the kitchen floor, convulsing—a puddle of foxglove tea pooled beside me. I purposefully brewed it too strong.

*

I had stumbled upon the flower market two days before, its stalls brimming with colors and life. Bright peonies, tangled vines of jasmine, and sun-soaked African daisies filled every corner, but my eyes drifted to the foxglove, hidden in the back like a secret. At first, I had walked through the market aimlessly, lost in the usual haze of disconnection, pretending to care about the brightness and bustle around me. But it all felt distant. I felt distant.

When I saw the foxglove stems, delicate and dangerous, something in me stilled. They were tall and beautiful, with their bell-shaped flowers swaying gently in a fan’s breeze—elegant yet lethal. Veneno. The florist warned me with a single word, but I already knew. Poison. I heard the Portuguese used it to take the edge off of Epilepsy—my shadow companion. Or to dispatch another’s life.

I bought them without thinking, but in the back of my mind, I knew what I was doing. There was power in holding them. They were both a balm, or a temptation and a threat—a choice I wasn’t sure I was ready to make, but a choice that was there, nonetheless.

But the flowers sat untouched for two days.

I hadn’t needed them—not yet: no seizures, no thoughts of courting Thanatos.

The day after, an email had arrived from Lucas. It was short, perfunctory. A reminder that the university was waiting for a monthly status report, a “polite” suggestion to make my absence meaningful.

But I knew what he meant.

“You’re wasting time,” his voice whispered in my head, that sharp edge of superiority that had always been there between us. “You’re not really a writer, not like the others.” He’d never said the words out loud, not directly, but they were always implied. I was just playing at being a scholar, at being someone of importance: a pretender, a poseur, nothing more.

I stared at his words, the black letters cold. Relate your work. Work. An empty word, like the life he had shaped for me. I didn’t even know what the work was supposed to mean anymore. I didn’t know what I was supposed to mean anymore.

But before I closed the email, I found myself typing a response. An act of defiance, maybe. Or desperation. A reminder that I was here, trying to do what I was sent to do, even if it felt meaningless.

To Dr. Lucas Davies

Subject: Translation

Professor Davies—

I’ve attached a rough translation of the poem from Maria Anna Acciaioli Tamagnini. You might like it—it’s called “Primavera.”

Springtime

Little flowers fall

From peach trees, perfuming paths.

In the towers and eaves,

Birds weave their nests

With virgin songs.

Sprouts of jade color the trees,

Youth shines in the women’s smiles.

In meadows and gardens,

There are lilacs, jasmines,

Armfuls of daisies.

Songs and madrigals,

Illusions in the air.

Golden sunflowers,

And at night, nightingales

Sing among the trees.

It is springtime in souls,

In slow, calm afternoons,

In the blooming of flowers,

In the soft twilights,

In the sweet nesting of birds,

In the rebirth of love.

For the two lovers,

Walking together, entwined

Along the road,

There is spring, there is enchantment

In their glance, in their laughter.

A cloud flies,

Across the blue sky,

Light as a dream.

Even in the passing cloud

In the swallow fluttering by,

I feel it—springtime.

I hope this is what you were looking for.

—Victoria

I stared at the screen for a long while after. I wasn’t sure why I bothered. Maybe I thought the translation would remind him why I was here in Portugal, why he had pushed me into this ridiculous project. Perhaps I thought it would remind him of me. But the words felt hollow, even as I typed them. The poem’s imagery of spring, rebirth, love—it all felt like a mockery.

What did I know about rebirth? About love? The idea of springtime in souls felt like an illusion, a lie told to people like me.

I closed the laptop and pushed it away, feeling the weight of Lucas’s indifference settle over me. The project had been his idea, after all. It was supposed to be a rare opportunity—that’s how he’d sold it to me. The chance to find an original manuscript of Tamagnini’s work, buried somewhere in the archives of an obscure library, and to translate it into English for the first time. He’d made it sound important, like a real contribution to the academic world, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was just another way to get rid of me.

I wasn’t his student anymore—not really, not after what happened between us. I was just an inconvenience.

