When we pulled up to the school on Friday morning, I was hit with a strange sight: nearly the entire façade of the building was plastered with large, brightly colored posters for Headmistress Valderrama’s anti-drug campaign. Bold slogans, dramatic graphics, and even QR codes were slapped across the walls, windows, and courtyard pillars. Juan Camilo let out a low sigh and muttered, "Ay no… that’s a bad idea. The cartels are not gonna like this kind of provocation and attention."
I shrugged. “What are they gonna do, send angry letters?”
As I made my way toward the school entrance, I glanced back and noticed Juan Camilo talking to a group of other drivers and bodyguards. They were all staring and pointing at the posters, their faces serious and tense. One of them pointed at the main entrance banner, and the others nodded grimly. Yeah, they didn’t look thrilled.
Still, I had more important things on my mind — like the amazing weekend ahead of me.
Yeison was the first to find me in the courtyard. He walked up with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a hopeful grin. "I bring extra clothes and my toothbrush so that we can go to your house right after class, está bien? I live very far from the school.”
"Sounds perfect," I replied. We talked for a few minutes about our favorite shows, and I found myself getting more excited about our sleepover. Yeison had an easy vibe about him, and honestly, it was nice to hang out with someone who didn’t make me feel like I had to be anything other than myself. We were gonna have fun. And if not, I could always resort to Grindr.
Then I spotted Zack across the courtyard, waving at me. I excused myself from Yeison and jogged over.
"Did you see all those posters?" Zack asked the moment I reached him.
"Yeah, of course. Hard to miss," I said, slightly out of breath. “My driver was talking with all the other drivers and bodyguards about that this morning. You think it’s bad?”
"Dude, it’s going to piss off the cartels. Seriously. I heard my driver talking to someone this morning — he said they already noticed."
"That’s what Juan Camilo said, too," I admitted. "But honestly, why should I care? I don’t do drugs, not even pot. So, what does it matter to me?"
Zack looked around nervously before leaning in. "It’s not about you, Hunter. It’s about what could happen around you. This school’s full of rich kids. Important families. Some of them are probably connected. These posters could make things… tense."
I didn’t have a great answer to that, so I just nodded. It wasn't like I could take the posters down myself. Plus, we had armed security guards. What could happen?
The school day crawled by. Every class seemed to drag on forever, and to make things worse, the teachers all decided that Friday was a great day to pile on the homework. My Colombian History class was the worst; it was all about some big disagreement between Bolívar, Colombia's founder, and some dude named Santander. Still, I reminded myself I’d have Sunday free to knock it all out. The weekend was waiting, and I was not going to let math problems ruin it, especially when there may be sex involved, and it had been a good long time since I’d gotten my dick wet.
When the final bell rang, I grabbed my things and bolted for the front gates. Yeison was already waiting, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, rocking a pair of aviators like he was stepping out of a telenovela. I told him to hold up for a second while I ran to find Zack.
"See you tomorrow morning?" I said, panting slightly.
Zack had a big grin on his face. "You bet! And hey — text me if plans change, yeah?"
"For sure."
I sprinted to the parking lot just in time to catch Miguel heading for his car.
"Hey! I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon, okay?"
He turned, and when he saw me, his expression was unreadable. “Sure, whatever.”
I tried to ignore it. The truth was, we were probably too different to even be friends. He was all about the Medellín party scene — which held zero appeal for me given its wild and crazy reputation — and his constant mood swings weren’t helping his case. I’d seen him act like a total jerk at lunch again today: he chucked a soccer ball at some kid’s face, then yanked another kid’s blazer and tossed it into the courtyard fountain. He and his crew thought it was hilarious. It was like there were two versions of him — one sweet and a little shy, the other an immature asshole. And honestly, I didn’t need people like that in my life, not if I was trying to make some changes in my own life and how I treated people.
On the ride home, Juan Camilo kept Yeison hooked with stories from his stint near Cali — jungle raids, ambushes, long nights chasing cartel crews and guerrillas. Yeison leaned in, enthralled. I’d never realized Juan Camilo was such a badass; I’d figured he was just some fat old cop stuck babysitting me.
“And now?” Yeison asked. “Is the danger the same?”
Juan Camilo nodded. “Fewer explosions, fewer bullets. Smaller ops — but the same blood, the same corruption. The cartels are scattered now, more numerous and more clever. They slip past the authorities, and the current government doesn’t make them a priority. That’s a recipe for trouble.”
“Sounds exciting,” Yeison said. “I’ve seen pandilleros fight in my neighborhood, but never anything like that.”
Juan Camilo shook his head. “No, mijo. It’s not exciting. Thousands have died — too many police, too many niños. We lost generations. Colombia’s beautiful, but we’re still fixing what was broken. It’ll take generations, and we need governments that fight corruption. I don’t have much confidence — people keep electing the same rich old men getting richer while the poor go hungry.”
When we pulled into the compound, Doña Susana greeted us with a plate of fried plantains, mozzarella sticks, guacamole, and hogao sauce. The smell alone was enough to make my mouth water.
