10 a.m.

Rosa sits at the table with the radio close to her ear. The host reports the main news of the day. The saleswoman announces a promotion of a pseudoscientific medicine. The priest preaches in a strangely specific way.

Every morning, Marcelo stands on the opposite side of the kitchen table. Discreetly, he reaches out to pick up the coffee jar and pour two fingers in his coconut fiber mug. "Should I say good morning?" he always thinks for a second. When the answer is "no," he decides to compensate by making his own bed. After a few sips, he sits clumsily in his chair, turns on his laptop, and is absorbed by the daily responsibilities.

Marcelo usually only leaves the computer when needing to feed himself. He never has lunch with Rosa. Except on Sundays, when both remain quiet for the seven minutes it takes Marcelo to finish his microwavable lasagna. In fact, Marcelo and Rosa rarely talk to each other. Living together for almost two decades, they collect hundreds of days without exchanging a single word to one another.

Even so, Rosa and Marcelo are the beings who share most things in common. They eat the same grains of rice and beans every day, hear the same scolding from the same old woman who lives next door as she screams at Enzo, breathe the same semi-polluted air from the same semi-industrial city, and are bitten by the same mosquitoes at night when they lie down in beds three spans away from each other.

Marcelo and Rosa are like two passengers traveling on trains that go in different directions but that at the moment are on parallel tracks a few feet apart. Both look out the window and exchange smiles, but no one dares to jump out of their seats just to shake hands. Marcelo and Rosa are hostages of their own rooms and routines. They live in the same house, but not the same universe.

For Rosa, a significant part of her universe is shaped by television dramas. From noon to ten o'clock, with a short intermission between 4 to 6 p.m. to take care of the little plants, Rosa spends most of her time listening to Brazilian soap operas from more than two decades ago. Listening — because she can't see. According to her, it all started the day she decided to dive into a dirty river near her old home. Living near misery, she could not afford the cost of a treatment that would have easily cured her eye infection. Since then, she has been slowly conducted by the texture of different walls through one arm that always raises forward.

But even if she could see, Rosa's possibilities would not radically increase. She never learned to read or write, and her math knowledge limits to adding up a few money bills. So, whenever she wants to buy half a dozen mangoes from the street market or donate small change to charities, she depends on someone else to do it. "Are you busy?" is the question that always precedes a favor request for Marcelo. He always is — calculating one thing or writing another — but always says he is not, convinced that the small gesture contributes in some way to compensate for the profound lack of connection between the two.

At night, Marcelo behaves like a thief stealing his own residence. He makes sure he does not make any noise that might wake Rosa. When sitting at the computer, he tries not to stretch too far in the chair so that it doesn't creak. When he needs to take a piss, he lowers the handle very slowly to open the door. And when he finally lies down on the bed, he tries not to move too much so that the wooden slats don't denounce him. But no matter how hard he tries, he always ends up failing: Every night, one hears a button being pressed, followed by two to five minutes of radio hissing, followed by an "Oh my god, this is bad for your health. You need to sleep earlier."

When Rosa is not at home, everything feels more ethereal, more tranquil, more silent. The television is off. Hence, one no longer hears the same commercials, the same lines from the same characters in the same soap operas, the same songs of transition and mood. The phone does not ring that much either. And when it does, Marcelo never answers. Also, when Rosa is gone, so is her voice that seeks some crumb of human connection on the other end of the line. On these occasions, Marcelo has already witnessed Rosa venting about the indifference that others have toward her. In some of them, he has also heard her call him a "bush animal" due to his reclusive behavior.

Marcelo already told himself that when life inevitably takes her away, his own would become simpler. But that also scares him. The day Rosa dies, he will probably be there — in the exact second or minutes after it happened. He does not know how he will react or what major life reflection he will have. He does not know if he will cry very much, regretful for never having truly connected with her, or if he will cry very little, relieved that his greatest interpersonal weakness has now ceased to exist. Whatever it is, with each passing day, the closer that event comes — and the less prepared Marcelo feels for it.

So far, none of his majestic revelations with his years of meditation practice and a newly adopted Buddhism have helped him. Nor have the lessons from the romantic sufferings with Alessandra, Bianca, Laura and, now, Samara. Once, Marcelo spent a month on an exchange program in Peru with approximately twenty other young Latinos. Living in such a friendly environment, he had never felt so confident of being his fullest self around other people. He imagined that after the experience was over, he would be able to tell any unfunny joke or express his most controversial opinions to anyone without any hesitation — including Rosa. Then, on the day Marcelo got off the plane, spent two hours on the road, parked the car in the garage, opened the door to the house, cleaned both feet on the carpet, and was asked if he had liked what he had lived, the only spoken words to Rosa that day were: "Yes, it was really cool there."

Today, all these thoughts have never been so alive for Marcelo. Lying in his bed ready to sleep, he stares at the ceiling, wondering exactly what and how he will say to Rosa tomorrow morning. Every once in a while he's got to do this, and every time it feels painful as hell. Perhaps this can be a different year, though. Perhaps he could choose not to suffer. Perhaps he could choose not to fake it. Perhaps… Perhaps he could choose to be simple. That's it.

10 a.m.

Rosa sits at the table with the radio in her ear. The president was involved in another controversy. The permanent slimming medicine is on sale for only 230 reais. Saint Thérèse was of great importance to Catholicism.

Marcelo takes a deep breath and approaches Rosa.

"Good morning, Grandma. Happy birthday! I love you."