The school week dragged on like a sentence I didn’t remember being convicted for. Every class, every lunch break, every half-hearted joke with my friends felt like wading through syrup. The worst part was knowing I was the one making things weird.
We still met up in the courtyard every morning, under the same tall, wind-worn tree that had become our little sanctuary. But the energy was different now. Zack was still his quiet, perceptive self, sketching silently while watching everyone with those laser-beam eyes that made you feel seen in a way you didn’t always want. Ricardo and Carlos played their usual game of juggling the soccer ball, laughing and showing off with the low-stakes swagger of boys who knew they were good at something. Yeison would often join in, that perfect grin stretched across his face — but even that felt thinner now, like he was trying too hard. I knew the feeling. Ferney also joined them from time to time, but he still hadn’t given up on his other group of friends, so we only saw him about half the time.
And then there was me. Laughing at the right moments, saying the right things. Giving Yeison the hello-and-goodbye kiss like it was part of some unspoken agreement. But lately it felt more like a performance than a relationship. A ritual we both went through because we didn’t know how not to.
I hated myself for it. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was still the “perfect boyfriend.”
It was all me and whatever mental shit I was going through, that was tearing me apart from the inside.
Since Sunday, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Miguel. Not in the hearts-and-flowers kind of way (okay, maybe a little). It was messier than that. It was the way he made me feel—seen, understood, dangerous, wanted. Since our “non-date” in El Retiro, we’d been texting frequently. Nothing steamy. Just dumb teenage stuff: memes, music, photos of ugly shoes in store windows, endless questions about American vs. Colombian culture. But every now and then he’d slip in something that twisted my stomach, like “Missed you today” or “Wish we could hang out again soon.”
And then there was the other thing. The thing that had everyone whispering at school. Miguel had changed. He wasn’t the swaggering terror of the courtyard anymore. I’d seen him step in — actually step in — to stop his own friends from picking on smaller kids. No one could believe it. The same guy who used to lead the charge was now pulling them back with a sharp word or a glare. It didn’t mean he’d flipped a complete 180. He was still brash, arrogant, rude, and quick to mouth off. But less. Noticeably less. Enough that people were talking.
And that’s where my head wouldn’t shut up. Part of me swelled with pride, like I’d been the one to crack through his armor, like I was seeing a version of Miguel no one else got. But the other part kept whispering that it could all be bullshit, a mask he put on when it suited him. I didn’t know which possibility scared me more: that he was faking it, or that maybe I actually did have that kind of power over him.
I didn’t think I was in love with him. But I didn’t know what I felt. Because I did feel something. And that spooked me.
Because while I was drifting toward Miguel, I was lying to Yeison. Constantly.
I told him I was buried in homework. That my dad was around, and I needed to spend time with him. That Juan Camilo needed me to run errands. None of it was true. The truth was, I was avoiding him. Avoiding the guilt. Avoiding having to look into those big, trusting eyes and lie, because something had changed with us ever since I started hanging out with Miguel. Well, even before that, to be honest.
And then, of course, I was pissed — at my dad, at Juan Camilo, at both of them. None of this would’ve happened if they had just let me be a kid instead of dragging me into their secret little mission to dig up intel on Miguel and his father. If they hadn’t pulled me into their mess, I wouldn’t be stuck in this tangle of doubts. I’d still dislike Miguel. My life would’ve gone on, complicated but manageable. Normal.
But now everything was screwed up. Twisted.
To make matters worse, the only thing that actually helped quiet my mind was swimming laps at the pool. Just water, rhythm, and breath — no thoughts, no noise. But almost every time I went, Daniel was there. Sometimes alone, sometimes surrounded by his friends, always with those piercing blue eyes and that stupidly gorgeous smile. And always flirting. Still propositioning me, bold as hell, like he already knew I’d break sooner or later. Sometimes he did it right in front of his friends, which made my pulse race even harder.
And the truth was, I wanted it. Badly. Every time he caught my eye, every time his voice curled around another invitation, something inside me leaned toward him. Even though I knew how it would end: empty, meaningless, not even the possibility of friendship. Just another notch in the endless cycle of mistakes, another reason to hate myself in the morning. That should’ve been enough to shut it down. But it wasn’t.
Every lap I swam, I felt the fight slipping out of me, piece by piece. And in those darker moments, when I let myself imagine giving in, it almost felt like relief — like surrender would be easier than holding on. I told myself I’d already screwed everything else up, so why not screw him too? And the worst part was, a piece of me was starting to believe it.
On Wednesday, after chemistry class, Mr. Gutierréz called me over. I groaned internally. I didn’t need a teacher heart-to-heart. I just wanted to go home and disappear into a playlist.
"Hunter," he said, leaning against the front of his desk, arms crossed, voice calm but firm. "Are you okay?"
I shrugged. "Yeah. Just tired."
He raised an eyebrow. "Tired is one thing. You haven’t said a word in the lab all week. You’re usually the one asking the most questions. And I noticed you eat lunch like you’re trying to disappear. You don’t have the same sense of humor or the same — how do you say — snark. Even the other teachers have commented."