While Yeison changed in my room, Juan Camilo pulled me aside. "Mr. Hunter… three boys in one weekend? Is this… a strategy?"
I gave him an exasperated look. "They’re not dates. I’m just trying to make friends."
"Mmmhmm," he said, raising one eyebrow. "But be careful. Colombian boys can get very jealous. Dramatic. Possessive. Very intense. They’re quick to feel hurt or offended. You’re going to have to get used to that and learn how to avoid the crazy fighting that can happen."
"One of them isn’t even Colombian," I countered. "And they all know about each other. I’ve got this under control. Besides, we don’t even know if any of them are into guys."
Juan Camilo sighed and muttered, "Buena suerte, Mr. Hunter. You will need it."
Maybe I would. But right now, I just wanted a weekend filled with laughter, adventure, and maybe — just maybe — a little bit of innocent flirting … or something.
***
I broke up with my last boyfriend about a year ago — long before Colombia was even on the map. We met in the GSA at my D.C. school: I’d been out since I was thirteen, determined not to waste the “fun years” hiding. I wanted dances, dates, kissing boys (among other things), the whole teen script.
His name was Rory.
He was a few inches shorter, shiny brown hair brushing his shoulders, hazel eyes that caught the light, an elfin face I teased him about — my “cute little elf.” We were best friends turned first love. We did the city the way kids do: holding hands on the Metro, sneaking kisses between stops, museums and festivals, coffee-shop daydreams about an apartment downtown. In D.C.’s rainbow bubble, nobody bothered us. It felt easy, almost like a promise.
The club scene wasn’t me — too loud, too sweaty, too many “party favors” — so we kept it low-key: quirky LGBTQ+ bookstores, Smithsonian wanderings, legit dumplings in Chinatown, hopping off the Metro to explore a neighborhood just because. That fit us better. We crossed our milestones together and thought we had time.
Then my mom got sick. Rory became the person who made it survivable: hospital waiting rooms, late-night talks, nights he stayed because Dad disappeared into work again. He was the light in a house dimming day by day. The darkness in me didn’t start then, but it got louder — anxiety, guilt, self-doubt. When I slipped, Rory was the one who pulled me back.
And then I wrecked it. Grief twisted into bad choices. I cheated — more than once. He cried; I didn’t. He begged me to call it a mistake; I couldn’t. I watched him come apart and stood there useless. That’s the part I still can’t forgive.
The breakup was messy and final. I told myself I didn’t deserve love and started acting like it: meet, hook up, move on. I wore the emptiness like armor and called it honesty. I became someone I didn’t like and pretended that was the point.
So I brought that version of me to Medellín — busted, half-functioning, swearing off romance, telling myself a little “field research” wouldn’t hurt while I figured out how to be human again. What I really wanted was simpler and harder: to be better. To be the kind of partner who could love right and be worth loving back. Clean slate, no reputation, nobody who knew the old stories. Maybe, if I could keep the darkness from swallowing me, I could try again. And this time, fight for it.
***
With memories of Rory still fresh in my head, I headed to my bedroom, where I found Max sprawled out on the bed and Yeison stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. His only flaw — if you could even call it that — was that he probably could’ve used braces on his upper teeth, but other than that, he was flawless.
I quickly turned around to give him some privacy and wondered if Yeison was going to be another one-night stand, a little sample of the Medellín boys, or if I might end up liking him, maybe end up being real friends.
When I turned back, he was dressed in a knock-off American basketball jersey and matching shorts. And that dimply smile of his? Deadly.
I plopped down on the bed and leaned back. He followed my lead, and we just lay there for a while, chatting about school. He was a junior like me. We swapped opinions on teachers, what we liked to do for fun, and which shows we were currently obsessed with. I was disappointed to hear he liked clubbing and dancing. That was practically an automatic disqualification for me, because I was sure the clubs down here were a million times crazier than the clubs back in D.C.
"I don’t like clubs," I admitted. "Too loud. Too much chaos. I’d rather hang out with one or two people I actually care about."
He nodded, surprisingly thoughtful. "I understand. I go sometimes, but… not often. It’s expensive. And also… not so fun alone."
I glanced at him. "You go alone?"
"Sí. Or with my cousins when we have a little money. But not many close friends. Most of the time, I stay home."
That made me like him even more.
"You don’t have to stop going just because I don’t like it," I said carefully.
"Maybe… but if we are friends, I’d like to spend time with you. I don’t need to go to the clubs."
I asked about his scholarship, and he told me about growing up in Manrique. "It's a poor neighborhood," he said. "Many problems. But they’re good people, too. My mamá cleans houses. My papá works in a parking garage."
"I’d love to see it someday."
He shook his head. "No. Too dangerous for you. Gringos are targets there."
I didn’t push it.
When I asked him why he wanted to be friends with me, he thought for a long time before answering.
"Because you are kind. You listen. And also … you are from abroad. I want to learn everything about other places. Like America. Europe. Maybe one day, I can go there too."
"College in the U.S.?"
"Maybe. I dream big."
"You should."