The project had felt pointless from the beginning. Why me? Why had he chosen me, of all the graduate students, to take on this massive task? I didn’t know anything about Portuguese literature. I wasn’t even that good at translation. But maybe that’s why he sent me. To Lisbon. To the far edges of academia where I couldn’t embarrass him, where my inevitable failure wouldn’t be so obvious.

He had found the perfect way to distance himself from me—professionally and personally. An ocean between us made everything easier. For him, at least.

He never admitted it, of course. He was too careful for that.

“You’re talented,” he had said, his voice smooth, the same voice he used when he wanted something from me. “Lisbon will give you the space to really focus, to hone your skills. It’s an important project, and I think you’re ready for it.” He made it sound like a compliment. But it wasn’t. I saw through him.

I wasn’t a scholar in his eyes anymore. I was just a complication. The project felt like a farce, and so did I.

The university had approved the project without question. They trusted Dr. Lucas Davies—the renowned professor with a reputation to uphold. He made a call —it was that easy: Portuguese foundation funding for a Luso-American graduate student: done; strengthening institutional contacts: perfect. I was just another graduate student, hoping to make a name for myself and be taken seriously in a field that never seemed to have a place for me. So, when Lucas suggested I take on this project, they were happy to let me go. One less mouth to feed. One less burden on the department.

The truth was, no one cared if I succeeded or failed.

Not the department. Not Lucas.

And now, here I was, in Portugal, trying to translate a dead woman’s poetry. A woman who had died without anyone outside of her small circle knowing her work. Who would even read this translation once it was finished? What difference would it make? For the past month, I had been drifting from Cascais to Lisbon like a ghost, translating poems and pretending it mattered. I spent my days in the dusty corners of the National Library, my fingers tracing the faded edges of old manuscripts, my mind somewhere else. The poems I worked on were beautiful, full of life, spring, and love—but I was none of those things. I plunked down at cafés, nursing a single espresso for hours, staring blankly at my laptop. The translations piled up, but it all felt distant, like I was working on something that didn’t belong to me.

There had been a time when I thought I had potential. But potential only gets you so far.

In the city, I had always been moving. From one relationship to the next, one mistake to another. I knew how to ruin things. And I ruined everything.

I had been reckless, was I not? I had been with so many people. Names blurred together. I can’t remember if I was trying to feel something or forget everything. Maybe both. But all of those moments, all of those bodies, all of those fleeting attempts to grasp something real, they had only made things worse.

I couldn’t even remember how it started with Lucas. Maybe it didn’t matter. It was just another poor decision. Another in a long line of failures, except this time, it felt more like self-sabotage than anything else.

He had been my professor, my adviser, the one who was supposed to guide me through the minefield of academia, but instead, I found myself tangled up with him in ways I couldn’t untangle. And when it ended—as all things do—I was left with nothing.

It wasn’t love. I wasn’t capable of love. I was hungry.

Back then, everything had intensity. The nights were dark and thick with the smell of perfume and sweat and the soft brush of fingers on my skin. I moved through rooms like they belonged to me, the eyes of strangers tracking my every movement. I had always known how to use that. How to play with the tension, the way desire bloomed in the space between glances.

But it never lasted.

Even then, I knew I was searching for something else, something more than lust or brief flashes of heat. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be known. And I thought maybe I could find that in the space between kisses, in the quiet after the lights dimmed and the music faded away. But the hunger never left me.

I was always looking, always reaching for something that never quite came.

But I had thought, briefly, that I could have something close to love. Perhaps I could be someone different, someone worthy of more than just these meaningless affairs and half-hearted attempts at being something. But I wasn’t.

I had failed at everything—even this.

I didn’t even care about the project. I didn’t care about poetry, about literature, about anything. I was in Portugal because I had nowhere else to be. I was supposed to be translating these poems, but in truth, I had been hiding from Lucas, from the university, from myself.

I had yet to try to make connections here. I hadn’t even tried to return to my old life. Maybe I didn’t want to. Perhaps I couldn’t. The idea of going back to that—to the endless string of distractions, to being the woman who filled her nights with strangers to avoid being alone—felt too exhausting.

I wasn’t alive in the way I once was. I had burned out whatever fire I had left. And that hunger. It had dulled into something smaller, quieter—like a fading echo of who I used to be.

