My name is Leandro Teles Barros, I'm twenty-six years old, and until three days ago, life was a predictable watercolor painted in the warm tones of Salvador. I live in Brotas, a neighborhood with a pulse of its own—a tangle of winding streets, colorful houses, and the constant scent of palm oil mixed with the salt of the ocean breeze that insists on carrying itself here. I'm a freelance designer, which means my office is wherever my laptop is, and my schedule is as flexible as the tide—sometimes calm, allowing for slow sips of coffee on the balcony, other times frantic, with urgent deadlines swallowing me whole into the late hours of the night.
The irony is that, despite this supposed freedom, routine always imposes itself—a cycle of briefs, color palettes, vectors, and the endless pursuit of the perfect cup of coffee to keep creativity flowing. My apartment is small but cozy—one bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and an improvised corner I call my studio, where my work desk shares space with a bookshelf full of design books, some manga I've collected since adolescence, and my plants, silent companions that remind me to occasionally pause and water something other than my own creativity.
That Tuesday morning, the sun crept shyly through the living room window, finding me already immersed in a project for a small restaurant in the neighborhood. The computer screen displayed a tangle of ideas, potential logos, typography dancing between modern and traditional. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was my fuel, the ambient soundtrack provided by the birds in my neighbor's mango tree and the distant hum of morning traffic. It was an ordinary day, the kind you don't even realize you're living until something extraordinary shatters it into a thousand pieces.
My morning routine always followed an almost ritualistic pattern: wake up at six-thirty, even when unnecessary (a leftover habit from school days I could never shake), brush my teeth while watching the sky change colors through the bathroom window, brew strong coffee in my Italian moka pot (a gift from Lorena on our first anniversary), and sit at my desk still in pajamas, taking advantage of those early hours when the mind is fresh and ideas flow more easily.
Lorena usually called around nine, during a break between her college classes. She was in her third year of psychology, immersed in complex theories and challenging internships. Our dynamic was interesting—me with my aesthetic eye for the world, always attuned to shapes, colors, and compositions; her, fascinated by the intricacies of the human mind, by hidden behaviors and motivations. We complemented each other in ways we couldn't always articulate but deeply felt.
But that particular morning, the call didn't come at the usual time. At first, I didn't think much of it—academic life has its own rhythms and urgencies. I kept working on the project, adjusting the curve of a letter, experimenting with different shades of red for the seafood restaurant's logo, which blended contemporary touches with traditional flavors.
Lorena was probably still buried in her books and complex theories over in Itaigara, the upscale Salvador neighborhood where she lived with her parents. Our relationship was a safe harbor, a welcome contrast to the instability of my profession and the intensity of her studies. We talked about everything, from the mysteries of the human mind that fascinated her to the nuances of a gradient I couldn't quite perfect. She was the vibrant color in my personal palette, the melody that broke the silence of my solitary workdays.
I met her two years ago at a contemporary art exhibition at the Bahia Museum of Modern Art. I was there more out of professional obligation than genuine interest—a client wanted visual references for a project and asked me to "absorb the essence" of the exhibit. Lorena was alone, contemplating a particularly enigmatic installation, and something about her posture, the slight tilt of her head as she observed the piece, instantly captivated me. I approached under the pretense of asking her opinion about the artwork, and we ended up spending the next two hours wandering the museum together, sharing impressions, disagreeing amicably on interpretations, discovering unexpected affinities.
She was—is—fascinating. Intelligent in a way that was both intimidating and alluring, with strong opinions on practically everything, from politics to which street vendor made the best *acarajé* (a debate that, in Salvador, is almost as serious as politics). She came from an upper-middle-class family—an older sister who'd already built a career abroad, demanding parents, and a privileged education that gave her access to opportunities I, the son of small-town teachers, only encountered later in life. But Lorena never carried an air of superiority—just a sharp awareness of her privilege and a genuine commitment to using her knowledge and position for causes bigger than herself.
I remember sending her a message earlier that morning, something trivial about lunch, maybe an invitation to try a new place in Ribeira over the weekend. The reply took a while, which wasn't unusual when she was focused. While waiting, I took a break from work and called Eliane. She's an obstetric nurse in Rio, a fortress of a woman I've always admired for her dedication and strength.