At around 5:30, Juan Camilo popped in to remind us to get ready for dinner. I’d managed a reservation at an Argentinian steakhouse with outdoor seating right here in El Poblado. I’d learned that Colombian beef was generally terrible, and to make matters worse, they didn’t know how to cook it. But fortunately, there were tons of Argentinian steakhouses around, and they were masters at cooking steak.
Yeison’s eyes widened. "Fancy place? I’ve never gone to someplace like this."
"Then it’s time you try it."
Dinner was amazing. Juan Camilo stood watch outside, arms crossed, while we dined on thick, juicy steaks, buttery empanadas, and lengua a la vinagreta. Yeison declared it the best food he’d ever eaten. I caught him looking around nervously a few times and asked him what was wrong. He said the people there looked at him like he was a prostitute. “Are you serious?” I asked.
“Yes, because of the way I dress, my accent, and I’m here with a gringo. So, they think that,” he explained.
“That’s stupid!” I exclaimed. “Why would a sixteen-year-old boy be paying for a sixteen-year-old prostitute? Sounds more like classism to me than anything else.”
Back at the house, Juan Camilo waved us goodnight and left. We were alone.
It was still pretty early, so I asked Yeison what he wanted to do. He suggested we watch Netflix, which was fine with me, since that would likely lead to the “chill” part.
We each took a shower, and I sprayed on a smidge of cologne, just for good measure. When I got back to the bedroom, Yeison was sitting on the bed, still wrapped in his towel. God, he looked hot.
“Pajamas?” I asked.
He smiled. “I sleep in boxers. Is that okay?”
Was it okay? More than okay.
We slid into bed and kept talking — about his dreams, soccer, music. He looked at me with such sincerity when I spoke, like nothing else mattered.
“I think…” he said softly, “maybe you feel lonely too. Like me. Even when friends are around, I still feel lonely inside.”
I looked at him for a long moment. “Yeah. I get that. More than you know.”
The lights went off, and we lay under the covers, a movie playing. At some point, his foot nudged mine. Then again. A silent question.
I answered. We played footsies until I collapsed half on top of him, breathless with laughter.
“I like this,” he whispered.
“Me too.”
Eventually, we quieted and pretended to continue watching the movie. Just as I was dozing off, he leaned over and kissed my cheek.
“Thank you so much for tonight. I had an amazing time.”
“I’m glad. We should do it again soon.”
He brightened. “Yes! Please.”
I rolled to my side, smiling. And then, slowly, Yeison slid up behind me, bare skin to bare skin, his arm wrapping around my middle. At the moment, I was cursing myself for overeating, because I just didn’t have the energy for sex. But a night sleeping next to a cute, sweet boy wasn’t too bad either. I kinda sorta liked him.
He rested his forehead on my neck and whispered, “You make me feel like I matter.”
In the stillness of the room, with Max softly snoring at our feet and the soft hum of the ceiling fan overhead, I let the warmth of his words sink in.
I didn’t know what to say.
But I knew exactly how he felt.
And that scared me. He was a terrific kid, and I knew I was going to end up hurting him. I always did. I figured I’d try to enjoy it while it lasted.
***
When I woke up on Saturday morning, it was to the warm sensation of Max licking my face. His big tongue was like a sponge across my cheek, and I groaned and pulled the covers up over my head. But there was no escaping him. He was relentless. I peeked out and saw that Yeison was still asleep, his arm draped protectively around my waist, his dark lashes brushing his cheek, lips slightly parted. The morning light filtering through the blinds painted soft stripes across his bare shoulder. I couldn’t remember the last time I slept so well.
I stayed like that for a while, not wanting to move, just absorbing the quiet intimacy of the moment. His steady breathing against my back, the weight of his arm over me, Max curled at our feet — it all felt too perfect to disturb. Part of me wanted to cancel my plans with Zack and just spend the whole weekend naked in bed with Yeison. I stared at him as he slept, completely captivated. "Beautiful" didn’t even begin to cover it. He was radiant, peaceful, and vulnerable in a way I hadn't seen before. It made my heart ache in the best possible way. At least I’d managed not to have sex with him on our first “date,” which felt like personal growth. Still, I knew the drill — it was only a matter of time before the shine wore off, and reality crashed in. I hated thinking that way, but cynicism had basically become my love language.
Eventually, he stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw me watching him, he broke into the biggest, sleepiest grin I'd ever seen. "Buenos días," he whispered, his voice raspy with sleep.
"Buenos días," I whispered back. I reached up and brushed a curl off his forehead.
We stayed like that a while longer, tangled together under the blankets, talking quietly.
I asked him what his favorite part of last night had been.
"This," he said, tightening his arm around me. "Waking up next to you."
I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. He was going to wreck me — gently, sweetly, but completely. It made me feel even worse that, whether it was in two weeks or two months, I would still end up breaking his heart and be alone again. Personally, I’d give it about a month at most, because I really did kind of like him. He was so different than your typical American boy. But then again, there was Miguel, whom I was supposed to hang out with tonight or tomorrow. If he wanted me, I doubted my hormones would be able to say no, and then there would be no shot with Yeison.
Curious, I asked how he’d ended up hanging with Miguel’s group.
