Bruna stopped believing on people the night her mother died.
Humans were so fragile; she needed something real to hold.
Her father stopped believing on families the night his wife died.
He looked down at the messy blonde child and couldn’t find any place to fit her in now that the mother was gone.
He hired a nanny and moved on.
Growing up with no heroes around Bruna began to believe on things.
She doesn’t feel anymore.
She has the nicest house, she has concert tickets, she has Channel.
These things she can count, touch, she can understand.
Her father spends some nights talking to an old wedding picture:
“I miss you.
We need to talk about your daughter.
We need to talk about the things i know nothing about”
But morning comes and his old pain gets drowned on his pills and endless meetings.
They only face each other at breakfast.
Both of them sit very straight, wearing white and gray.
They are quiet, they rarely eat.
Two survivors of very different wars.
She scrolls through her cell phone, he reads the news.
They hold on to the things on their hands.
Not noticing the person in front is barely holding on to life.