And somewhere in the distance — or maybe just inside her chest — a wolf howls. Not at the moon.
So when she curls up at the foot of your bed at 3 a.m., knees to her chest, breathing slow and deep, you don’t call her strange. You run your fingers through her tangled hair. You whisper, “Good girl.”
“Of what?”
Not into a monster. Into truth .
“That I’ll bite.”
I’ve written it as a lyrical prose-poem / flash fiction piece. Garota Loba Com Você
You wouldn’t notice her at first. In the supermarket, she’s the shy one reaching for the darkest coffee. In the library, she’s the silhouette tucked behind the mythology section, fingers tracing the spines of old bestiaries. Garota Lobo Com Voce
Com você means she chose you. Not the pack. Not the hunt. You.
“Aren’t you scared?” she asks once, stopping under a broken streetlamp.
When you’re together after midnight, her eyes catch the streetlight like amber. Her laugh gets a little rougher, lower in the throat. She walks ahead of you on the sidewalk, barefoot, her shadow stretching long and feral. You notice the silver ring on her finger, the one shaped like a howling snout. And somewhere in the distance — or maybe
Garota loba com você — that’s the thing. She’s not a wolf girl alone . She’s a wolf girl with you .
At you.
But when the sun bleeds out and the moon climbs raw and white over the city, she changes. You run your fingers through her tangled hair