He shrugged. "I play fútbol pretty good. Miguel and his friends like to win. So, they let me play with them. But… we are not very close friends. Just like… amigos de partido."
"Soccer buddies."
He nodded. "Yes, that. They go to parties, drink, and look for girls. I go sometimes, but it’s not really my world."
“You mean you don’t like looking for girls? I teased him, poking him in the ribs and making him giggle. “I’d think you’d have a lot of girls interested in you. Do you have any kids out there you haven’t told me about?”
“What do you think?” he asked shyly, suddenly afraid to meet my eyes.
I grinned mischievously. “I think you’d rather look for cute boys … preferably cute gringo boys.”
“Sí,” he said, as he held me tighter.
"Are you out of the closet?” I asked.
He thought for a moment and then answered, “Only my family and closest friends know. They are mostly girls, though. Miguel and the others don’t know. Miguel and his friends are very … uhhh … homofóbico.”
Homophobic. That was interesting, I thought. I knew flirty, and Miguel was definitely flirty with me.
Eventually, Yeison had to start getting ready to head home. He hopped in the shower while I lay back on the bed, while Max curled up beside me. I could hear Yeison singing softly in the bathroom, something melodic and a little sad. It made me smile.
After dressing in a simple T-shirt and jeans, Yeison emerged from the bathroom looking fresh and a little flushed. He brushed his teeth, packed up his bag, and we ordered him an Uber back to Manrique. Juan Camilo and I had plans to pick up Zack, so we couldn’t drive Yeison ourselves.
"Gracias por todo," Yeison said as he stood at the front door, bag over his shoulder.
"Of course," I said. "We’ll do it again. Very soon. And text me or call whenever you want. Seriously. No one ever texts me, and I get so bored at night!"
“Trust me, you’ll make a lot of friends here quickly. Everyone is going to want to be friends with you,” he said, although something about the way he said it sounded a bit melancholic.
He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek again before stepping outside. I watched him go, heart still fluttering a little.
When I went back into the kitchen, I saw Juan Camilo looking at me, shaking his head, and giving me a shit-eating grin. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble, Mr. Hunter.”
“Nothing happened!” I swore. “We just watched a movie and fell asleep. Juan Camilo just rolled his eyes at me.
“I tell you, man, these Colombian boys can be loco. Just be careful,” he said.
I hoped he wasn’t right, although I’d come to trust his judgment implicitly.
Once Yeison was gone, I jumped in the shower myself, using the water to reset and prepare for part two of my weekend. I picked out an outfit: black athletic shorts, a plain black tee, black sneakers, a backwards black baseball cap, and my Oakleys. Medellín might not have been the shorts capital of the world, but it was hot — and I’d seen plenty of locals wearing them, so I figured I could get away with it. I couldn’t stand the damn heat. But at least I was wearing shoes. Apparently, according to Juan Camilo, sandals would really get me in trouble. Go figure.
When Juan Camilo pulled up to Zack’s house, I spotted Zack already waiting on the sidewalk. He was dressed like the perfect suburban honor roll student: button-down plaid shirt, khaki pants, sensible Dockers, and his signature glasses. He looked like a character out of a feel-good Netflix series about wholesome teens — and somehow, it worked for him. Endearing didn’t even begin to describe it. Shame that I had zero interest in him other than friends.
“Hey!” he said brightly, hopping into the back seat.
“Hey yourself,” I replied.
Juan Camilo said we had time for both the Zoo and Pueblito Paisa. We decided to hit the Zoo first before the day got too hot.
The Medellín Zoo — Parque Zoológico Santa Fe — was small, and a little underwhelming by U.S. standards, but clean and surprisingly well-kept. Construction crews were working on new animal habitats, and several of the older enclosures had been recently updated. It wasn’t a thrill-a-minute kind of place, but it had its charm.
We saw spectacled bears, jaguars, lions, tigers, and even the famous hippos descended from Pablo Escobar’s private zoo at Hacienda Napoles, another place I was hoping to visit one day, his former luxury estate. That alone made the trip feel surreal. Zack was especially taken with the native Colombian animals — tapirs, capybaras, ocelots, and strange birds I couldn’t name if my life depended on it. He knew all their names, habits, and conservation statuses.
“Did you know the Andean condor is the national bird of Colombia?” he asked, eyes wide behind his glasses.
“I do now,” I said, smiling.
It wasn’t exactly my favorite topic, but watching him talk about it with such joy made it worth it. I could practically see the light in him when he found something he loved.
Juan Camilo eventually had to drag us away from the reptile house. Zack had discovered a rare snake and was narrating its entire evolutionary history.
Traffic was a nightmare. It seemed like every road in Medellín was under construction or gridlocked. What should’ve been a ten-minute drive to Pueblito Paisa took over 45 minutes. I used the time to scroll through photos on my phone and sneak glances at Zack, who was still bubbling about animals and clutching the stuffed hippo that he bought from one of the street vendors outside the front entrance.
