- January 24, 2026
- 11:17 am
Finally, you sit down.
Couch, leggings, soft socks, an oversized sweatshirt, and that kind of peace you feel only after dodging 40 emails, 12 ridiculous requests, 3 “quick” meetings (two hours each), and especially the neighbor who stopped you in the hallway to explain, with cosmic regret, that his garage is uglier than yours.
And he’s working so hard to make it perfect.
You think, meh… okay.
But now, the world inside you is at peace, and you’re on your couch, remote on the floor, utterly drained.
Netflix is open to the docuseries about Victoria Beckham’s life. You like Victoria—she’s elegant, dresses well, classy. And she never sweats—something you can’t help but wonder about every time.
She, in that perfect shirt, captivates you. Not to mention the lip gloss, so shiny you feel like covering your eyes with your hands.
With excitement, you’re also waiting for him to appear in that living room: David.
You wait for his voice, his look, the moment.
You deserve to see David Beckham, yes: you truly do.
And as you watch the door handle turn on the screen… there it is: a notification.
A strange sound, almost like a boom.
A taa-daaaam that promises nothing good.
You sense what it is. Your hand trembles as you bring it to the phone screen.
Reason pleads:
Wait, David. Don’t open the chat. At least wait until Victoria finally explains why she never sweats.
But you don’t.
You are polite.
You are loyal.
You are Luana’s friend.
And notifications must always be taken seriously: it’s common sense.
So you open the chat:
13 voice messages:
Ten minutes
Five minutes
Eleven minutes
Eight minutes
Four minutes (the short one)
Total: exactly 38 minutes.
You hover over the phone button, like a bomb disposal expert defusing an explosive.
But it’s no use: the device goes off anyway.
The first message doesn’t really feel like a voice note, more like Episode One of Luana’s Plants—a podcast rather than a message.
Because Luana has a passion for flowers, and she wants you to share her bucolic love. While you don’t have any of it.
You’re allergic to pollen, but it doesn’t matter: Luana wants to involve you in everything. Absolutely everything, without any summarizing.
A preamble about azaleas, about leaves “that speak to her,” about soil moisture that “you just can’t feel like that.”
You listen.
Because, they say, it’s good practice.
In the second and third messages, her boyfriend enters the scene, “he doesn’t understand my need to repot.”
In the fifth, Luana abruptly changes the subject: the store clerk appears, “she doesn’t accept my difficult shoulders.”
Then it goes back to acidic soil, the daisy as a relational symbol, and a series of botanical micro-disasters that verge on Greek tragedy.
Netflix is paused.
Victoria remains motionless on the screen, that fixed look, as if to say:
“Well, you’re just sitting there with a blank stare, but at least comb your hair, for heaven’s sake.”
You keep listening to Luana’s messages.
Because yes, you really care about her.
Luana is a whirlwind, someone you’ll never fully understand, yet you persist in seeing her, and in some way, she’s indispensable.
And deep down, you have so much to say to her too…
But what if she responds…
Another thirteen messages would be impossible to handle.
So you settle for sending her a thumbs up.
You restart Netflix.
And there he is: David enters.
And Victoria’s gloss is truly stunning.
It’s almost morning now.
Time to start all over again.