Great. Now the teachers were all talking about me behind my back.
I shifted my weight awkwardly. "I’m fine, really. Just kind of… distracted … with stuff. Lots of schoolwork."
He nodded slowly. "Sometimes, what’s going on inside matters more than test scores. And right now, I see someone who's struggling. You don’t have to tell me what it is. But don’t isolate yourself, Hunter. We’re not meant to deal with everything alone. I’m here to help. You can also schedule an appointment with the school’s psychiatrist, Dr. Montoya. He’s very good."
I nodded, just to get out of there, and muttered a half-hearted thanks. But his words stuck with me more than I wanted to admit.
Thursday afternoon, Yeison pulled me aside before we all left for the day. He waited until we were behind one of the stone columns, out of view from the others.
"You still coming to Manrique on Sunday, ¿cierto? To meet my parents?"
I nodded too fast. "Por supuesto. Definitely."
His expression didn’t change. He just looked at me, quietly, like he was trying to read something written behind my eyes. "You’ve been acting… raro lately. Like you’re here, but not really. Are you mad at me? Did I do something to upset you or offend you?"
That hit like a punch. I couldn’t ever imagine being mad at Yeison. He was too sweet. I forced a smile. "No, no, I’m not mad. Just… I have a lot on my mind. It’s complicated."
"Is it me?" he asked, stepping closer. His voice was soft, unsure. That was the worst part — he genuinely didn’t know. He really believed it might be his fault.
I shook my head, but it felt hollow. "No. It’s not you. I promise. You’ve been absolutely perfect. You’re a great boyfriend."
I tried faking a smile, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes.
He hesitated, then asked: "Do you still love me?"
Time stopped for a brief moment. I felt it — the pause that said everything. I should’ve answered faster, should’ve reassured him instantly. But I didn’t. Instead, I reached up and kissed the side of his neck, held him tightly, whispered, "I do. Of course I do. You’re just thinking too much. No seas así, bebé."
He let out a slow breath and rested his head on my shoulder. "Okay… can I stay over Saturday night? Then we go together to Manrique?"
I nodded again. My mouth said yes, but my chest screamed no.
“Just think about what you want to do on Saturday and let me know,” I told him.
“Sí, I have some ideas,” he said, smiling.
That smile still got me every time. It was warm, familiar, safe — and for a second, I felt this aching sense of clarity. Maybe this was the moment I was supposed to choose. To finally let go of the past and commit to what was right in front of me. Yeison. The one who treated me well. The one who didn’t make love feel like a battlefield … or a game. He accepted me for who I was, or at least who he thought I was. One day, though, I knew that secrets would come out. Secrets that he may not be able to handle.
But for now, he gave me stability. Real, grounding, peaceful stability. And I knew, deep down, that was something I desperately needed. Something I’d never really had. But despite his many good points, I just wasn’t feeling it, and I knew I couldn’t force it or fake it just because I should. I had to be true to myself … even if my “self” was in question.
But Miguel…
I still felt like I barely knew him. We’d never spent a good few hours just talking about ourselves to each other, learning about each other. But Miguel was wildfire. Reckless and magnetic. He made my heart race for all the wrong reasons — and yet, I couldn’t shake the way he looked at me, like I was important to him. Like he saw through me and didn’t run. He brought chaos, yes, but also his own brand of softness — unexpected moments of tenderness that snuck past my defenses. A playful smirk, a hand brushing against mine, a look that said more than any words ever could.
It wasn’t just about danger. It was about the way he made me feel. The rush, the craving, the way everything came alive when he was near.
And that was the problem.
Yeison made me feel safe. Miguel made me feel everything.
And I had no idea which feeling I trusted more.
And then Friday happened.
I had just gotten home, flopped onto my bed, and was about to disappear into TikTok when my phone rang. Not buzzed. RANG.
Miguel.
"You’ve been acting weird, like your mind is in a million different places," he said without hello. "So tonight, we’re fixing that. I’m picking you up at 8. Be ready."
I sat up, heart pounding. "I don’t know if I should… I’ve got—"
"No, you don’t," he interrupted. "Don’t lie to me. We’re just going to eat. Talk. Chill. That’s all. You need it. I need it. Come on."
I hesitated. Then gave in. Because he was right. I did need something. I just didn’t know what. And I wanted to see him. Badly.
It also didn’t escape my notice that he could tell that something was going on with me, and he cared enough to try to do something about it.
When I hung up, I stared at the phone for a long time. I hated who I was becoming. I hated that I was lying to someone who loved me … again. And I hated that the only person who made me feel anything right now was someone I wasn’t supposed to want. That for a long time, I would never have even considered wanting, because by all measures, he was just an arrogant asshole and bully, who even the teachers and administration at school didn’t dare cross, or so it seemed.
I messaged Juan Camilo to let him know I was going out with Miguel. He just replied: "Be smart. Be safe. Helmet on. Call me if you need me."
As I waited for 8 o’clock, I couldn’t stop pacing around my room. I was a tornado of anxiety and guilt and anticipation, all balled up inside my ribcage. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing anymore.