One fun fact I picked up at the zoo was that after Hacienda Nápoles fell, Escobar’s hippos escaped; their descendants now roam free, making Colombia the only country outside Africa with wild hippos. By then, the population was nearing two hundred in the Magdalena basin, a dangerous nuisance that no one agrees on how to handle. A bizarre legacy of Pablo Escobar.
Pueblito Paisa sat atop Cerro Nutibara, a tree-covered hill plopped right in the middle of the city like some oversized bonsai. The “village” itself was straight out of a brochure: a colorful, colonial-style replica complete with cobblestone paths that looked way too scrubbed, a tiny, whitewashed chapel, and souvenir shops overflowing with keychains, coffee mugs, and t-shirts that screamed “I ♥ Medellín.” It was cute, sure — but also kitschy, polished within an inch of its life, like Colombia by way of Epcot. The kind of place where you half-expect a guy in a sombrero vueltiao to start breakdancing for tips.
And yet… the view made up for all of it. From the top, the whole city stretched out in the Aburrá Valley below us, a breathtaking panorama of red brick houses climbing the hillsides, glass towers catching the sun, and emerald folds of the Andes wrapping it all like some massive green hug. Even the smog looked poetic from up there, softened by distance and light. I hated to admit it, but it kind of shut me up for a minute.
Naturally, we went into full tourist mode. Dozens of pictures — selfies in front of the chapel, dramatic scenic shots, artsy angles with the bell tower. I even nailed a cheesy forced-perspective one where it looked like I was holding the entire city in my hand.
The highlight, though, was when we ganged up on Juan Camilo.
“Come on, man, one picture,” I begged.
“I don’t do pictures,” Juan Camilo muttered, dead serious as always.
Zack grinned. “Fine, then do a badass picture.”
Somehow that sold him, because a second later he was rolling his eyes, unholstering his gun, and striking this
over-the-top action pose like a B-movie poster. We all lost it — cracking up so hard the photo came out
blurry.
“Perfect,” I wheezed. “The Terminator: Medellín Edition.”
Juan Camilo just shook his head, holstering the gun again. “Idiotas.” But even he was smiling
a little. Or at least what passed for a smile from Juan Camilo.
It was stupid and reckless and so completely out of place on top of that sanitized little hill — but for a second, it felt like we were just normal kids screwing around.
When we dropped Zack back at his house, he pulled me into a surprisingly tight hug. I could definitely see myself being friends with him, but, fortunately for his sake, I didn’t feel any other kind of attraction.
“Thank you,” he said. “That was honestly one of the best days I’ve had since we moved here.”
I felt a little choked up. “Thanks for being my tour guide.”
“Can we do this again sometime?”
“Absolutely. I hope we’ll be spending a lot more time together. I really need some friends here,” I said.
“Well, consider yourself to have found one, Hunter,” he smiled, before waving goodbye as he disappeared into his house.
After what I’d seen and heard so far, it was undoubtedly a stupid thing to do, but I just couldn’t help myself. So, on the way home, I texted Miguel:
Me: “Done with my plans for today. Wanna hang tonight?”
He replied almost instantly:
Miguel: “Claro! What time and where?”
I showed Juan Camilo the message, and he suggested picking up Miguel at the Metro Station, Estación Aguacatala, located near the southern edge of El Poblado. I sent Miguel the details along with Juan Camilo’s number in case they needed to coordinate.
By the time I got home, I was already wiped out from a long day with Zack and Juan Camilo — zoo animals, a tourist-trap hilltop village, way too many pictures, and more walking than I’d bargained for. Add to that the fact that Yeison had crashed here last night (nothing happened, but still, it left me feeling kind of drained and awkward), and I really just wanted quiet.
Instead, Miguel was coming over now. Miguel, with his “bad boy” and “king of the school” reputation that everyone whispered about, with that mix of charm and danger I couldn’t pin down. We weren’t even really friends yet, and now he was about to spend the night at my house. Part of me was curious, part of me was nervous, and part of me just wanted to lock my door and sleep for twelve hours straight. I kept telling myself to stay on guard, not get pulled in — but underneath that, I already knew I was in trouble.
***
It was nearly 6:30 p.m., and I was pacing around my bedroom, trying not to look at the clock every two seconds. I’d showered, styled my hair just enough to look effortless, and spritzed myself with a bit of cologne — nothing too overpowering, but I’d noticed that all the men here wore cologne, so I probably should, too. Even though we weren’t going out anywhere, I wanted to make a good impression. This was the part of the weekend I was most nervous about. Not because I didn’t want to see Miguel, but because I couldn’t figure him out, other than him being a “pretty asshole.”
He was a mystery. A beautiful, maddening mystery. At school, he was this effortlessly cool guy — popular, flirty, charming, athletic, always at the center of attention. Even the teachers liked him. But I’d also caught glimpses of something deeper, maybe even darker — moodiness, distance, a bad temper, and a wall he put up like he was afraid someone might see past his perfect smile. And there were always the rumors. That he chased girls like it was a full-time job, that he’d already slept with half of the girls in the southern part of the Aburrá Valley. Of course, I’d also seen the episodes of bullying and acting like an entitled, selfish brat who thought he could do anything he wanted because his family was wealthy and donated a lot of money to the school, which also meant virtually no consequences for his bad behavior. Beyond what I’d personally seen, I’d heard a lot more, and it didn’t paint a pretty picture of the kid.
