Behind My Eyes

The first thing I remember clearly in my life is the moment I stopped breathing.

I was nine. The sun was bright, the playground buzzing with laughter, dust swirling under running feet. I remember the sound more than anything—the creak of the swing set, the squeals of kids chasing each other, and the sharp, bubbly laugh of the girl I was pushing.

She was happy. I know that. She laughed like everything in the world was perfect. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember her face. It’s like my brain refused to keep it.

I don’t know why I did it—maybe I was trying to show off, maybe I wasn’t thinking—but I stepped in front of the swing as she came down. Her legs struck me square in the stomach, hard and fast like a hammer. The air rushed out of me in a soundless gasp. Everything slowed down.

I dropped to my knees, hands clutching my belly. The pain was sharp, raw, like my insides folded in half. I stumbled toward the teacher on duty, every step a battle not to cry. And then, nothing. Just black.

That’s how my story begins: laughter, pain, and silence.

I was the kind of kid who lived outside. After school, I didn’t run to video games or TV—we didn’t have that. I ran to the trees, to the empty lots, to the bush behind the house where adventure waited.

I made traps to catch birds. Sometimes we’d eat them. Iguanas too—we’d catch them by the tail if we were fast enough, roast them, and pretend we were kings. I carved bows and arrows out of sticks and string, hunting whatever moved like I was in a jungle movie. The world was wild and simple. Hunger taught us to be creative.

I had brothers and sisters, but we didn’t grow up together. I don’t remember feeling sad about it at the time—it just was. Most days, it was just me.

Then one afternoon, we got a new neighbor. A boy, about my age. His family spoke differently—Portuguese, I think. It didn’t matter. Kids don’t need the same language to become friends.

Just like that, I wasn’t alone anymore.

He was allowed to hang out after school. We played marbles until our fingers were raw and buried toy soldiers in the dirt like they were fighting world wars. He was quiet, but he smiled a lot. And I liked having someone around who smiled back.

Looking back now, it’s strange how the smallest things—like a new neighbor—can feel like the biggest gifts when you’re young and starved for company.

That year, I learned how easily joy and pain could live side by side. I learned what it meant to fall hard, get back up, and find comfort in someone who didn’t have to be there—but was.

And that was only the beginning.