All I knew was that tonight, I was going to put on the helmet, get on the bike, and hope the wind in my face would blow some of this confusion away.
Except I already knew it wouldn’t.
Because the thing I needed to outrun wasn’t out there in the streets of Medellín.
It was inside me.
And it had been catching up for a long time.
***
I heard the low rumble of Miguel's motorcycle pulling up outside right at eight o’clock, as promised. The sound was so distinct that it made my chest flutter before I even reached the window. When I looked down, there he was — dressed in jeans, a soft gray hoodie, a backward baseball cap, and sunglasses, even though it was already dark. The chill in the evening air didn’t seem to bother him. Somehow, dressed down like that, he looked even hotter — less polished, less cocky, more real. That dangerous, messy kind of beautiful.
He glanced up toward my window and flashed me a grin. I grabbed my phone and keys and hurried downstairs, heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in days. Max barked as I slipped out the front door, tail wagging wildly behind him as if he knew I was up to something.
Miguel handed me the spare helmet without a word, and I climbed on behind him. The second my arms circled his waist, something inside me locked back into place, like I’d been missing a piece and had just found it again. I leaned forward until my chest pressed against his back, breathing in the faint mix of soap, leather, cologne, and gasoline that clung to him.
The engine roared to life with a deep, hungry growl that rattled through the frame and straight into me. The vibrations buzzed up through my thighs, shivered into my chest, and set every nerve on edge. Heat from the exhaust licked at my calves, the smell of burning fuel sharp in the cool night air. I squeezed tighter around him as the bike trembled beneath us, dangerous and alive, like a caged animal straining to run.
And in that moment, with my heartbeat syncing to the pulse of the machine, it was the most alive I’d felt in a long time.
The ride to Parque Lleras wasn’t long, maybe fifteen minutes max, but I was already mourning the end of it by the time he pulled into a small parking lot. I reluctantly let go as he parked the bike and pulled off his helmet. The air smelled like motor oil, grilled meat, and marijuana.
As soon as I stepped off, I understood why this place had such a sketchy reputation. The park was alive, but not in the charming, vibrant way other parts of Medellín were.
This was raw, almost feral.
We had barely snapped the lock on the motorcycle when two morenas swooped in on us — prostitutes with cartoonishly oversized breasts and asses stuffed into skin-tight bodysuits that looked spray-painted on, each of them working a lollipop like it was part of the act. They hadn’t even opened their mouths before Miguel cut them off with a quick, practiced “Gracias,” and a flick of his hand, shooing them away like stray cats. I just stood there, frozen and awkward, my face burning. I had no idea where to look — at them, at Miguel, at the ground — so I settled on the pavement and hoped they hadn’t noticed how uncomfortable I was.
Parque Lleras turned out to be smaller than I’d imagined for such a notorious and popular place — just a tight square of brick terraces shaded by trees, more like a plaza than a park. The whole thing couldn’t have been more than a block across, and yet it pulsed with energy, hemmed in on all sides by nightclubs and restaurants stacked shoulder to shoulder. The latest reggaetón and electronic beats blasted from every doorway, the bass thumping through the ground under my shoes, while neon lights flickered against the branches overhead.
“Is this where you come to dance?” I asked, raising my voice over the pounding bass and shouts from the clubs crowding the park.
“Sometimes,” Miguel said, flashing me that reckless grin. “I’m colombiano, we love to dance!”
I narrowed my eyes. “We’re not going clubbing tonight, are we?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “No, tranquilo. I know you don’t like those places. Just wait and see.”
Relief slipped out in a sigh, but I barely had time to enjoy it before Miguel suddenly leaned close and shouted, “Kiss me!”
I blinked. “What?”
“I said kiss me now!” His voice was sharp, urgent, eyes locked on mine.
“Seriously?” My eyebrow shot up. We were supposed to be in “friends” mode, and Yeison was still technically my boyfriend, and this was—
Before I could finish unraveling the reasons why this was a terrible idea, Miguel’s hand clamped around the back of my neck and pulled me in. His mouth hit mine with heat and certainty, his tongue pushing past my lips, and my brain short-circuited. My body chose for me — I moaned, clutching his hoodie in my fists and dragging him closer, deeper.
The kiss couldn’t have lasted more than fifteen seconds, but it felt endless, electric, like the whole night had narrowed down to just his mouth and mine. When he finally pulled away, my lips were tingling, my chest heaving, and the ground felt unsteady under my feet.
Miguel just stood there smirking, the lights of Parque Lleras flashing across his face.
“Loosen up, baby!” he shouted over the music. “This is Colombia!”
Once I got myself somewhat back together, I noticed that even though it wasn’t that late, there were already prostitutes everywhere. Women with towering heels and surgically inflated curves leaning into passing cars, boys with wiry bodies and tired eyes perched on benches, and trans girls reapplying their lipstick under flickering streetlights. Some of them looked painfully young, too young to be there. My stomach turned. Others looked like they had seen and done some unspeakable things.