There was no thrill here. No risk. No hands searching my skin, no lips against mine, no warmth creeping through my veins. I had cut myself off from it all. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t know how to want anymore. It was easier to let everything fall away, including the hunger that had once driven me. I didn’t chase that feeling anymore. I didn’t chase anything.

Cascais was safe. Cascais was numb.

For the last month, I had been sitting in this small seaside town, translating poems I didn’t care about, pretending it mattered, pretending I still mattered. But I didn’t.

As I mused on my parade of failures, the stems of the foxglove caught my eye, their soft petals curling slightly at the edges, wilting under the late morning sun, just like everything else I had touched. I hadn’t intended to do anything with them. Not at first. But after a month of pretending, of waiting for something to change, I couldn’t see the point anymore.

But after that email... the voices—the ones that told me I didn’t belong, that I was a fraud, a failure—had grown too loud. They whispered through every quiet moment, through every mundane task. Lucas’s email was just another reminder of the inevitable—that the life I had built was fragile, and any moment now, the curtain would drop, exposing me for what I really was.

Instead of lunch, I found myself standing over the stems, laying them out on the counter as if preparing for a ritual.

Maybe that’s precisely what it was.

The kettle began to boil, the sharp whistle piercing through the silence of my apartment. I could feel the weight of every moment leading up to this one. The nights spent staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sense of belonging to come. The mornings where I convinced myself that if I just worked harder, if I just pushed through, I’d eventually become the person everyone thought I was. But I wasn’t.

I poured the hot water over the flowers, watching the petals wilt, their beauty dissolving into the liquid. It felt too easy. Let everything dissolve like that, to let go of the masks I’d worn for so long. The foxglove, like me, was beautiful but dangerous. And maybe I wanted to find out just how dangerous I was willing to be.

I hadn’t meant to kill myself. That wasn’t the plan, not at first.

But this could be a way to see. A way to test the edge. What would happen if I let myself go just far enough? How far could I push myself before I broke?

The thought of death lingered, but it wasn’t quite enough to make me write a note. Was I going to die?

I momentarily set the cup of tea down, the bitter scent of foxglove rising in the air, sharp and heady. I couldn’t bring myself to drink it yet—not without looking at myself one last time.

I stepped into the bathroom, the light overhead flickering softly, and I caught my reflection in the small, cracked mirror hanging over the sink. For a second, I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.

My hair, once a cascade of messy waves that I used to run my fingers through, now fell limply around my shoulders, the ends tangled, the shine gone. My bangs, uneven and long, half-covered my eyes, shielding me from seeing myself fully. My eyes, though—they were the worst. Wide and framed by thick lashes, they used to hold some spark, some life, but now they just looked hollow, like they’d grown too large for my face. The shadows underneath them were more pronounced, evidence of the sleepless nights that stretched behind me like an endless road.

I touched my cheek lightly, feeling the coolness of my skin like I was touching someone else. I was pale, paler than I remembered, almost translucent in the dim light. Freckles, once faint and scattered, were now more noticeable, standing out like small constellations against the starkness of my skin.

I didn’t know this person anymore.

There was a time when I used to walk into rooms and feel eyes on me—when I could command attention without saying a word. Back then, my shoulders would be pulled back, my head high, and I knew what I could do. But now, I was just a shadow of that woman, someone shrinking away from herself. The curve of my shoulder, once proud and bare beneath the straps of a dress, now looked sharp and fragile in the dim light. Everything about me had become sharper, more hollow, like I was slowly wasting away without anyone noticing.

I stared at myself, and for the first time in a long time, I felt the weight of it all—the years of trying, the mistakes, the failures, the endless reaching for something that never came. Lucas’s voice echoed in my head, reminding me of every failure, every time I wasn’t enough. I saw all of it in my face, in my eyes, and I wondered—had anyone ever seen me at all?

I ran a hand through my hair, watching the strands fall loosely around my face, hiding me once again. It was easier this way, easier to not be seen, easier to disappear behind the curtain of hair and half-light.