So, what was he doing coming over to hang out with me and spend the night, and why was he so persistent?
Yeison crept into my head uninvited — the sleepy, goofy grin, the way he held me like he didn’t want the moment to end. It made something warm and fragile ache. I didn’t want to mess that up. I wasn’t even sure what “that” was, only that it felt like the start of something real — if I let it. And that was the question.
And just like that, a sharp pang of guilt twisted in my chest.
I dropped onto the bed and buried my face in my hands, trying to smother the tangle of feelings. God, I hated myself sometimes. I didn’t want to be that guy — the screw-up who broke hearts and made promises he never kept — but the shadow kept catching up. And then there was the other side of me: plain horny, eyes glued to every cute boy, zero self-control. Put that together, and Medellín felt like an obstacle course built to watch me crash. Some people come here for adventure; apparently, I was here to see how spectacularly I could wreck myself again.
At 7:00 sharp, I heard the doorbell ring and the front door open.
I stood up and walked out to the living room just as Juan Camilo led Miguel inside. I stopped short.
Whoa.
Miguel looked nothing like the boy from school in his crisp uniform. Tonight, he was all swagger and flash. He wore tight white jeans, spotless designer sneakers, a fitted Armani tee, and a puffy white vest that matched his backward baseball cap and tinted glasses. His overnight bag was Louis Vuitton. Earrings glinted in both ears, and I was betting they were real diamonds. He looked like he belonged on a music video set or stepping out of a luxury SUV in Provenza or La 70.
Max wasn’t nearly as impressed as I was. He gave Miguel’s crotch and ass the usual security check, like he was TSA or something, decided everything was in order, and then strutted back to his bed to crash like nothing happened.
Miguel just looked… incredibly hot. As in, if my mind hadn’t been so messed up, I’d have taken him right there in the foyer, even in front of Juan Camilo. And he would’ve loved it, even if he was straight.
But it was more than just Miguel’s looks. The way he carried himself. The effortless confidence. And yet, there was something muted about him tonight, like someone had turned down the volume on his usual bravado. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
He politely slipped off his shoes — something most Colombians didn’t do — and gave me a quick bro hug.
Juan Camilo raised an eyebrow at me as if asking, You sure you’re good with this? I nodded, trying to look more confident than I felt. He reminded me to call him or the security desk downstairs if I needed anything, then left for the night.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Miguel looked around and said, “Your bodyguard… he’s very protective, no?”
I shrugged. “It’s his job.”
“You must be very important if you have a bodyguard,” he commented. “Most gringos don’t.”
Obviously, I had to try to lie my way out of this one, so I said (partially truthfully), “Well, my dad’s job keeps him away from home a lot, and since I’m a minor, I need someone to look out for me, drive me around, take care of things for me. Just one of the perks of my dad’s job, I guess.”
That seemed to satisfy his curiosity, for now.
I asked what he wanted to do. He just grinned and replied, “Parchar.” He chuckled at my puzzled expression. “It just means to chill. Hang out.”
That I could do.
We headed back to my room, where the biggest TV was, and he tossed his vest, hat, and glasses onto the chair. He flopped onto the bed like he owned the place. I mentioned how different he looked from school.
He smirked. “Fashion’s important. Always gotta look fresh and stylish, especially here. My friends are the same. I even get my hair cut at least once a week.”
Wow, that was impressive. I barely get my hair cut once a month. He did have great hair, though. I loved his dark black curls and kind of wanted to run my fingers through them.
“Yeison’s not like that,” I said without thinking.
He tilted his head. “Yeison? No, he’s… different.”
There was a strange edge to his voice I couldn’t quite place.
Miguel suggested we order some food later and quickly set me up with Rappi on my phone — a delivery app he used all the time to get everything from restaurant meals to groceries and even sneakers dropped right at his door. He clearly lived on this stuff. While I pulled up Netflix, I decided to bring up something he’d said earlier.
“You once told me I didn’t know the real you,” I said, turning toward him. “So… who is the real Miguel?”
The smirk he usually wore faltered, sliding off his face until all that was left was a kind of uncertainty I hadn’t seen before. His eyes stayed glued to the TV, though nothing about his body said he was actually watching it.
“And why should I tell you?” he said after a long pause, his voice lower. “We barely even know each other.”
“You tell me,” I pushed gently. “You’re the one who wanted to be amigos. So why me? I’m not like your other friends. Maybe you wanted something different. Maybe someone you can actually talk to.”
He finally glanced at me, just for a second, then looked away again. “Everyone thinks I’m this stuck-up, arrogant asshole,” he said quietly. “But that’s not really me. I don’t even like the parties half as much as I pretend. I’d rather have a quieter life… less stress, less noise. I just go along with it because people expect me to. Honestly, what I want is to find someone I can actually connect with. Someone I don’t have to fake it around.”