As I kept taking in the chaos around me — the flashing lights, the pulse of bass from every doorway — I felt Miguel’s arm slide casually across my shoulders. Loose, effortless, like it belonged there. Without even thinking, my body tilted toward him, drawn by his warmth, until we fit together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And then there were the gringos. Dozens of them. Loud, drunk, stumbling out of overpriced clubs and bars and puking into the gutter, some arm-in-arm with the same prostitutes who had just propositioned us. We must’ve been asked a dozen times if we were “looking for a good time.” A few of the boys who asked weren’t bad-looking, but they were dirty, hollow-eyed, and clearly using. It killed any flicker of attraction instantly.
All the while, bored-looking cops lounged against their motorcycles just a few feet away, doing practically nothing. One of them checked a guy’s ID, another impounded a scooter, but no one blinked at the open drug deals or girls who couldn’t have been older than fifteen. It was chaos barely restrained.
This was, without a doubt, the dark underbelly of Medellín — the side I’d always been curious to see for myself. Not the polished tourist zones or curated Instagram backdrops, but the city underneath all that. The version you don’t get on a walking tour.
Miguel, of course, said this wasn’t even the worst of it. Not by far. He told me there were places deeper in the hills — San Javier, Villa Hermosa, La Sierra, Santa Cruz, 13 de octubre, Bello Oriente — where you’d find the real Colombia. The rawness. The struggle. The heart. Maybe, he said, we’d go explore those someday. But only if we had a reason — and a heavily-armed guide. Most locals wouldn’t even go to those places unless they lived there — especially at night. Neither would taxis nor Ubers. Many of these places were known as the “cradles of the sicarios,” because that is where Pablo Escobar hired his assassins during his reign of terror. And it was likely that “El Chino” was doing the same thing now, I thought.
What we were seeing now was just a sample. And soon, I’d be seeing another one — Manrique — when Juan Camilo took me to visit Yeison’s family. Another barrio carved into the hills, where life was loud, beautiful, and hard. I was still curious, though. That part of me that sought out danger.
Parque Lleras was unique because of how the gringo tourists loved to romanticize it. All they saw were the neon lights, rooftop bars, and wild parties. That’s what made it so popular with the drunk gringo crowd. But with them — and their money — came the other things too: the drugs, the prostitution, the petty crime, and the people who knew how to take advantage of outsiders who didn’t know better. Many of those poor souls would wake up in a gutter the following morning, having been drugged with Scopolamine — the “Devil’s Dust” — with all their possessions taken and their bank accounts emptied.
Too many people assumed Parque Lleras was “safe” just because it was in El Poblado, the city's wealthiest and most tranquil neighborhood. But safety in Medellín was always relative. No matter how pretty the streetlights were, danger followed the money. And everyone knew where the money was.
I followed Miguel through the crowd, careful not to trip over a man who was either passed out or unconscious on the curb … possibly dead, for all I knew. A guy with missing teeth offered us cocaine with a smile like he was selling lemonade. Miguel waved him off. “Casi todo es basura,” he muttered. “Even if it’s cheap.”
“How cheap?” I asked.
“¿Un gramo de cocaína? Maybe twenty mil pesos. Like… five dollars? Sometimes less, sometimes more. Depends on the purity.”
I blinked. “Jesus.”
He grinned. “Crazy, right? But we don’t buy that mierda. We are gentlemen tonight.”
“Have you ever done drugs?” I asked. I was curious to see how open and honest Miguel would be with me now.
“Of course,” he said with a shrug. “Marijuana, cocaine, Molly, acid, tussi, stuff like that.”
“Do you still do it?” I asked, a little afraid to know the answer.
“Nah,” he said. “Just a little marijuana from time to time. The other stuff fucks you up too much. You should stay away from it. Please, bebé. The drug world here is a dangerous place. It’s not for you.”
We stepped over another puddle of vomit and then finally stopped outside our destination: Hooters.
“Hooters?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Miguel laughed. “Hey, don’t judge me. Wings are good. It’s part of the experience.”
“This is your idea of a date?”
“Oh, so this is a ‘date’ then?” he asked, smirking. “I thought we were just two friends eating greasy American food and watching girls with fake tetas bounce around.”
“I kinda figured it was a ‘date’ when you grabbed me and assaulted me with your tongue,” I retorted.
“Ah, come on, bro,” he said. “That’s just being friendly. We paisas are the friendliest people in the world.
“Whatever you say, señorito,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Then we both suddenly burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. It felt good.
“Anyway, you have a boyfriend,” he said, giving me an unreadable look. “You can’t be going on dates with other boys. Especially bad boys like me.”
“I don’t think you’re a bad boy,” I said, barely above a whisper.
“Maybe not,” he replied. “Maybe I’m just a good boy who does bad things sometimes.”
“But if you were my boyfriend … you wouldn’t be bad to me?” I asked hesitatingly.
“There’s only one way to find out. If you want a real date with me, just say the word, gringuito,” he said, winking at me.
