Querido Tom 13 (Dear Tom)

Rio, Ilha, Friday.

Dear Tom,

today I met my "virtual" English teacher. Unfortunately, he is not going to be our face-to-face teacher; he seems to be a little bit cooler than the "real" teacher.
Right now my little cousin is crying, very loud, which causes me to interrupt my writing; in the bathroom, by the way, is the place she cries. That, I must say, is not the hour for a mother to punish her children. That, I must say, is not the time for a child aged 4 to be out of bed. That, I must say, is not right for a child to control a mother. Everything is upside down here.
Returning to the point, the English teacher will be virtual. I daresay it'll be quite challenging, at least. I really don't know how that system works; he, the teacher, asked if there were any questions, and not a word came from my mouth.
A pity we won't have real classes with him. A clearer accent; however, a lower voice. Nothing is perfect. Cooler, I'm pretty sure now, and the advantages are winning, 2x1. A "Happy Easter" for him. And a "Good Luck" for me.
Yesterday I forgot to tell you; there was a man in the bus, the so-called sold-out bus. A sleepy man, sitting just besides Lissandra. Actually, he was a funny sleepy man. He had this strange-angled-open mouth, which caused Lissandra a giggle access. Not only her, but mostly her. I even tricked her about that. For me, he looked like a duck.
Today has been a very bad day. Except for few moments of pleasure, I've been feeling annoyed the entire day. Right now, I must tell you (as it's part of our agreement), I'm pretty sure my annoyment has grown. For reasons I prefer to quiet down. I just say that people don't really care for their laces. Not all; they do care for some laces, and it seems friendship is not one of them.
Tom, what I want to tell you is that you've been a very nice friend. Listening to me is not easy; reading me is even more difficult. Thank you for all the patience. I can say that writing for an imaginary friend is also very difficult.
Now more than ever I feel like being the Cheshire Cat; someone that may disappear anytime of sight, but not because I want, just because the others do not want to see me. I thought I was better; these last-minute happenings changed everything. If they only knew how bad I feel for that; again, I'm quite sure they don't really care, for they prefer other acquaintaces than mine.
Emma has proved to be a nice book, even if it hasn't ended. My tips have proved true, so far.
I also think myself as Alice:

"...'Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'

'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.

'I don't much care where --' said Alice.

'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat."

I first read it in one of Professor Cristina's presentations. Only now I realize how much it is me.

I've been considering going to that barbecue. Depending on my humour, but not only that. I've been really curious on how different they may look like, but I know, being very sincere, that I might look a bit odder for them than they for me. I only want that it doesn't turn things difficult, as it has with some people I thought it wouldn't.

The truth is: I, myself, have not discovered everything. It is everyday, full-time demanding exercise.

I must ask why people do that. I wonder if it was their day, if they would have liked. I wonder if it was their writing, and nobody who they really cared for would read it; but, again, it is not up to me to make people see that life is just not theirs habits, for they are too mechanical for me. I ask myself what passes on their mind, for they really don't seem to care for me, for what I'm feeling, for my wishes and fears, my pains.

Life is precious, and I know that there are many Ms. Blu Rain out there; I reckon some of those are influencing my life. My life is not like Precious's; it's way better. But sometimes I do feel like her. I just can't stand the fact that we care more for people who don't care the same for us.

Maybe they got sick of me; or don't recognize me anymore. I am the same, not the very old Caio; a better version. Some people don't like it, or don't understand, for reasons I have no idea.

I only pray for less-prejudiced Caio, and a less-prejudiced world. But if I can't unblind the eyes of those near me, how can it happen with those far?

That is a very long letter for you, Tom, but I needed it. I hope you understand me, for you are a product of my mind. Not originally, but now, mine.

Good Night, and a sincere hope that this finds you well,

Caio.

P.S. Don't do what you did with Ginny. I trust you have changed for better.