Log 13 — Thirteenth Entry: One Eye Sees, the Other Remembers

She almost tells someone. But the notebook listens better. 
In red, a warning: not everything that answers should be heard.

Left Page

"Pensei em contar à Margarida.
Ela ouve-me. Sempre ouviu.
Mas como digo isto?
A câmara fala comigo.
Estou a seguir frases escondidas em fotos.
Ela vai pensar que estou em burnout, ou que comecei a fumar coisas estranhas.
Se calhar está certa.
Se calhar é tudo só na minha cabeça."
I thought about telling Margarida.
She listens to me. She always has.
But how do I say this?
The camera talks to me.
I’m following hidden phrases inside photos.
She’ll think I’m burned out, or that I’ve started smoking weird things.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe it’s all just in my head.

Right Page

"Não vou contar a ninguém. Ainda não.
Se for real, está aqui.
Se não for… também.
Fico com o caderno.
Ele aguenta tudo. Mesmo o que não se diz em voz alta."
"Nem tudo que responde deve ser ouvido."
I won’t tell anyone. Not yet.
If it’s real, it’s here.
If it’s not… it still is.
I’ll stick with the notebook.
It can hold everything. Even what you don’t say out loud.
"Not everything that answers should be heard."

This is the threshold, the moment before confession.
She wants to tell someone. She almost does.
But there’s something sacred about keeping it inside.
Because saying it out loud might break it, or worse, make it real.

So she chooses silence.
And the notebook becomes her confessional.

But even here, something answers.
Written in red — her own handwriting, but somehow separate.
A warning, or an echo:
Not everything that answers should be heard.

A message for after she’s gone. One last drawing, familiar but sharper.
 The spiral returns, inside the eye.

Left Page

"Tive uma ideia.
Se isto correr mal – se eu desaparecer ou algo me acontecer – alguém precisa de saber.
Vou escrever tudo num documento. Deixar um email pronto. Agendado.
Ou algo assim.
Se eu não entrar na conta durante dias, ele envia-se sozinho."
I had an idea.
If this goes wrong — if I disappear or something happens to me — someone needs to know.
I’ll write everything down in a document. Leave an email ready. Scheduled.
Or something like that.
If I don’t log in for a few days, it sends itself.

Right Page

"Para a Margarida.
Ela vai ler.
Vai perceber que não enlouqueci. Apenas acreditei demais."
"Um dos olhos vê. O outro lembra."
For Margarida.
She’ll read it.
She’ll understand that I didn’t lose my mind. I just believed too much.
One eye sees. The other remembers.

She’s preparing for disappearance.
Not metaphorically — but deliberately, practically.
If something happens, someone will know.
Margarida will receive the truth, even if it’s impossible to explain.

But then, that last sentence in red:
One eye sees. The other remembers.
It doesn’t feel like a thought.
It feels like a message. A conclusion. A key.

And just beneath it, a drawing: an eye, more detailed than before, but familiar.
It echoes the one she sketched in her first pages.
The same gaze.
The same spiral buried in the iris.

She’s always drawn eyes and spirals.
But now they’re aligning. Repeating. Evolving.

She’s watching herself watch.
Leaving breadcrumbs.
Just in case.

These pages are fragments left behind by Isabel S., no more and no less. © I.S. 

Log 12 — Twelfth Entry: How Many Times Now?

A phrase in her own voice, but not her own. 
The dreams are back, and they know something she doesn’t.

Left Page 

"Passou uma semana.
Testes, trabalhos, alunos nervosos. Eu também. Fiz tudo no automático.
Mas a cabeça continua lá.
No mural. 
Na frase.
Panorâmico de Monsanto.
Veio no sussurro do guia, mas sinto que já o sonhava antes disso."
A week passed.
Tests, assignments, nervous students. Me too. I did everything on autopilot.
But my mind is still there.
On the mural. 
On the phrase.
Panorâmico de Monsanto.
It came in the guide’s whisper, but I feel like I’d already dreamed it before.

Right Page

"As noites estão a ficar estranhas.
Sonho com escadas em espiral. 
O céu sem forma.
Subo e subo, e há janelas a respirar.
Oiço a minha voz a dizer:
"Quantas vezes já?"
Mas não sou eu a falar.
Acordo sempre cansada.
Como se o corpo ficasse mas eu saísse."
The nights are getting strange.
I dream of spiral staircases.
The sky has no shape.
I keep climbing, and the windows breathe.
I hear my voice say:
“How many times now?”
But it’s not me speaking.
I always wake up tired.
As if my body stayed but I slipped out.

The trail went quiet, but her mind didn’t.

A week passed in a blur of classes, corrections, and fatigue. Isabel functioned on autopilot, yet part of her stayed locked in that moment, facing the mural. The whisper of the guide naming the Panorâmico seemed like a new clue, but something about it felt… familiar. As if her subconscious had already been there.

The dreams returned.
Spiral staircases.
A sky without shape.
A voice that sounds like hers, asking:
“How many times now?”

The phrase loops, the dreams intensify, and she wakes each morning heavier than the last, like her body stays in bed, but some part of her wanders off at night.

Two small drawings frame the page: the familiar theatrical masks — comedy and tragedy — and a faint spiral staircase with three stars.
Symbols of performance, duality, and a descent into the unknown.

The pattern is shifting.
And she’s starting to feel it.

These pages are fragments left behind by Isabel S., no more and no less. © I.S.