My name is Leandro Vizk. I'm thirty years old and live in São Paulo, Brazil.This is my story — a story I need to tell, even if it hurts.
For a long time, I kept everything inside, pretending life was normal. But silence has a way of suffocating you. Writing became my way to breathe again — to make sense of what I lived through, and maybe, to find peace.
I come from a simple family — five siblings, one sister.Our childhood was modest, but filled with laughter. We didn't have money, but we had each other. We played soccer barefoot on dusty streets until night fell. No video games, no fancy toys — just imagination and companionship.
My father was a mechanic, a man of few words but solid values. His hands were always covered in grease, yet when they held mine, I felt safe. He used to say:
"Son, the only thing I can leave you is knowledge. Learn, study, and never depend on anyone."
My mother was the heart of our home. She cleaned houses for a living, but no matter how tired she was, she always had a smile and a warm meal waiting for us. Her strength kept our small world from falling apart.
Because of that reality, I started working early. At eighteen, I got my first job in a telecommunications company — an Internet provider. At first, I was just the helper — carrying cables, tools, climbing poles, learning from the older technicians.But little by little, I began to understand. I learned to fix routers, test lines, configure networks. And I fell in love with the job — not just the technology, but the satisfaction of solving problems and connecting people.
It wasn't glamorous, but it was honest work.The sun burned, the city was chaos, but every day I felt I was building something for myself.And it was during one of those hot, exhausting days that my entire life changed.
It was a Tuesday — the kind of day that blends with all the others.The last service call of the day popped up on my list: "Internet outage — Apartment, Ponta Negra."I sighed, grabbed my backpack, and went.
When I rang the doorbell, I heard light footsteps. Then the door opened.
She stood there.At first, I just saw another client — but something about her caught me.Light brown eyes, short hair, a soft smile that felt both shy and welcoming.
"Hi! You must be from the Internet company, right?" she asked, laughing lightly."Yeah, I'm here to check your connection."
The apartment was small but cozy. Posters of Naruto, Death Note, and Fullmetal Alchemist covered the walls.A few sketchbooks and colored pencils lay on the table — drawings of anime characters, full of life and emotion.
"You like anime?" I asked, curious."I love it! Do you watch too?""All the time," I said, smiling.
That's where it began — a simple conversation about anime, music, and dreams.While I checked the cables, we kept talking, laughing easily, as if we'd known each other for years.The internet issue was minor — honestly, it barely existed. But destiny has its ways of creating excuses.
When I left, we exchanged a polite smile, nothing more. But as I walked away, her image stayed in my mind — her laugh, her eyes, that calm warmth.
Days passed, and I tried to forget. But she kept resurfacing in my thoughts.Then, two days later, my phone buzzed with a message:
"Hi! Is this the technician from the other day? My internet went down again… could you come check it? :)"
I smiled immediately. I knew that signal — the universe was giving me a second chance.That simple text was the spark that would ignite years of love, pain, passion, and lessons I never expected to learn.
Back then, I had no idea that knocking on that door would open another one —a door to the greatest love of my life, and the deepest scars that would ever mark my soul.