I turned away from the mirror and back to the tea waiting on the small kitchen table. My hands shook as I picked up the cup, feeling the warmth of the liquid seep into my skin. The reflection still lingered in my mind: the hollow eyes, the sharp collarbones, the fading remnants of someone I used to be.

Maybe I was already disappearing.

I brought the cup to my lips, inhaling the scent one last time. It was bitter, earthy, sharp—just like everything else I had become.

I knew the risk. This wasn’t suicide, I told myself. Perhaps it was just a question—a way to see if the universe would notice—if anyone would notice.

“You’re not enough. You’ll never be enough.”

The voice was relentless; no matter how hard I tried to silence it, it clung to me.

*

The sharp, bitter scent of the foxglove filled my lungs, my body seizing as if every muscle rebelled at once. My vision blurred, and I felt myself slipping—like the world was dilating around me, leaving only darkness. My body seized uncontrollably, muscles clenched against the force of the convulsions, and for a moment, it felt like the divide between me and the world was tearing open. I thought I might finally disappear and dissolve into the quiet I had long craved. As I felt the divide between myself and the world growing wider, as if I were slipping into a place where the light couldn’t follow, she found me.

Didi knelt beside me, her hands pulling me back from wherever I was floating. Her eyes were filled not with shock but with understanding—something more profound than concern.

Epilepsy,” I lied, my voice barely audible, betraying me. Her eyes, steady and knowing, held a weight that made my lie feel even smaller as if she could see the truth lurking beneath my words. Still, she helped me stand. The truth was less easy to explain, though I felt it trembling beneath my skin, a dark and restless thing. I didn’t want to tell her why I had drunk the tea. I didn’t want to admit that I had hoped it might carry me somewhere else—somewhere softer, where I wouldn’t have to wake again. But even as I lied, I could feel her gaze, heavy with knowing, as though my lie passed right through her.

She didn’t press me for the truth. Instead, she reached out her hand, her fingers warm and steady. “Let’s get you out of here,” her voice calm, adding, “Para uma bica e dois dedos de conversa.” There was something soothing in her tone, something that made me follow her without question.

We walked through the streets of Cascais, the riot of flowers brushing against my skin as we passed. She seemed to move with a different kind of grace—every step in rhythm with the world around her, the flowers bending slightly as we walked by. I caught myself watching her carefully, the way the slender tree seemed to sway toward her touch as we passed as if drawn by a force I couldn’t explain. Her fingers brushed the petals of a bougainvillea, and for a second, I swore I saw the flowers turn toward her as though they recognized her touch.

At a café overlooking the sea, we sat in silence. The low hum of life—the murmur of Portuguese conversation, gull calls, and waves lapping at the shore—contrasted sharply with the stillness inside me. I hadn’t spoken much since I arrived in Cascais, retreating further into myself, a ghost wandering through this too-bright town in this country wrapped in twilight.

Didi sat across from me, her hands resting gently on the tabletop, fingers brushing against a napkin. There was something about her presence, something alluring that made it impossible to look away. I let my gaze linger on her face, tracing the delicate features that had haunted me since the moment we met.

Her skin, pale but warm, was dappled with freckles, scattered across her high cheekbones and shoulders, like constellations mapped out on her body. Large and deep, her eyes held a quiet sadness, but also something more—a mystery I couldn’t quite place. Dark waves of hair framed her face, falling messily over her shoulders and brushing against the edges of her black lace dress.

I couldn’t help but notice how the lace clung to her, the fabric soft against her collarbones, dipping down just enough to hint at the curves beneath. It wasn’t just her beauty that held me—it was the way she moved, as if the world bent around her, like she belonged to something beyond this moment, beyond this café.

Her lips, slightly parted, carried a faint blush, like she had just whispered something I wasn’t meant to hear.

The space between us felt charged—an undertow stirred within me. It was more than attraction. It was recognition like the universe had paused, just for a second, to take her in, and I was an onlooker.

Didi looked up then, catching my gaze, and the world around us disappeared for a heartbeat. Her eyes locked on mine, and in that moment, it felt like she saw through me, as if she understood every piece of me I had tried so hard to hide. I looked away, feeling the heat rise in my chest, but the warmth of her gaze lingered, settling beneath my skin like a slow, spreading flame.

