Babe, I Did Brazil
by Mirela Lousada
High above Milan, the light was golden, the setting was perfect—but the energy? Off. Luckily, Mirela Lousada doesn’t wait for magic. She makes it.
I swear to God, if I hear one more photographer say “give me something raw,” I might raw-chop them in the throat.
We were on the rooftop of this bougie hotel in Milan, shooting some swimwear campaign that had to pop. The models were flawless, obviously. But tired. Pretty like a still life. Gorgeous, but not breathing.
And the photographer—this tall, broody, man-bun situation—was walking around like the light had personally betrayed him.
You should know, I can’t stand a vibe that flat. It’s like dancing to a song with no bass.
So while Mr. Angsty Artist fiddled with his filters, I took myself straight to the bar. No asking. No announcing. Just moved there like I owned it.
I found the limes in a fruit tray that looked way too decorative. Grabbed a knife. Rolled up my sleeves—well, metaphorically, I was wearing a backless halter—and got to work.
Muddler. Brown sugar. Cachaça. Ice. Boom.
The bartender blinked at me like, “Ma’am, are you… allowed?”
And I blinked right back like, “I am the party.”
A few minutes later, I’m walking through the set with four fresh caipirinhas in hand like some kind of citrus goddess.
“Hydration, but make it cultural,” I said, passing them out like I was sprinkling miracles.
The effect? Immediate.
The models started laughing. One started dancing—thank you. Another unbuttoned her cover-up with the kind of confidence that makes a camera beg.
And the photographer? Suddenly he looked alive. Like someone had plugged him into the sun.
He caught my eye mid-shoot and mouthed, what did you do?
I just raised my glass. Babe, I did Brazil.
From that point on, it was chaos in the best way. Swimsuits sticking to tanned skin, hair flying, cheeks flushed from lime and liquor and whatever spell I put in that sugar.
The light hit just right—all that buttery gold, sliding over shoulders and collarbones like it was trying to seduce.
He clicked and clicked and clicked, finally getting the “raw” he was begging for, only now it came with smiles and sweat and hips that didn’t lie.
When the shoot wrapped, the team clapped like they’d won something. The models kissed me like I was their sun goddess. One literally said, “Mirela, you should charge extra for the vibe.”
And then… it was quiet.
The city buzzed below. The wind flipped my hair in that perfect “not trying but looking hot anyway” kind of way.
I was cleaning up my lime crime scene when I realized the photographer was still there. Just standing by the bar, sipping whatever was left in his glass, watching me with that lazy, unreadable expression that men only do when they’re either in love or extremely confused.
“Those drinks were dangerous,” he said.
I wiped my hands on a napkin. “So am I.”
He laughed. Finally. “You planned that, didn’t you?”
I smiled. “If I say yes, do I lose the magic?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “You become the magic.”
Okay. He earned a kiss for that one.
So I gave him one.
Right there, golden light kissing our skin, the rooftop empty except for us and two melting glasses.
His lips tasted like lime and surprise. My hand was still sticky with sugar, but I didn’t care.
It wasn’t a fireworks kiss. It was softer. Slower. Like we both knew we didn't need to rush.
But when we pulled apart he looked stunned—in that, how did I just get seduced by a girl holding a lime wedge, kind of way.
Then he lifted his camera. “One more?”
I posed without thinking—leaned back against the bar, drink in one hand, the other in my hair, smile just barely there.
Click.
“That one’s mine,” I said.
He just nodded, like yeah, obviously.
I walked down those stairs like I had sunlight in my veins.
Because I did.
That, and his number in my phone.
A Brazilian muse in Milan, Mirela lives for the rhythm of fashion shows and midnight drives. Her series, Milan Couture, is a diary of beauty and chaos — glamorous on the surface, fiercely vulnerable underneath. Every page she writes feels like a backstage secret whispered in the dark. Follow Mirela on Instagram and TikTok.