But you’ve seen eyes like Lídia’s before.
Not in boardrooms or investor meetings.
In hospital corridors at 3 a.m., where truth doesn’t wear makeup.
Her gaze doesn’t flicker toward Davi with pleading, and it doesn’t fold under the weight of the crowd.
She looks straight ahead, as if she’s already made peace with the fact that this night will hurt, and she will still use it.
When the event coordinator hands her the microphone, she doesn’t thank anyone.
She doesn’t say, “It’s an honor.”
She doesn’t pretend it’s normal to be dragged into your ex-husband’s wedding to perform your own erasure.
She lifts the mic with steady hands and takes one slow breath that sounds like a prayer refusing to die.
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