I wanted to say something, anything to break the tension between us, but the words caught in my throat, the air too thick to push them out. Didi smiled, just the faintest curve of her lips, and in that smile, there was something knowing, something ancient and tender.

“What brought you here, my silent American?” she asked finally, her eyes on me and her fingers lightly tracing the edge of the small bundle of lavender in the vase on our table. The flowers seemed to bend toward her, as though leaning in to listen. Her voice was gentle but probing, as though she could feel the weight of my silence pressing against the fragile walls I had built around myself. Her eyes searched mine, and I felt the pull of her curiosity, the way she wanted to know me, unravel me.

I forced a smile, though the effort felt hollow. “You invited me,” I said, my words light but empty. “For a coffee. A little conversation.”

She raised one eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile, “So you do know Portuguese.” Something in her gaze made me feel exposed, as if she could already see the things I hadn’t spoken of, the things I didn’t yet dare to reveal.

I hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

“I came here for my work,” I added, my voice faltering. “Translations, research. My university sent me here to finish a project. They thought the change of scenery would inspire me.”

She leaned back, taking a harder look at me, squinting. Did she know why I had really come? Could she see through me that easily?

I looked away, the weight of my words pressing against my chest. “But that’s not why I came. I needed to escape,” I said my voice barely a whisper. I glanced out at the sea, the waves crashing endlessly, indifferent to my presence.

Her gaze softened. “Escape,” she repeated as though she recognized the word, how it tasted on the tongue and clung to the skin.

I swallowed, the truth catching in my throat. “There was someone,” I began, my voice barely a whisper again. “I thought it was love. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t real.”

The words fell flat between us, but Didi didn’t react as I expected. She remained still, her fingers still tracing the petals of the flowers. I watched her closely, wondering how she could sit so calmly as if she knew more about my pain than I did.

I could have told her everything—how he entered my life with the grace and cruelty of a storm, how he made me feel seen, alive, after so long of feeling nothing. He was older, my professor and academic advisor, and I had fallen into his orbit like a moth drawn to a forbidden flame. He told me his marriage was a sham, that I was the only real thing in his life. And I believed him because I wanted to believe. I needed to believe. I wanted to be his everything.

I latched onto him, clinging to how his attention felt like salvation like maybe I wasn’t invisible after all. But looking back, I wonder if it wasn’t just him I was holding onto—perhaps I was trying to save myself from something darker, from the silence that had begun creeping in long before he arrived.

We met in secret, in the dark corners of his office, where his hands on my skin felt like fire. For those fleeting moments, the hollowness inside me faded. I thought I could burn forever for him. But one day, without warning, he ended it. He said he couldn’t leave his wife; it had all been a fantasy. He walked away like I was nothing. The world we had built—or rather, the one I imagined—crumbled in my hands like ash. He told me to go, to “find yourself” in Lisbon as if I had lost something other than him.

I saw him again, with a new girl, one of his students. He looked at her the same way he had once looked at me: the same warmth, the same hunger. I felt cold, hollowed out. I realized then that it was never about me, or even about her. It was about how he needed to be worshipped and how easily I had fallen into that role.

But I said none of this. Only, “He’s gone.” My voice almost inaudible.

“A love lost,” she said, her voice low, resonant. “I’ve never known love.”

Her words startled me. I turned to her, searching her face, looking for the meaning behind her confession. There was something distant in her expression, something untouchable as if she had never allowed herself to feel the vulnerability I was drowning in.

“Actually, my advisor suggested I come here,” I said, trying to fill the silence. “He thought I needed time. Space. But all I’ve found is more loneliness.”

She watched me, her gaze steady. “And you nearly let that loneliness consume you and invited Death to a cup of tea,” she said softly.

I blinked, my heart racing. How could she know? My sadness must have been etched on my face. I looked at her, unsure if I had said more than I realized.

“You brewed the tea too strong,” she continued, her voice calm but firm. “Foxglove. It’s a poison, you know. It doesn’t take much to slip into the silence you’re craving.”

Of course, she probably saw the flowers when she helped me from the floor and put it together.