That caught me off guard. “That’s… really not what I expected you to say. And for the record, you don’t seem nervous around me.”
He gave a crooked little laugh. “That’s the funny part. I am. Right now.”
His admission made my heart do a little somersault.
“And it doesn’t bother you that I’m a gringo?” I asked.
He looked at me strangely. “What does that have to do with anything?”
I blushed and shrugged. “I don’t know. Just something I heard.”
He looked annoyed, and I hoped it wasn’t directed at me. “People say a lot of shit about me. Puras pendejadas. Don’t pay any attention to it, please.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
But it still felt like he was hiding something. Perhaps a lot of things.
I let it go, for now.
We put on a movie, and this time there were no casual touches, no flirting — just quiet focus. About halfway through, he asked if we could order sushi. I cringed at the menu but agreed. He even threw in a seaweed salad, “just for fun.”
When it finally showed up, we sat cross-legged on the bed, digging in. He devoured every roll like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. I did my best to keep a straight face, but seriously — mango and cream cheese in sushi?
That wasn’t dinner. That was a war crime.
Then something shifted. We started the second movie, and a while in, I felt the weight of his leg brush against mine, then settle there — tentative, testing. My whole body tensed, nerves firing, but I didn’t move it away. His warmth seeped through the fabric of my jeans. A few minutes later, he edged closer until our shoulders grazed. The contact was subtle, but electric. I tried to keep my breathing steady.
And yet, beneath that flicker of heat, the guilt crept in — thick and sour — mixing with something darker I couldn’t name. Doubt. Suspicion. The sense that Miguel wasn’t the kind of guy I should let myself get tangled up with. That the charm and easy smile were masking something I hadn’t figured out yet. Part of me could imagine hooking up with him, sure. But anything beyond that? It felt reckless. Dangerous. Still, curiosity wouldn’t let me look away.
I let my voice slip out low, careful. “Is there something else people don’t know about you?” I asked, eyes fixed on the screen.
He froze. The movie kept playing, flickering light across his face, but he wasn’t watching anymore. His leg pressed a little harder against mine, like he needed the anchor. His hand tightened on his knee.
Then, with a quick, almost panicked movement, he grabbed the remote and hit pause.
Silence stretched, heavy and charged. I could hear the faint hitch in his breathing, could feel the tension radiating from him where our bodies touched.
Finally, in a voice that barely cleared the space between us, he said, “I like boys. I’m gay.”
The words hung there, fragile and raw, as if he said them too loudly, they might shatter him. I turned toward him slowly. He wasn’t looking at me — his eyes were fixed on the dark screen, as if afraid of what he’d see in mine.
I laid a hand gently on his shoulder, feeling him flinch under my touch before he relaxed into it. “Does anyone else know?”
His head moved in the slightest shake. “No. No one. Not my friends. Not my family. If my papá found out…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “He would kill me. Please don’t tell anyone. It would ruin everything.” I placed my hand on his shoulder as a gentle show of comfort. He flinched at first but didn’t move away.
I let my hand fall from his shoulder, but I couldn’t help asking, “Why me? I mean… we barely even know each other. Why tell me?”
He shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between me and the darkened TV. “Because you’re not like most of my other friends. You don’t expect me to be the loud guy, or the tough guy, or the one who’s always joking around. You actually listen. And… you’re not part of my world, so it feels safer somehow. Like you won’t use it against me.”
He hesitated, chewing at his lip, then added softly, “And maybe… maybe I just wanted you to know.” His gaze flicked to mine for a heartbeat before dropping again, leaving me to wonder if there was more hiding in that pause than he dared to say.
The thought that he might like me floored me. But I still had more questions. Many more. I asked him about all the girls he’d supposedly been with and the talk of him being homophobic.
“Just for show,” he said. “Sometimes I even had to… fuck them. So, no one would suspect. But not that many, not like the rumors say. There were just a few at parties. And I sometimes act homophobic for the same reason. I’ve even beaten a few people up for being gay or acting too afeminado.”
My stomach churned. “Have you ever been with a guy?”
He nodded his head. “Sí, a few times. But nothing serious.”
“Again … why me?”
He finally looked at me, then shrugged. “I like gringos. Blond hair. Blue eyes. But more than that… you seem kind and sensitive. You seem like a good person. And I want to learn more about the world, more than just Colombia. And, I guess, I’m attracted to you, too.”
I’d definitely heard that last part before — Yeison had said almost the exact same thing. It seemed to be a common theme here: a hunger to learn about the world beyond Colombia, knowing most would never get the chance to leave. Miguel, though, was different. With his family’s money, he could probably travel or study abroad anytime he wanted, if he wanted to. I wondered why he didn’t just do that. He could start applying to U.S. universities very soon. I decided not to push him any further on that, though. That would be another conversation for another day. And I hoped there would be more days and more conversations. Because I kind of liked him, too, and I had no idea why.
It hit me harder than I expected when he said he thought I was a “good person.” I didn’t feel like one. Not after Rory. Not after all the other reckless, selfish crap I’d pulled. And definitely not after this… whatever this thing with Miguel was becoming — especially with Yeison having just slept over the other night, and me pretty sure I liked him, too. The guilt crawled all over me, sharp and suffocating, like I was piling mistakes on top of mistakes.
