⠀ ⠀

⠀ oh… his heart sores for her. a shared wound, perhaps. “eu sinto muito.” he really does. it’s not easy being all alone like that in such a strange, foreign place. so far from where they want to be. ⠀

⠀ familia aqui em londres contigo? ou estás sozinha também?” ⠀

⠀ “pode ser. acostumaram a narrar a história a partir do próprio umbigo. é de se esperar que estejam convencidos que sabem de tudo.” he despises the eurocentric attitude. joaquim would’ve never left his country if he had a choice, but that wasn’t the case anyway. “e tu tens ⠀

⠀ life. he feels wrong letting people in. a defense mechanism he adopted as soon as circumstances changed so abruptly for him. ⠀

⠀ “é, devo ser, né…” he laughs as well. briefly, but still—it’s genuine, and he hadn’t felt so at ease in a long while. “sou um cabra intelectual, mas intelectual pé no chão, não metida a besta. lá em recife era professor.” joaquim is not one to share many details of his ⠀

⠀ expediente encerra. prefiro esse lugar vazio.” ⠀

⠀ he chuckles shortly, an almost unnoticeable shrug upon the question. “talvez eu seja.” his expressions reaffirms the joking tone in his voice. he raises an eyebrow and points at the book on his side: vidas secas. graciliano ramos. “aqui é sossegado depois que o ⠀

⠀ apparently people there don’t want to be associated with communist rebels. all he has is literature. and a distant dream of returning. “é um prazer, dona beatriz.” ⠀

⠀ she’s not used to not being recognized. somehow, he feels embarrassed not to know who she is—his like has being nothing less than chaotic ever since moving to the country. it’s hard to find a university job in a different country when you have a stained reputation. ⠀

⠀ the prospect of coming back home is a distant one, painful. bittersweet. maybe joaquim doesn’t even believe it himself, but he really wants to. when the words are said out loud, he can almost feel they’re true. he nods briefly, humble on his greeting. the man can see ⠀

⠀ curious expression upon his face now. “ainda não me disse teu nome.” ⠀

⠀ such intimate pain shared. she feels it too, he can see it in her eyes—at ease now, once they both have stripped their souls naked. “eu sinto muito… mesmo. sabe, esses milicas hão de pagar por tudo isso. ainda voltaremos pra casa, um dia.” joaquim frowns his brows, a ⠀

⠀ he avoids thinking of his life in brazil under the regime. it’s yet too painful of a memory to deal with. not just his own torture and time in prison, but the many brave, heroic lives lost. friends, family… yet, there’s some kind of comfort, as odd as it sounds, in having ⠀

⠀ him in portuguese. he can always talk to himself, but it’s not everyday he’ll have someone talk back. “é… fugir, eu não fugi. foi exílio, forçado.” the words taste bitter on his mouth so joaquim soon shifts the conversation. “e tu?” ⠀

⠀ some kind of home. “pois sou recifense.” he’s short of words, but each carry deep emotion. his heavy northeastern accent, the smile on the corner of his lips—he likes the sound of his voice when he speaks in his mother tongue, but he mostly likes to hear others talk to ⠀

⠀ her enthusiasm shed a light on his weary heart. joaquim’s tired gaze searched for the woman once more, his dark orbs now carrying a sense of gentleness. she reminded him of sunlight and the salt air of warm days at the beach. it’s funny to look at a stranger and find ⠀

⠀ he definitely wasn’t following her… well, he was, but it’s not for any weird reason, anyway. “you dropped your wallet.” he’s quickly handing it back to her. ⠀

⠀ little longer. his gaze moves back to the empty audience. he smiles to himself, but it’s a smile that carries such heavy sorrow. one could feel it in his words. “eu tenho saudades de casa também. mas não posso voltar.” ⠀

⠀ his name out loud like that brings a strange comfort to his soul. a validation of his existence. how odd is it that one’s proof of life might solely rely on being perceived by someone else. he doesn’t say anything for a while, just letting that feeling linger for a ⠀

⠀ that’s definitely not a very common name outside his country. most people in london just call him quinn, for some reason. a shortcut, maybe. or a way to numb the growing sadness on his chest. either way, it just makes him feel more and more detached of himself. hearing ⠀