Then his whole vibe shifted, and suddenly he was dead serious. “I really do like you, Hunter, okay? Like… I’ve never met anyone like you. I’ve never actually wanted to be with someone before. Usually, I just mess around, have fun, whatever. But with you… I dunno, I just wanna be with you. All of you. Just being here right now … it makes my chest feel like it’s gonna explode, and I’ve got like a million butterflies in my stomach, and my legs feel like gelatin. It’s stupid, but you just make me so loco.”
What he said, what he confessed, it just got to me. It really, really got to me. It was so raw and real, and I don’t know, it might have just changed everything between me and Miguel.
My heart started beating a million times faster, and I knew I was blushing severely, while Miguel just looked at me with a beatific smile on his face. We stood there staring at each other for several minutes. It felt like his eyes were boring into my soul, and it scared me. But he also made me feel safe, like he’d never let anything bad happen to me. My feelings for him kept growing more contradictory, but that just excited me even more.
The Hooters turned out to be exactly what you'd expect. Dim lighting. Orange shorts. Augmented chests and faces that looked frozen with Botox. Every girl looked like a caricature of someone’s fantasy. Miguel leaned toward me as we sat down and whispered, “Colombia’s not just the cocaine capital, you know. We’re also top five in plastic surgery.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” I said, glancing around.
“I am all natural, though. You can verify later if you want,” he said, grinning lecherously.
I nearly choked on my soda.
We inhaled a basket of buffalo wings and fries, then split a massive burger. Miguel ate like he hadn’t eaten in a week, and I loved watching him devour food with such enthusiasm.
When we left the Hooters and the park behind, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The sleaze, the sadness, the chaos of Parque Lleras — it stayed with me.
In fact, I even asked Miguel to promise he would never come back here to go clubbing.
“Isn’t that something only a boyfriend can request?” he asked me, arching an eyebrow.
“Please, just do it for me, because we care about each other … because I care about you … a lot,” I said. “That place is just bad.”
He agreed, and we sealed the promise with a brief hug.
“Sorry,” Miguel said, reading my expression. “It’s ugly sometimes. But it’s real. This is my country. Now, maybe you see a little why I want to leave.”
“I’m glad you showed me,” I said. “I needed to see it for myself.”
He nodded. “And now we ride.”
We hopped back on the bike, and this time he took us on a winding loop through El Poblado and up toward the hills. The city below shimmered like a galaxy — thousands of golden lights studding the valley floor. It was stunning. I tightened my grip around his waist, laying my head against his back. It felt so good, especially when his muscles flexed as he was turning.
The air grew cooler the higher we climbed, crisp and clean compared to the exhaust-stained streets below. Somewhere far off, I could hear the low beat of reggaeton pulsing from a rooftop bar. Dogs barked in bursts, and the hum of motorcycles and taxis echoed off the hills.
We stopped at another lookout point, where the view of the entire Aburrá Valley stretched out before us, similar to the one I had visited previously with Yeison and Juan Camilo, but we were the only ones here tonight. The city sparkled beneath the inky sky. Miguel sat on the guardrail and patted the spot next to him.
“Es bonito, no?”
“It’s incredible.”
He lit a cigarette, the tip glowing red in the dark. “You okay, Hunter?”
I hesitated. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.”
He didn’t push. He just waited, eyes watching the city below.
“I’ve been a mess lately,” I finally admitted. “Yeison’s an amazing guy. He really is. But I feel like I’m not enough. Or he’s too much. Or… I don’t know. I think I’m broken. I keep wanting things that I shouldn’t want, that I don’t want anymore. But I can’t help myself. I always end up making bad decisions. I think maybe I jumped into a relationship too quickly when I got here, and I’m just not feeling it anymore. But I really don’t want to hurt him. He’s such a nice and sweet guy.”
I was surprised at how much I’d just opened up to Miguel. But instead of being wary of him, as I had been for most of the time that I’d known him, I felt more comfortable now, relaxed, content.
Miguel nodded slowly. “I get it.”
“I don’t want to hurt him,” I repeated, more forcefully this time.
“But you are.”
“Not if I don’t do anything about these … urges … I’ve been having,” I replied.
“But you’re not being honest with him.”
That stung. But he wasn’t wrong.
“I don’t even know if I’m using you,” I said quietly. “Sometimes it feels like I am.”
“I’m not stupid, Hunter. I know what this is.”
I looked over at him. “And what is it?”
He blew out a slow stream of smoke. “It’s whatever we need it to be. But I think you like how I make you feel. Like you can escape from all the pressure. Like you can just… breathe. Live. Be yourself. Be a little naughty if you want. But at the same time, you want stability and to be loved.”
I swallowed hard. That was it, pretty much.
“And what do you think this is? What do you want it to be?” I asked him, hesitantly.
“I think now we are good friends and becoming better friends every day. I like that. It makes me feel good,” he answered. “I think you were right about going slow, trying to be friends first.”
“You didn’t answer the second part. What do you want it to be?” I pointed out.
“Are you sure you’re ready to hear that?” he asked, taking another puff on his cigarette.
“Maybe not, but I still want to hear it. I think I need to hear it.”