My sister, six years older, had always been my guiding light. When our parents divorced, I was only twelve, and it was she, at eighteen, who made sure I didn't get lost in the emotional turbulence that followed. While our mother battled depression and our father withdrew—physically and emotionally—Eliane took on responsibilities that weren't hers, making sure I kept up with school, that I had some semblance of normalcy amid the chaos. She was the one who noticed my talent for drawing and design, who saved for months to buy me my first graphics tablet, who encouraged me to turn what I loved into a profession.
Now, established as an obstetric nurse at Pedro Ernesto University Hospital in Rio de Janeiro, Eliane remained my advisor, my safe harbor, the voice of reason when my impulsiveness threatened to lead me down questionable paths. Our weekly phone calls were a sacred ritual, a moment to reconnect, to remember where we came from and celebrate how far we'd come despite all obstacles.
We talked about the trivialities of daily life, the homesickness, the concerns about our parents back home. She mentioned, in passing, an unusual fatigue, a strange sensation she couldn't describe but quickly dismissed as the result of long shifts. Little did we know what was coming.
"You sound exhausted, Eli," I commented, noticing the sluggishness in her normally energetic voice.
"I am, Lee. This week has been brutal at the hospital. Three complicated births in a row, an emergency with a high-risk pregnant woman, and I had to cover Mariana's shift last night."
"You need more rest. You can't save the world alone, you know?"
She laughed, that familiar laugh that always brought me comfort, even across the distance. "Look who's talking! The workaholic who stays up all night tweaking pixels no one else can see."
"Touché," I conceded, smiling at the phone. "But it's different. At least I can take breaks when I want, work in pajamas, nap in the afternoon..."
"Ah, the freelancer's freedom! How I envy you sometimes."
"And I envy the stability of your paycheck every month," I shot back, in our familiar dance of affectionate teasing.
There was a pause, a silence that lasted a few seconds longer than usual.
"Eli? Everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah… just a dizzy spell. Probably hunger—I didn't eat lunch properly today."
"You need to take care of yourself too, not just everyone else."
"I know, little brother. It's just… something strange is happening. I don't know how to explain it. A feeling… something different."
"What kind of feeling?"
"It's like… like my body is preparing for something. A restlessness, you know? And it's not just me. I've noticed several patients and coworkers at the hospital mentioning similar sensations these past few days. Probably just collective stress, or maybe some weather change affecting everyone."
"Or maybe it's the zombie apocalypse finally arriving," I joked, trying to lighten the suddenly serious tone.
She laughed, but it was short, almost forced. "Who knows? Anyway, I have to go. A team meeting in ten."
"Sure. Take care, Eli. Love you."
"Love you too, Lee. Give Lore a kiss for me."
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of pixels and sips of coffee. The restaurant project was taking shape—the colors harmonizing, the typography finding its place. I felt that quiet satisfaction that comes with completing a creative milestone. I glanced out the window at Salvador's sky, an intense blue dotted with careless brushstrokes of white clouds. Nothing hinted at the storm brewing—no dark clouds on the horizon, no strong winds. Just life moving along, oblivious to the fact that the world as we knew it was about to change irreversibly.
The coffee cooled in the cup, forgotten, as I lost myself in final layout adjustments, unaware that these were the last moments of a normality that would soon become a distant memory, almost a dream. My phone vibrated—finally, a reply from Lorena. I smiled in anticipation, expecting some playful teasing or confirmation of our weekend plans. But the message I read froze my smile, replacing it with a look of concern that, in the coming days, would become all too familiar.
*"Lee, I don't feel well. Something's wrong. Really wrong."*
I reread the message three times, trying to decipher the tone behind the typed words. Lorena wasn't the dramatic type—quite the opposite, she was pragmatic, almost stoic in the face of problems. For her to express concern like this, something serious must be happening.
I called immediately. Three rings, four, five. Nothing. Tried again. Straight to voicemail. A cold sensation spread through my stomach, that instinctive foreboding that something is fundamentally wrong. I sent another message:
*"I'm coming over now. Reply as soon as you can."*
I shut the laptop without bothering to save the project, grabbed my keys and wallet, and nearly ran out of the apartment. The sky remained absurdly blue, mocking my growing anxiety. The contrast between the day's beauty and the tightening in my chest felt like the universe's cruel joke.
The trip from Brotas to Itaigara usually took about twenty minutes by bus, but that day, every traffic light seemed to conspire against me, every stop stretched into eternity. I tried calling Lorena twice more during the ride, with no success. I also tried reaching Mariana, her older sister, but the call went straight to voicemail.