“I didn’t mean to brew it so strong,” I said. But now, sitting there with Didi’s quiet gaze on me, I knew my words were untrue. I had wanted the tea to carry me away. She was correct; I did invite Death to tea.

What she said next sucked the air from my lungs. “And because of a man – Lucas, is that right? - who never intended to give you anything lasting.”

I stared at her, my breath shallow, the numbness cracking open inside me. “How do you know about him?” I hadn’t told her. Not about him, not about the tea. His name.

Didi’s fingers traced the rim of the small flower vase on the table, her eyes lingering on a sprig of lavender’s petals as if they spoke softly in a tone only she could hear. “It sounds like he took more from you than just the relationship,” she said softly. Her voice was gentle, but there was a weight behind her words, something that pressed down on me. “He knew he was going to discard you.”

A soft, floral scent reached me, mingling with the salt air, and I felt disoriented, as though the lines between the real and imagined had blurred.

Perhaps I was having a seizure; the flowers brushed her fingers like a sauntering cat, drawn to her by some invisible force that also pulled me in. I shifted uncomfortably, her gaze still trained on the flowers. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I knew they weren’t true. I had lost more than just him. It felt like pieces of me had been chipped away long before he ever walked into my life.

She looked up then, her gaze soft but knowing. “You were already searching for something, weren’t you? Long before he came along.”

Her words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow around us. The pull of her knowing stare felt like gravity, drawing me into something deeper than I was ready to confront. She was right, of course. I had been drifting, searching for something—anything—to fill the emptiness that had been growing inside me for as long as I could remember. Lucas had just been another attempt at feeling alive again, and when he cast me aside, the void inside me only deepened.

She shook her head, her smile tinged with something like sadness. “I’ve been where you are,” she said simply. “The loneliness, the desire to escape.”

I lowered my gaze, the truth of her words sinking into me. “I thought coming here would heal me. But it’s only made me feel more lost. More invisible.”

Didi turned her attention back to the flowers, her fingers lightly brushing one of the petals. “They can feel it, you know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The flowers. They can sense when something isn’t right.”

I stared at her, unsure of what to say. Her words sounded strange and even mystical, but something in the way she said them made me believe her. The lavender in the vase trembled under her touch; its colors became almost too vibrant, and for a moment, I swore it hummed.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice uncertain. I could feel the air shift around us, the world suddenly quieter, as though something important was about to be revealed.

“Didi’s eyes flicked toward the lavender, her voice soft. “They listen... They feel what we cannot say.” She paused and pointed to the cut flowers. “The lavender knows your pain. The bougainvillea, your desire to hide. Even the foxglove, dangerous as it is, understands the kind of escape you’ve been seeking.”

I shivered. Her words settled into me like a truth I didn’t want to acknowledge. How she spoke of the flowers made them seem more alive, more knowing than I had ever imagined. I had always considered them decoration, but now, in her presence, they took on a new significance—a new life.

“So they… know me?” The question felt foolish when I asked it, but something about her and how she looked at the world made me wonder.

Didi nodded, her eyes meeting mine. “In a way, yes. They understand the parts of you that you keep hidden. The parts you don’t yet understand yourself. And parts others, like Lucas, can never touch.”

I felt a chill run through me. Didi spoke so calmly, so assuredly, as if everything she said was a simple fact of life. But what she said unnerved me. She could see through me like no one else ever had. She wasn’t talking about the professor, not really. She was talking about me—the parts of myself I had been too afraid to confront.

“You’ve been carrying this burden alone for too long,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “But you don’t have to anymore.”

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe there was something for me in this world—something beyond the emptiness I had felt for so long. But the thought of letting go of the pain, of letting myself be seen again, terrified me.

I didn’t know who I was without the emptiness. It had become so familiar, so much a part of me, that the idea of stepping out of it, of letting someone in, felt impossible. What if I let go and there was nothing left? What if there was nothing beneath the layers of grief and loneliness?