“I already told you outside of Hooter’s, but I’ll repeat it as many times as you need me to. I like you. I like you a lot. You already know that. You knew that even when you thought you hated me. And you already know that I want to be with you, not share you with anyone else,” he said. “And I think you feel the same way, but you just don’t know what to do about it, because you have to make a choice, a choice between two very different things.”
He took another long drag on his cigarette. “I know that for me … it’s love. When I figured that out, it changed something in me. I don’t even know how to explain it.”
I had to sit with that for a moment. Not long ago, those words would’ve made me uncomfortable — maybe even angry. Back then, when he used to say it, I always assumed he was just playing around, not really meaning it. But tonight, with just the two of us under a blanket of stars and the city lights flickering below like scattered embers, something about the way he said it felt different. Honest. Unscripted. Like he actually meant it. He was showing me who he really was.
“And do you want a real relationship with someone, or just some fun for a while?” I asked, scooting ever so slightly closer to him.
He sighed deeply. “I want something real, something that means something, something like tonight, or the other nights we’ve been out together. I want it to be for a long time. I want to be loved, and I want to love someone back. I want to leave my old life behind and become a better person. You make me want to do that. But sometimes it’s hard to change. We always have pressures.”
I didn’t know what to say. Words felt useless, clumsy, too small for the weight of the moment. So, I did the only thing that felt right — I slipped my arm around him and rested my head on his shoulder. We sat there in silence, motionless, like the world had paused just for us. It probably wasn’t more than fifteen minutes, but it felt like time stretched out — slow and quiet and infinite. His body radiated warmth, and the scent of his cologne — clean, sharp, a little intoxicating — was messing with my head in all the wrong ways. Or maybe the right ones.
He flicked the cigarette off the edge of the hill and stood, wiping some dirt off his butt.
“C’mon. Let’s ride some more.”
We took the long way back, gliding down hills, weaving through the quiet neighborhoods. My arms around him, my heart thudding against his back. Every time he reached down to squeeze my knee at a stoplight, I felt something sharp and tender crack inside me.
When we finally pulled up to my house, I didn’t want to get off. The bike had become a cocoon — loud and fast, but safe.
“I had fun tonight,” he said.
“Me too.”
Miguel gave me a lazy grin. “You wanna do something again mañana?”
I suddenly felt very guilty. “I can’t. I have plans with Yeison tomorrow.”
He nodded, the grin fading a little. “Right. Bueno… buenas noches, Yankee Boy.”
“Night, Miguel.”
He pulled away into the night, red taillight fading into the dark like the last ember of something I wasn’t ready to let go of.
I hated how I was feeling. I hated seeing how Miguel was feeling because I knew he was super jealous that I was going out with Yeison. We’d most definitely made immense progress in our "friendship." And now the proverbial ball was in my court. But I wasn’t ready to tell Miguel anything yet. I needed to get through this on my own, without him influencing or coaching me. So, for now, I had to maintain the status quo.
I texted Miguel later that night and told him I’d rather spend the day with him, but that I had to do this.
A few minutes later, he texted back.
Miguel: "I understand, mi rey. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be busy planning our next 'non-date' 😘😘😘."
***
The next morning, Juan Camilo had me up bright and early. The sun wasn’t even fully over the mountains yet, and I could already hear the clatter of breakfast prep and the hum of traffic down the hill.
“Today we will go to El Carmen de Viboral,” Juan Camilo announced, sipping coffee from a tiny porcelain cup. "It’s a beautiful pueblo outside of Medellín, very famous for handmade ceramics and the old way of life. You can see more of the real Colombia, outside the city."
I wasn’t sure how excited I was going to be about handmade ceramics, but I shrugged and decided to go along with it. Anything to avoid being stuck at home obsessing over my feelings.
Doña Susana had taken it upon herself to prepare a full-on American-style breakfast — fluffy scrambled eggs with cheese, buttered toast, crispy bacon, and a stack of pancakes with syrup she'd found at a specialty import shop. Much better than the “Aunt Jemima” stuff you could find here at the local supermarkets. The smell was enough to drag me into the kitchen.
A little after breakfast, Yeison texted to say he’d arrived at Estación Aguacatala, and Juan Camilo grabbed his keys without a word as soon as I told him. About thirty minutes later, the SUV pulled back into the driveway. When Yeison stepped out, I couldn’t help but smile.
He was wearing dark blue jeans, a matching blue checkered button-up shirt tucked neatly into a belt, and — most adorably — a paisa-style cowboy hat. I had to get me one of those if I really wanted to be a true paisa!
“You said we’re going to el campo, and this is what they wear in el campo,” he said, eyes sheepish but bright.
“You look amazing,” I said, grinning. “Like a Colombian country prince.”
He blushed a deep red. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not! You look really cute. I’m serious!”
After piling into the SUV and making sure we had water bottles and sunscreen, we hit the road. The drive itself was scenic — lush hills rising into dramatic green peaks, switchback roads flanked by flower vendors, and roadside stalls with bunches of bananas and mangos hanging like ornaments.
