Eva Dias Costa

Eva Dias Costa

I’ve spent years writing under structure. This is where the structure slips.

📍 Based in Porto, Portugal. https://evadiascosta.carrd.co/

I Knew It Wasn’t Ours

We bought it again, though no one had asked me. The car was waiting under a streetlamp, its paint too blue, kept somewhere too clean for memory. You said it was the same one. I nodded, but something in its face had changed – too smooth, forgetting how to age. We

Entry 2: Things That Surprisingly Did Help (Briefly):

“Not healing. Just friction management.” – marginalia on a form marked VOID Closing the door. Not metaphorically. Literally. Writing a to-do list that included “burn everything” and then doing one actual task. Letting the email rot. Dog videos. But only the ones where the dogs ignore everyone. Saying “no” out loud

Entry 1: Things That Did Not Make Me Stronger:

“The strength you admire in others is usually a form of damage management. We are not fine. We are just well catalogued.” – from an unfilled memo, author unknown Crisis. Apparently, it builds character. It mostly builds invoices. Taking the high road. Very scenic. Very unpaid. Having “potential.” The unpaid internship

#23. Pending Adjustment to Gravity.

(Circulation: Level 2 and above only — do not affix to public boards) To all relevant occupants, systems, and structural participants: Please be advised that a temporary gravitational adjustment is scheduled for implementation at an unspecified time. This will occur without warning, explanation, or regard for previous trajectories. Anticipated effects include

#20. Protocol Breach at 07:41.

(Excerpted Log – Partial Reconstruction) 07:38 – Doors confirm closure. 07:39 – Wind direction logged as “ambivalent.” 07:40 – Subject B reports “a feeling like being misfiled.” 07:41 – [DATA CORRUPTED] 07:42 – Someone says, “I think we’re still inside the metaphor.” 07:43 – Power stable. Lights dim of their

#19. Eligible.

The weather had been strange for weeks. No patterns, only habits. Chairs inching away from desks. Books returning to the wrong shelves. Time arriving early and leaving before the second act. She told no one. Dressed for several climates at once: boots and silk, umbrella and sunglasses. Her bag heavier

#18. The Moon Resigned.

She said she was tired of supervising tides and poetry. Said every wolf's howl felt like a performance. Said lovers don’t write any more — they outsource. She left a note carved into the back of a mirror: “I was never a muse. You just needed a quiet

#14. The Automated Grief.

They told her the lighthouse had been automated. But every night, the beam blinked once in Morse code – just the letter M. No one else noticed. She began blinking back from her window, out of courtesy. By August, the entire bay was answering. Boats turned in circles. Maps had to

#16. Cold Storage.

The fridge had a second compartment she hadn’t noticed before. It was behind the cheese drawer, and cold in a different way – not temperature, but tone. Inside were small Tupperware boxes, each labelled with a date that hadn’t happened yet. She opened one and found a conversation, perfectly

#17. A PhD in Code-Switching for Hostile Space.

The university had a department no one could find on the map. Students were sometimes enrolled by mistake. The syllabus contained only questions that had already ruined someone’s life. Exams were silent and self-administered. Those who passed were sent a certificate printed on edible rice paper, which they were

No gods, no newsletters.
We do not interrupt by email.

Unless otherwise stated, all content on this site is © 2024–2025 Eva Dias Costa and licensed under Creative Commons Attribution–NonCommercial–NoDerivatives 4.0 International .