She took a delightfully pretty bouquet from her purse, saying: “For you you, a bouquet. It is called Espiga.” As she handed me the Espiga, her fingers brushed mine, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt warmth—a spark that lingered, refusing to be ignored. The touch was innocent enough, but my skin tingled where her fingers lingered. It was such a small thing—a gesture I wouldn’t have thought twice about before—but the warmth spread through my hand, up my arm, and settled somewhere deep in my chest.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

“Espiga for nourishment. Malmequer for fortune. Papoila for love,” she said, her voice as soft as the flowers she held. “Oliveira for peace. Alecrim for health. Videira for joy.” Wheat, daisy, poppy, olive branch, rosemary, grape blossom.

Her eyes met mine, and there was a knowing look in them as if she understood something I didn’t. I couldn’t look away. I wanted to tell myself it was nothing. I had felt things like this before—intense, fleeting sparks that came and went, desires that flickered and died before they could mean anything. But this felt different.

I watched her, mesmerized by the intimacy of the gesture. There was something sacred in the way she held the flowers, in the way she offered them to me as if she were offering a part of herself.

Didi’s gaze softened. “The flowers will be here when you’re ready,” she said quietly, almost as if she were speaking to the bouquet and not to me. “And so will I. I must go.” She leaned over and kissed me on each cheek, saying beijinhos–little kisses–her fingers brushing mine again. The heat returned, this time more insistent, a pulse that radiated from her touch. It wasn’t desire—but it was something. Something I hadn’t felt in so long; I had almost forgotten what it was like to feel anything at all.

She left the café, the door closing softly behind her. I saw her walk away with a woman with chestnut hair that fell to her shoulders in thick, lustrous waves. I sat in the silence that followed, staring at the bouquet, their colors bright and full of life. They felt out of place on my table, surrounded by the emptiness that had settled in around me. I reached for a glass of water, hesitating for a moment before my fingers brushed the petals of the lavender as I went for the bouquet.

The flowers trembled slightly under my touch, and for a moment, I swore I could feel something—a pulse of life, a quiet hum as if they were waiting for me to listen. I felt it for a moment—a soft tug as if the flowers were whispering to me. But the feeling passed as quickly as it came, and I pulled my hand away, retreating into the silence. I glanced down at the small bouquet on the table, my gaze flicking to the purple blooms of lavender. Something stirred inside me as I breathed in the scent, faint but lingering.

And then I heard her voice. “Lavender for devotion,” Didi said, her tone light but knowing as she reappeared, slipping back into the seat across from me. “A reminder that even in your quietest moments, the world hasn’t forgotten you.”

I blinked, startled by her return. She leaned forward, her gaze meeting mine with that same mischievous spark.

“You know what today is, don’t you?” she asked as if the significance should be obvious. “Quinta-feira da Espiga. Ascension Thursday.” She smiled, brushing her fingers lightly over the bouquet. “The day when the world feels a little more alive when the veil thins between us and the unseen.”

I frowned slightly, unsure of what she meant, but her words sent a chill through me again.

She looked out the window, her eyes distant for a moment. “It’s a day of the nature goddess. This is her time. When everything in the earth and air holds more power.” She turned her gaze back to me, softer now. “And maybe… when we find the strength we didn’t know we had.”

Her words hung between us, and I felt the weight of the bouquet in my hands. The flowers seemed to pulse with life as if they carried the energy she spoke of.

Didi’s smile deepened as she looked out the window, her voice taking on a lighter tone. “There’s a party in Lisbon tonight,” her eyes glinted with something beyond mischief—something ancient and powerful. “It’s different. You’ll see.” She smiled, and for a moment, I wondered if I was being invited to more than just a party. “Music, laughter, and maybe something more. Come with me.”

As she spoke, I noticed a subtle shift in the air—the lavender in the vase seemed to hum again, its scent growing richer, almost intoxicating, as though Didi’s presence was drawing the energy of the flowers into the room.

I said, “Yes.”

I stared at her, the quiet hum of the lavender still echoing in my thoughts. Her invitation felt loaded, like it was a gateway to something beyond my understanding.

Didi stood up slowly, leaving the bouquet with me. She didn’t say anything; she just looked at me with those knowing eyes. She knew. She could see through the layers I had wrapped around myself, the ways I had tried to numb the ache inside.

“Yes,” I whispered again, softer this time.

I looked away, my chest tightening. Letting go of the pain felt like stepping off a cliff—what if there was nothing beneath me?