We passed El Retiro, the charming little pueblo tucked into the hills with red-tiled rooftops and a church tower peeking above the treetops, where Miguel and I had eaten Chinese food the other night. Then Rionegro, a small city, bustling with motorcycles, cars, buses, and hand-painted signs for empanadas and fresh juice. As we neared the airport, planes swooped low over the highway, close enough that you could feel the whoosh of air.
About an hour after passing the airport, we reached El Carmen de Viboral. The town sat in a broad, dusty basin surrounded by sunburnt hills and patchy fields of eucalyptus and banana trees. It wasn’t what I’d call picturesque — not in the tourist brochure kind of way — but it had a kind of humble, working-class charm that was hard not to respect. Faded murals of saints and political slogans peeled off the stucco walls. The streets were narrow and cracked, covered with potholes, cluttered with delivery motorcycles, wooden carts, and the occasional horse or donkey tied lazily to a railing, flicking its tail against flies.
Vendors with loud voices and sun-worn faces hawked tamales, papayas, and fresh-squeezed juice or tinto from plastic carts. Kids ran barefoot through the dirt with kites and plastic balls, their laughter echoing off the chipped facades of the buildings. Dozens of stray dogs — some friendly, others wary — napped beneath trees or followed us from a distance, their ribs visible under patchy fur. The smell was a strange mix of wood smoke, fried empanadas, manure, and car exhaust, and yet it felt alive — real. I immediately fell in love with the town. It seemed real, much more real than Parque Lleras. This was more like the genuine Colombia I’d been looking for.
Up ahead, I spotted a small group of boys — no older than eight or nine — darting around in the narrow street, their laughter echoing off the buildings. They were dressed in the kind of clothes that told stories: one wore a faded Atlético Nacional jersey with the sleeves nearly reaching his elbows, another had a tank top two sizes too big, the neck stretched and stained with sweat and dust. Their knees were scuffed, their hair tousled, and their sandals flapped noisily as they raced after a splintered stick.
They weren’t chasing it, though — they were throwing it for a dog.
He was a medium-sized mutt, the kind you saw on nearly every corner in Colombia —unkempt, short fur the color of toasted bread, matted in places from rolling around in the dust, and a bent tail that must have been broken sometime in the past. He looked like he hadn’t had a proper bath in ages, and he was probably crawling with fleas, but he didn’t carry himself like the other strays. There was no slump in his step, no sadness in his eyes. In fact, he looked pretty well-fed — lean, but not bony.
Bright eyes, tail wagging. Alive. Joyful.
There was something magnetic about him. Like he’d decided happiness was a choice, even out here.
“¿Cuál es su nombre?” I asked one of the boys, nodding toward the dog.
“Se llama Pony,” he said, grinning, his thick paisa accent drawing out the name like a joke he loved telling.
Pony. It suited him. He did kind of look like a little horse, trotting and prancing with exaggerated steps, ears perked, and tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. I watched him leap and twist mid-air to catch the stick, then strut back like he was king of the block.
For a second, I wished I could take him home. Clean him up. Let him sleep somewhere soft. He didn’t belong to anyone, but he seemed to belong everywhere — like joy was his leash, and these kids were just lucky enough to hold it for a little while.
We finally parked near the main plaza, anchored — as always — by a church. The façade of La Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Carmen was white and beige, with some brickwork, pale yellow trim, and a clock tower that looked suspiciously modern. Juan Camilo explained that the original had been destroyed in an earthquake and rebuilt in the ’90s. It lacked the grandiosity of the older colonial churches, but it had its own kind of earnestness. He also told us that El Carmen was directly in the line of fire during the war with the guerrillas. It seemed strange for such a seemingly peaceful and tranquil place.
Vendors lined the square, selling plastic toys, ice cream, sunglasses, and of course, hand-painted ceramics. Juan Camilo led us toward a narrow side street where shop after shop showcased rows of delicately painted plates, mugs, vases, and tiles in every shade of blue, green, and yellow imaginable.
We stepped inside one of the studios, where a woman with strong hands and an ink-stained apron led us through the back room. There, artisans hunched over spinning wheels and fine brushes, adding swirls and tiny flowers to freshly fired plates. I was mesmerized by the focus and precision of it all.
Yeison picked up a little dish with hummingbirds on it. “For your mom?” I asked.
“Maybe,” he said, but I was already eyeing a complete dinnerware set with a blue geometric pattern. Somehow, it reminded me of calm.
We ended up buying a small set, carefully boxed it, and stored it in the back of Juan Camilo’s SUV.
For lunch, Juan Camilo drove us up a dusty road to an old finca-turned restaurant, nestled into the mountainside. The building was all whitewashed stone and dark wood beams, with vines crawling up the terrace posts.
There were fincas dotted all over the landscape. They were basically small ranches where wealthier people from the cities tended to flock back to during the weekends and holidays to get away from the insanity of city life, where the pace of life was much slower and calmer, the air was cleaner, and you could really breathe. Many had groves of fruit trees, some kept farm animals, and as soon as I’d seen a few, I thought I might want to live in a finca in the middle of nowhere one day with the love of my life and just … be.
We sat outside under a pergola and ordered a feast: bandeja paisa with chicharrón the size of my forearm, grilled trout caught from a pond on the property, and cazuela de frijoles bubbling in clay pots.