As the bus crawled through Salvador's traffic, I began noticing something strange. There was a tension in the air, almost palpable. A woman seated two rows ahead was visibly uncomfortable, her face twisted in pain. The bus conductor seemed irritable, answering passengers' questions curtly. On the sidewalk, I saw a young woman sitting on the curb, clutching her abdomen while a friend offered her water.
My phone buzzed. For a second, my heart leapt, thinking it was Lorena. But it was Eliane again.
*"Lee, something really weird is happening at the hospital. All female patients are experiencing the same symptoms simultaneously. Severe cramps, nausea, dizziness. And it's not just the patients—doctors, nurses, cleaning staff, all of them. It's like..."*
The message cut off abruptly. I tried calling back but only got a busy signal. The anxiety consuming me now morphed into rising panic.
Finally, the bus reached the stop closest to Lorena's place. I rushed off, nearly tripping over my own feet, and ran the three blocks to the gated community where she lived with her parents. Along the way, I passed a pharmacy with a long line of women forming outside. They all seemed to share the same expression—a mix of pain, confusion, and growing alarm.
The doorman knew me well enough to let me in without announcing my arrival. I took the stairs two at a time to apartment 302, breathless not just from exertion but from the adrenaline coursing through me. I rang the doorbell repeatedly until I heard slow footsteps on the other side.
It was Lorena's mother, Dr. Cláudia, who answered. Normally impeccable in her tailored suits and high heels—a symbol of her position as director of a major private hospital—she looked unrecognizable. Hair disheveled, face pale, deep shadows under her eyes, wearing a robe that seemed hastily thrown on.
"Leandro," she said, her usually firm voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. "Thank God you're here."
"What's happening? Where's Lorena?" I asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
"In her room. She's… like all of us."
The apartment, usually immaculate, showed unusual signs of disarray—a broken cup on the kitchen floor, papers scattered on the dining table, a blanket tossed carelessly over the sofa.
"All of you? What do you mean?"
Dr. Cláudia made a vague gesture with her hand, as if words failed her. "It started a few hours ago. At first, I thought it was something I ate, then maybe some kind of contamination at the hospital. But then Lorena started feeling the same symptoms, and Mariana called from work saying she was sick too. And then the calls started. My colleagues, nurses, patients… all women, Leandro. All of them."
She leaned against the wall as if the weight of her own words made her unsteady. "In thirty years of medicine, I've never seen anything like this. It's like… like every woman in the world started menstruating simultaneously, but with an intensity…"
I didn't wait for her to finish. I hurried down the hallway to Lorena's room, knocking lightly before entering. The room was dim, curtains closed against the harsh Bahian sunlight. The air conditioner hummed at full blast, creating an almost icy atmosphere.
Lorena was curled up in bed, clutching a hot water bottle to her abdomen. Her face, normally vibrant and expressive, was contorted in pain. When she saw me, she tried to smile but only managed a grimace.
"Hey, designer," she murmured, using the affectionate nickname reserved for our most intimate moments. "Sorry for the dramatic text."
I sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. "What drama? You're clearly at the top of your game," I joked, but my voice betrayed my worry.
"It's just PMS," she said, trying to sound casual. "Just multiplied by a thousand. And apparently synchronized with every woman on the planet."
"What do you mean?"
She pointed to the open laptop beside the bed. On the screen, multiple news windows were open, all reporting the same phenomenon in different parts of the world.
"It started in Asia, then Europe, now here. It's spreading with the time zones. All women, Lee. All of them. At the same time."
I took the laptop and began reading the headlines, each more alarming than the last:
**"GLOBAL PHENOMENON: WOMEN WORLDWIDE REPORT SIMULTANEOUS MENSTRUAL SYMPTOMS"**
**"HOSPITALS OVERWHELMED WITH CASES OF SEVERE CRAMPS AND HEMORRHAGING"**
**"SCIENTISTS BAFFLED BY PLANETARY-SCALE MENSTRUAL SYNCHRONIZATION"**
**"CONSPIRACY THEORY OR NATURAL PHENOMENON? THE MYSTERY OF 'GLOBAL SYNCHRONY'"**
**"FIRST REPORTS OF DEATHS LINKED TO 'RED EVENT'"**
That last headline sent a chill through me. I clicked on the article, quickly reading about cases of women with pre-existing conditions—severe endometriosis, fibroids, clotting disorders—who hadn't survived the intensity of the symptoms. Unconfirmed numbers spoke of hundreds, possibly thousands, of deaths.
