January is the month of lies. If you’ve worked in the fitness industry as long as I have, you eventually learn to hate the calendar. January 2nd marks the beginning of the migration of repentant souls. They arrive in schools, wearing lycra clothes that still smell like the store, carrying colorful water bottles, fueled by the fragile determination of someone who spent three weeks stuffing their face with holiday roast and sides and now wants a pop star’s body before Carnival. We call this "Project Summer." I call it "Project Desperation." My name is Danilo. I’m a personal trainer and floor instructor at *IronFit 24h*, one of those low-cost gym chains that have spread through São Paulo like a fungal plague. Black walls, neon yellow lights, electronic music played too loud, and membership fees that are way too cheap. I work the shift nobody wants: midnight to six in the morning. It’s a lonely shift. The crowd at that hour is usually made up of insomniacs, ER doctors,...
The laundromat near my apartment is one of those places that always feels slightly sad. Not tragic sad, just fluorescent lighting, plastic chairs, the smell of warm detergent, and people staring at spinning clothes like theyre waiting for their life to do something. I go there on Sundays because my buildings washer likes to break at the worst times. It was late afternoon, raining outside, and I was doing laundry with the same energy I do everything lately. Functional, quiet, dont think too much. I had my headphones in and a basket on my hip, loading the machine when I noticed him. A guy around my age sitting on the far end hunched over like he was trying to fold himself into the chair. He kept wiping his face with his sleeve. At first I assumed allergies. Then I heard the sound, not sobbing, not loud crying, just that tight shaky breathing people do when theyre trying to cry silently so nobody can tell. I did the normal thing, I looked away. Because in public youre supposed to pretend...