And yet, in the middle of that spiral, what I felt most was the ache. I wanted to call Rory. Or text him. Anything. I missed him more than I wanted to admit — missed the way he could untangle the knots in my head just by listening, missed the steady calm he carried that I never seemed to find in myself. But the thought of unloading all this on him now felt brutal, like dragging him back into a mess he didn’t deserve. Like stabbing another knife in his back and then daring to ask him to pull it out for me.
Without thinking, I pulled Miguel into a hug. At first, he was stiff, caught off guard, but then he collapsed into me, arms locking tight around my back. He clung to me like he was drowning, like I was the only solid thing left in his world. His breath was hot against my neck, uneven, trembling.
And that’s when it hit me — the jolt. A spark, sharp and undeniable, shot through me at the feel of his body pressed so close. It wasn’t just comfort anymore; it was something dangerous, magnetic. My pulse jumped, and suddenly I was hyperaware of everything — the heat of him against my chest, the grip of his hands in my shirt, the way he held me like he’d never let go.
I loved it. God, I loved it. The rush, the closeness, the sense that maybe he needed me as much as I needed him. But it scared the hell out of me, too. Because I knew what this meant, even if I didn’t want to admit it. It wasn’t just a hug. It was the beginning of something I wasn’t sure I could stop — or survive.
That hug was where it all began with Miguel — the quiet spark that would grow into something vast and consuming. From there, I was drawn into a love unlike anything I’d ever known, one that lifted me to impossible heights and dragged me into depths I could barely survive. He wasn’t just another boy; he was gravity itself, pulling me into his orbit, impossible to resist. Miguel — my sweetest addiction, my elusive drug.
And yet, even in that first moment, I sensed how it all seemed destined to play out. How this wasn’t some fleeting crush, but the beginning of a serious romance that could change everything. That knowledge terrified me. I’d reached the zenith once before, and the fall had nearly destroyed me. To risk climbing that high again — to love so completely and then lose — it felt like something that could kill me this time.
So, I told myself the safest thing, the only thing I could do for my own sanity, was to hold back. To not get too close. Not yet. But the spark had already caught, and some part of me knew it was only a matter of time before resistance gave way to fire.
After a while, I eased back, my chest tight, the words catching in my throat. “Miguel… I don’t know if we’re a good match. Romantically, I mean. You’re still figuring yourself out, and I’ve always thought I needed someone who’s already out, you know? Someone who’s… sure. And I’ve messed things up before, badly, and I don’t want to do that again. And then there’s the partying and all the fashion and stuff — you live for that, and me? That’s just not my world.”
I hesitated, realizing even as I said it that I didn’t sound convinced, probably because I wasn’t. “I just… I’m not sure it would work. More than friends, I mean.”
The words felt final, but the way they sat in my mouth — they didn’t feel like the whole truth.
He looked devastated. “But I could change. For you.”
I shook my head, my voice quiet but firm. “It doesn’t work like that. And don’t change for me. If you ever change… do it for yourself.”
The shimmer in his eyes broke me. I could see the tears forming, and every part of me hated myself for being the reason they were there.
Eventually, we decided to call it a night. He peeled off his clothes until he was down to his boxers, and I had to force myself to look away. God, he was stunning — his body, his skin, his face — it almost felt unfair, like some cruel trick.
But when he asked me to hold him, I couldn’t say no.
I slipped in behind him, wrapping my arms around his torso, my bare chest against the smooth warmth of his back. I pressed a few soft kisses against the nape of his neck before I could stop myself.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For not laughing. For holding me. You are a good person, whether you believe it or not. I will never forget how this feels, this moment.”
“Me too,” I murmured back, as I felt the tears welling up in my eyes now, too.
After that … silence. Just his breathing, steady and fragile, like he was clinging to it.
It had been one hell of a weekend, and my mind was spinning to keep up. I’d met some genuinely good people, and yeah, Yeison and Miguel were both ridiculously hot. Honestly, I was proud of myself for not having sex with either of them on the first date. That had to count for something, right? Still, a knot twisted in my chest. Would things be awkward with Miguel at school now? That familiar voice in the back of my head was already stirring, whispering doubts, planting guilt. For the first time since I’d arrived in Colombia, I could feel it again — the darkness — creeping back in like a fog. I didn’t know how long it would stay this time, or how bad it might get. And the thought of it swallowing me again terrified me.
It took me a long time to fall asleep that night. And still, one thought kept circling, refusing to let go: no matter what excuses I told myself, no matter how many reasons I gave for keeping my distance, this wasn’t the end with Miguel. It couldn’t be. This was only just the beginning. Because that was how it was supposed to be with us, I just knew — even from the start. I would pull away, convince myself it was safer not to feel, and yet he would draw me back in. A magnet I couldn’t resist. A fire I couldn’t stop circling. And deep down, I already knew that push and pull between us was only just beginning.
Copyright © 2025 Little Buddha
Posted 13 December 2025