"This is… impossible," I murmured, more to myself than to Lorena.
"Apparently not," she replied, her voice mixing pain with a scientific curiosity even suffering couldn't suppress. "Theories are popping up. From the absurd—like bioweapons or divine punishment—to the more plausible, like some kind of electromagnetic field affecting the female hypothalamus globally."
Even in pain, Lorena didn't lose her analytical nature. It was one of the things I admired most about her—her ability to observe, analyze, theorize, even when she herself was the subject of study.
"Do you need anything? Water, painkillers, another hot water bottle?"
She shook her head. "Already took the maximum ibuprofen I can without frying my liver. Mom gave me a muscle relaxant too. Now it's just waiting it out." She paused, biting her lip. "But I'm worried about Eliane. Have you talked to her?"
"She sent me a weird message about the hospital, but it got cut off. Haven't been able to reach her since."
Lorena tried to sit up, wincing at the movement. "Lee, if this is happening to all women, imagine the chaos in hospitals. Eliane's an obstetric nurse—she must be in the eye of the storm right now."
She was right, of course. I grabbed my phone and tried calling Eliane again. Nothing. Sent a message:
*"Eli, we're seeing the news. Is it really like this? All women? Please tell me you're okay. I'm with Lorena—she's in bad shape but stable. Reply as soon as you can."*
While waiting for a reply I feared might not come soon, I turned my attention back to Lorena. Despite the obvious pain, she kept scrolling through the news, absorbing information, connecting dots.
"This is going to change everything, Lee," she said, her voice now firmer, almost prophetic. "If it's truly global, if it continues… think of the implications. Healthcare systems, the economy, politics, social relations. Everything."
"Let's hope it's a one-time event," I replied, trying to sound optimistic. "Maybe just a day, a week at most."
She gave me that look she reserved for when I said something naive. "And if it's not? What if this repeats every month? For how long? Years?"
The question hung in the air, heavy as lead. I had no answer—no one did. We were all, men and women alike, navigating uncharted waters with no map, no compass, only the growing certainty that the world as we knew it had ended on that sunny Tuesday morning.
My phone buzzed. A notification from a social media platform I rarely used. I opened it reflexively and was immediately bombarded by an endless stream of updates. Videos of chaotic streets in major cities, mile-long lines at pharmacies, hospital corridors overflowing with women in varying stages of suffering. Hashtags like #GlobalSynch, #RedEvent, and #MenstrualApocalypse dominated the trending topics.
And then, amid the digital chaos, a private message. It was Ricardo, my college friend who now worked as a nurse at the same hospital as Eliane.
*"Leandro, can't reach you by phone—lines are overloaded. Your sister asked me to let you know she's okay, but the situation here is critical. All female healthcare workers are affected but still working through it. It's surreal, man. Never seen anything like it. She said to stay with Lorena, take care of her, and not to worry. She'll contact you when she can."*
A momentary relief washed over me. At least Eliane was alive, functioning, being the warrior she'd always been. I showed Lorena the message, and she nodded slightly, her eyes closing for a moment as if she, too, felt some relief.
"Your sister's amazing," she murmured. "Bet she's taking care of everyone even while feeling the same pain."
"That's just how she is," I agreed, a familial pride warming my chest amid the general anxiety.
I looked out the bedroom window, slightly parting the curtain. The sky was still absurdly blue, but now I could hear sirens in the distance, a growing chorus coming from all directions. On the street below, I saw a group of women walking slowly, leaning on each other. A car sped by, nearly hitting a distracted pedestrian.
The world outside was changing rapidly, adapting to this new reality as quickly as the news was spreading. And I, a logo and website designer used to controlling every pixel on my computer screen, felt utterly powerless in the face of what was happening.
"I'm staying with you," I told Lorena, holding her hand. It wasn't a question or an offer—it was a statement of intent, a promise.
She squeezed my hand back, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that transcended physical pain.
"This is just the beginning, Lee. Something tells me we're going to need each other a lot in the coming days. Months. Maybe years."
I nodded, unable to find adequate words. Outside, the sirens continued—a constant reminder that the world we'd wake up to tomorrow would be fundamentally different from the one we knew yesterday. And all of us, every one of us, would have to find our place in this new reality—pixel by pixel, moment by moment, breath by breath.