The morning light stretched lazily across the horizon, melting into the deep blues of the Atlantic. From the balcony, the ocean sprawled endlessly, its surface glistening under the early sun. Waves rolled in with a calm rhythm, brushing against the golden sand below. The air smelled of salt and tropical warmth, thick with the scent of distant fruit trees and the lingering trace of last night's rain. Faye leaned against the railing, her fingers absently tracing the worn wood. The house sat perched on a hill, overlooking the coastline, surrounded by lush greenery that whispered in the wind. It was breathtaking, objectively beautiful.
A month. She had been there a month. And in that time, life had shifted in ways she hadn't expected. If rehab had been the place where she unraveled, then Rio felt like the place where she was slowly weaving herself back together.
1992 started in rehab, but only now she felt like getting the taste of an actual new year. She had settled into a routine, though it was nothing like the rigid structure of the past months. Mornings were slow, waking up to the sun spilling into her room, the sound of the ocean always present. She explored the city with her mother, strolling through Ipanema's boutiques, tasting fresh mangoes at the market, sipping on coconut water straight from the shell, under the sun at the beach, her skin now tanner than it had ever been. At night, they dined at restaurants tucked away in the corners of the city, tasty meals and warmth of conversations that felt less forced than before.
The camera was always with her. At first, it was just an old habit, something to keep her hands occupied. But slowly, it became something else entirely—a way of seeing this new world, of capturing the life around her. The winding streets, the vibrant murals painted on old buildings, the way light filtered through the palm trees. She had started documenting the little moments: children playing by the shore, vendors selling mate from carts, an old woman smoking on her balcony, watching the city move below. Photography was hers again, and this time, it wasn't tangled up in sadness.
Perhaps the biggest surprise was how much she enjoyed being in a classroom again. Four times a week, she attended Portuguese classes at a local university, a program tailored for foreigners. Walking through the campus, she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time—a spark of excitement, a reminder of the girl she used to be before everything.
She made friends, too. There was Astrid, the daughter of Denmark's ambassador, who always smelled like expensive perfume and had a dry wit that made Faye laugh. And Jules, a French boy whose father was a diplomat but whose true passion was writting—he carried a notebook filled with poems he was too shy to say aloud.
But out of everyone, she had grown most fond of Eduardo.
Eduardo was Brazilian, but not entirely—born in Rio to a well-known writer and an American mother, he had spent his life between the two countries, fluent in both cultures. He spoke Portuguese with the effortless rhythm of a local but could switch to English without missing a beat. He was taking his master's dregee and was the teacher's assistant for the class, though outside of school, he became something else: a guide, a friend, someone who made the city feel even more alive.
He was the kind of person who carried the warmth of the city in his bones. He stood tall, with a casual elegance that came naturally—his skin tanned from hours spent outside, the sun kissing his face and arms, leaving traces of summer in every inch. His hair was thick, wavy brown, the kind that looked effortlessly tousled as if he had just come from the beach, the saltwater still lingering in the strands. His eyes, a striking shade of green, held the depth of the ocean, calm yet intense, as if they had seen the world through a lens of both adventure and introspection.
He was undeniably handsome, but not in the polished, carefully curated way of someone from the city's high society. His looks were more rugged, more free, like he had spent his days hiking through the mountains or surfing the waves of Ipanema. There was an ease to him—both in the way he moved and in the way he spoke. His wardrobe was casual but well-tailored, the kind of clothes that suggested a familiarity with the finer things in life, without the need to flaunt them, where luxury had a certain laid-back quality to it. Eduardo was the product of generations of wealth, but it never made him seem distant or out of touch. His presence was welcoming, grounded in the rhythms of the city, yet shaped by the contrasts of his upbringing.

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Perfumed Secrets | Kurt Cobain
FanfictionFaye Carter moves to Seattle for college and finally gets to see the world for herself. She meets Kurt, and the connection is instant: intense, creative, and a little chaotic. Love, music, and addiction collide, and Faye has to figure out what's rea...