✶ Still Young - Chapter One: Nameless Street ✶
📍 Set in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
🖋️ Genre: Urban fiction / Slice of life / Indie drama
Chapter 1 – Nameless Street
The Rio sun seemed to have made a pact with the concrete that morning. It was only ten a.m., but the city was already burning like midday in January. The thick air shimmered over the asphalt as if the city itself were struggling to breathe.
Lívia walked the sidewalks of Grajaú like someone searching for a way out — or maybe a way into something new. She carried a worn-out backpack on her back, a portfolio clutched to her chest, and an expression somewhere between exhaustion and hope. Her hair, tied in a messy bun, was already threatening to rebel against the heat.
At 28, she had just come off a string of quiet failures in São Paulo. Creative, sensitive, and stubborn to the last strand of hair, she was never good with molds — not in layouts, not in relationships, and especially not in life. After a blunt firing and the end of a lukewarm relationship, she bet everything on a position at a Rio-based agency. She’d sent the résumé in a late-night impulse, and when the “yes” arrived by email, she realized starting over was better than waiting for another “maybe.”
But Rio hadn’t embraced her yet. She had been wandering the city for hours, looking for a place to call home. With every “already rented,” “we don’t rent to single women,” and “you’re not from here, are you?” her certainty crumbled a little more.
Exhausted, she turned the corner of Engenheiro Richard Street and saw it: a small café shaded by an old jabuticaba tree, with tables scattered on the sidewalk and an air conditioner gleaming behind a fogged-up window like a shimmering promise. A little refuge, a place to breathe.
She stepped in. The doorbell jingled — light and melodic — as if to say, “Come in, sit for a bit, rest.”
At the far end of the café — more precisely, at the table by the window where sunlight filtered through the leaves — Isadora was wrapping up an online meeting. She was 30, wore a loose blouse with a vintage vinyl print, and had her hair in a low bun held up by a pencil. One earbud dangled from her ear, and her cappuccino was already cold.
A freelance designer and recent orphan of the grandmother who had raised her with affection and chamomile tea, Isadora had decided to keep living in her childhood home. The house was a crooked portrait of memory: cracked Portuguese tiles, peeling walls with a certain charm, and far too many plants for one person to handle. But she loved every corner. Even the ones that leaked when it rained.
As her client spoke, she got distracted watching the woman who had just come in: sweaty jeans, restless eyes, a beautiful and defeated expression. She carried her life on her back — it was obvious.
“A coffee, please. Very cold, if that’s possible,” Lívia told the barista, attempting a smile.
Isadora ended the call, took off her earbuds, and tried to hide her curiosity. The café was full, and the only free table… was hers.
Lívia looked around, hesitated, then approached:
“Sorry… do you mind? I promise I’m quiet and will try not to sweat too close.”
Isadora let out a muffled laugh and replied kindly:
“Sit down. But only if you tell me where that accent comes from — a blend of São Paulo and a life-weary Carioca.”
“Fair enough.” Lívia smiled. “Long story. It involves a job listing, a lost suitcase, and three apartment visits that seemed promising but smelled like mold and failure.”
“Well, at least you found coffee,” said Isadora, raising her cup. “That’s already half the survival game around here.”
“In Grajaú. About four streets from here. I live alone in my grandmother’s old house. It has a porch, leaky ceilings, and the soul of a soap opera.”
Lívia let out a real laugh.
“That sounds… perfect. Poetic and messy. I’m this close to sleeping with my backpack tonight.”
“You don’t have a place?”
“Looking for anything that’ll accept a freshly arrived ad copywriter and doesn’t charge a kidney.”
Isadora glanced at the window. Light filtered through the jabuticaba tree’s leaves, scattering dancing shadows across the table. Lívia kept talking.
“One apartment had a ‘nature view,’ according to the realtor. The nature in question was a vacant lot with two tires, one possessed cat, and what I think was a decomposing couch.”
“Very conceptual,” Isadora quipped, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, raw urban art. But the peak was yesterday. I went to a ‘furnished room.’ The bed was a deflated air mattress, and the fridge was full… of pots. Hot ones. The landlady was frying steak right there — in the emotional cold of the room.”
This time Isadora laughed out loud, drawing glances from another table. She tried to cover her mouth with her hand.
“I came with guts and vibes. And with Patrícia, my former boss, still echoing in my head: ‘You need stability, Lívia.’ What she doesn’t get is my life is like those flimsy plastic party cups — try to balance too much, and it crumples and spills.”
The two laughed. Lívia leaned back in her chair as if, for the first time that day, she could really breathe.
Isadora stirred her cappuccino, thoughtful.
“If you don’t mind sharing with someone who blasts Secos & Molhados and talks to herself sometimes… there’s a room available at my place.”
“You just need to like plants, quiet, and washing your own dishes.”
“I grew up listening to Tempo Perdido during Saturday cleaning. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.”
They laughed together. It was like unlocking an invisible door.
They both stood up. Lívia reached into her pocket to pay for the coffee, but froze. Her phone buzzed: 1% battery. Her card was declined. Tried another. Nothing.
Isadora placed a twenty on the counter.
“Relax. My house has Wi-Fi and a welcome tab.”
Lívia stared at her for a few seconds. Honest. Surprised. Grateful.
“You’re gonna regret trusting people like this, you know?”
“I hope so. The best stories always start with some dumb decision.”
They left the café walking side by side. As if they already knew each other.
As if it were already the beginning of a home.
📚 Still Young is a narrative about friendship, memory, chaos, and growing up under the weight of the heat and the past.
🎨 Written & Illustrated by PinkLab
