Sofia, the girl who can't feel.

She is eight and her hair is as curly as her thoughts: spiral curls that become knots when the wind blows too hard over her face and, just sometimes, she rolls to her fingers. Her eyelashes are too long for her small eyes, so small that sometimes fade away in all whiteness of her immaculate and childlike face. She doesn’t like to wear shoes and every morning she walks barefoot on the curb and opens her clumsy arms to hug the rising sun. She whistles operas to the birds and laughs alone when goes out of tune (God! She always goes out of tune!). She does not eat chocolate. Definitely, she prefers broccoli. When no one is watching, she plays with them, picturing the broccolis as little trees, just to eat them all after. She never holds hands while crosses the street, only hugs her books and just smiles when she has to brush her teeth. In the dead of night, she escapes to the garden to sit and talk to the stars. Sofia is happy.

But her sin is overthinking. A new tick tock on the clock is new thought in her head: curly, clumsy, shy and cold. So cold…! Sofia hurts her little fingertips when unrolls it. And if one asks what happened, she just slides her hands through her hair, like if the answer is so obvious that give it voice is worthless. When she finds a good thought, she stretches the spirals so much so that they become too big for her hand, and she runs to her rouge pencil and scribbles the paper so hopelessly that gets blisters in her hands. The thoughts warm up for some seconds, but the words fall asleep soon and they can’t help but getting cold again. If someone touches that piece paper, would hurt the fingertips as well.

And Sofia would scream. A cry the silence would swallow.

For that rouge scribbled paper Sofia calls soul.