“You'd better keep your farts to yourself tonight,” I teased Yeison as we dug in. “Or you’re sleeping in the guest room.”
He blushed so red I thought he might explode. “Eres horrible,” he muttered, but grinning anyway.
The view from the finca was breathtaking. Rolling green hills dropped into the Valle de San Nicolás, scattered with red-tiled roofs, distant cows, and clusters of wildflowers. I took it all in, thinking how romantic this would be — if Juan Camilo weren’t sitting across from us sipping lemonade and texting non-stop on his phone.
After lunch, we headed to San Antonio de Pereira, a slightly wealthier pueblo with cobblestone streets and a tidier appearance. The plaza there was buzzing with a farmer’s market — colorful tents selling everything from passionfruit and panela to candles, crafts, and chocolate-covered arequipe.
We wandered aimlessly. I tried a slice of guava cake. Yeison got a massive cup of fresh pineapple juice. Kids played tag near the church steps.
As the sun began to dip, the real action started. Giant charcoal grills were wheeled into the streets and lit with practiced hands. Vendors stacked trays of what looked like pale, stringy meat.
“Chinchulines,” Juan Camilo said proudly. “It's the best place for them in all of Antioquia. This place is very famous. You should try it.”
“What is it?” I asked,
“It is the cut-up pieces of the lower intestine of a cow, and then crisped up on the griddle. Very delicious,” he claimed.
Yeison raised an eyebrow at me. “You try first.”
“No problem,” I declared. I loved trying new and interesting foods.
I grabbed a handful, squeezed a bit of lime over the top, and took a bite. It was crispy at first, then satisfyingly crispy and chewy — salty, savory, and unlike anything I’d ever tasted. If I had a bucket of these back home, I’d ditch pretzels for football Sundays in a heartbeat. They were addictive in that dangerous way.
They would’ve been perfect with some hot sauce, but of course, this was Colombia — land of the anti-spice. Here, “spicy” meant anything with more than a pinch of salt or a hint of flavor. For most paisas, seasoned food is practically a threat. Everything had to be bland and tasteless. Which pretty much sums up my complicated relationship with Colombian cuisine.
Juan Camilo was already devouring his chinchulines. “Good, right?”
“It’s actually pretty awesome,” I said. “I want to try some more.”
Yeison finally took a bite and made a face, then paused. “Okay… it's weird. But I like it.”
I grinned. “Told you.”
We sat on a low stone wall, snacking and watching the plaza light up as string lights flickered on and vallenato music floated through the air.
Eventually, we piled back into the SUV and began the winding drive home. I leaned against the window, watching the hills dissolve into shadow and streetlights appear like constellations.
Back in Medellín, Doña Susana had somehow prepared a massive “light” dinner of sobrebarriga with potatoes, yuca, rice, all drowning in hogao sauce. I was so full I thought I’d burst and might need the young and handsome Officer Santiago to carry me back to my bed and perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on me. A boy can dream, can’t he?
Yeison and I took turns showering, then climbed into bed in our underwear, a movie playing softly in the background. He curled up beside me, his breath warm against my collarbone. We kissed slowly, lazily at first, then with more urgency, more hunger. I could feel what he wanted.
I wasn’t really in the mood, but I didn’t want to hurt him again. So, I let it happen. Within minutes, I was buried inside him. I went through the motions, but after nearly thirty minutes of thrusting, I just couldn’t get there. I tried fucking him slowly and gently, I tried pounding him as hard as I could. We tried all kinds of different positions, but nothing worked. That had never happened to me before, and I wasn’t quite sure how to process it.
When I couldn’t go on any longer and pulled out, he looked at me, concerned. “But you did not cum yet,” he said, pouting.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “I’m just tired from today.”
He ran his fingers gently over my chest. “You feel… different. Like your mind is not here.”
I didn’t know what to say. I kissed his cheek. “Just tired. Long day.”
He was quiet for a long time. Then he whispered, “Something has changed with you. Or something is wrong. I wish you could talk to me. We are best friends, too. But I feel like I’m losing you, and I feel so, so sad. Hunter, please …”
I closed my eyes. “Please, just sleep. I have a lot on my mind. We’ll both feel better in the morning.”
As I kissed him softly, I saw the tears shimmering in his eyes. He blinked them away, but I’d seen them.
And it broke something inside me — something I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to fix. A quiet, splintering kind of break, the kind you can feel but can’t see, like a fault line deep beneath the surface.
Here I was, hurting this boy who had done nothing wrong. This sweet, beautiful boy had given me nothing but love. He had trusted me. He didn’t deserve any of this — especially not from me. But I was toxic.
I was breaking someone good. Someone kind. Just like Rory had been.
What the hell was I doing?
I never felt like a bigger piece of shit than right then.
I held him tighter, ran my fingers through his soft curls, gently kissed his shoulder, but the guilt continued to claw at me like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
If my karma wasn’t already fucked, it would be now.
Fuck me. Hard.
Copyright © 2026 Little Buddha
Posted 31 January 2026