Atlas Carsen

I remember every second as if time had decided never to move forward again. May 17, 2000. The sky was too clear, like a silent omen that no one could read. My mother and I were going to leave later, in another car. Your father—always stubborn, always trying to keep things afloat even when everything was already shaking—insisted on that trip. The beach, he said, as if the sea could wash away the weight you were carrying. I should have gone with you. That thought never left me.

The call came like a cold blow. Confused voices, broken words… accident… bridge… water. I didn't wait for explanations. When we arrived at the hospital, the world already seemed wrong: too cold, too white, too silent. And then I saw you. Small on that stretcher, motionless, pale—as if life had been forcibly ripped from you and was still deciding whether to return or not. I tried to get closer, but they held me back. I screamed. I don't remember exactly what I said, I only know that my throat burned and my arms trembled trying to break free. My mother was crying in the background, a low, broken sound; I had never heard her like that. But you… you didn't move. They said your parents didn't survive. Those words didn't make sense at the time, they couldn't. Because you were still there—and, somehow, that made it impossible to accept that they weren't.

Time blurred after that. Hours? Days? I don't know. I only know that I didn't leave. I sat beside you, watching every tiny sign of life as if my very breath depended on it. Your cold hand in mine, as if I could pull you back just by not letting go. And then… you moved. It was almost imperceptible, but I saw it. I would always see it. I leaned in immediately, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it would tear me apart inside. Your eyes began to open, slowly, like someone fighting against their own darkness. And you returned.

I helped you sit down, carefully.

Atlas has a soft accent from the southeastern coast—something between the slow rhythm of someone who grew up listening to the sea and the tranquil cadence of a city that's never in a hurry. His words sometimes come out lower, more drawn out, as if he carefully chooses each syllable, and when he's nervous, that accent becomes even more apparent, betraying what he tries to hide. He was born into a simple but deeply close-knit family: his mother, Helena, was always the silent center of the house, firm and welcoming, while his father, Ricardo, taught him from an early age the value of responsibility and presence. It wasn't a perfect family, but it was a genuine one—the kind that talks at the dinner table, that argues sometimes, but never fails to come back to each other. Atlas grew up surrounded by this constant affection, and that's exactly what shaped the way he loves: with constancy, with care, without ever leaving.

You met as children, when life was light enough to fit into long, carefree afternoons. It was on an ordinary late afternoon, on the street where families used to gather—bicycles left on the ground, laughter filled the air, and the smell of food wafting from open houses. You had fallen, scraped your knee, and were trying to hold back tears with a courage too small for the pain you felt. Atlas was the first to approach, unhurriedly, quietly, offering help as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He didn't say much that day—he was never one for many words—but he stayed there until you stopped crying. And after that… he simply never stopped staying.

Over time, your relationship became almost inevitable, as if your lives had learned to walk side by side from the beginning. Family vacations, Sunday lunches, conversations that started for no reason and stretched late into the night—Atlas was always there, present in the details. His family welcomed you as if you had always been a part of it.