Medellín

Chapter 17

The Silence Between Us

It was, without question, the best weekend of my life. But then again, that weekend we spent at his run-down finca was pretty incredible, too, although we hadn’t made love then.

Saturday morning arrived in a golden haze, sunlight pouring through the transparent dome like liquid warmth, casting soft, shimmering patterns across the sheets tangled around our bare limbs. We lingered there for what felt like hours, wrapped around each other, unwilling to let go — even for breakfast. Miguel finally coaxed me out of bed with promises of hot coffee and sweeter kisses, and the rest of the day unfolded like a lazy dream. We spent it basking on the deck, completely naked and utterly unconcerned, like we were the last two people on Earth, and the world had finally made sense.

After our now-sacred sunscreen ritual — careful hands gliding across skin, equal parts practical and intimate — I stretched out with my Kindle Fire to finally finish a book I'd been dragging through for weeks. Miguel rotated between sprawling dramatically on the netted hammock and lounging in the hot tub, which was entirely too hot for me under the midday sun. He looked like a Roman god sunbathing in a steam bath, and every time I glanced up from my book, I had to stop myself from launching into another round of gushing affection … or fighting the urge to feed him grapes.

A couple of hours were lost to a torrential downpour that swept through the mountains, but even that was beautiful — watching the sheets of rain fall from the edge of the hot tub while wrapped up together in blankets. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. We’d said so much the night before when we made love — and a second time in the early hours of the morning before sunrise — that anything more felt unnecessary. Just lots of quiet smiles, stolen kisses, fingers brushing skin, and whispered promises of “forever” and “always.”

I must’ve been acting like an idiot, constantly grinning, zoning out, or humming some random love song under my breath. But it couldn’t have been too annoying, because that night, Miguel wanted to make love again. And, of course, I said yes.

It was different the second time. Less raw, more playful. We experimented a little — some positions were more successful than others. We laughed a lot, teased a lot. But as great as it was, nothing could match the emotional hurricane of Friday night. That had been special. A religious experience.

Sunday morning came too soon. We packed our things, cleaned up the deck, collected the trash, and checked out. As we rode back to Medellín, I held tightly to Miguel’s waist on the back of the motorcycle, not wanting to let go.

We stopped a few times along the way because Miguel, true to form, complained, “Amor, I can’t feel my ass. I swear, I’m walking funny.”

“You weren’t complaining last night,” I teased.

“That’s because I was distracted by your… cock.”

“Oh, so you only love me for my cock?” I gasped.

“The best one,” he smirked. “Ten out of ten. Michelin-starred.”

When we reached my house, I asked if he wanted to stay for dinner — or even the night — but he declined, saying he had too much homework. I understood, of course, but part of me deflated. After what happened, I never wanted to leave his side, not even for a second. I was addicted, obsessed, infatuated. Still, he gave me a long, slow kiss on the doorstep and a smack on the butt before taking off down the street on his bike.

Inside, Juan Camilo was waiting with that knowing look. “Well?”

I tried to play it cool, but my face gave me away.

“Just be careful with your heart, Mr. Hunter,” he said, frowning.

“I am,” I lied. I knew I was being reckless as hell with my heart. I’d given it all to Miguel. If anything were to happen between us, I knew I wouldn’t be able to survive it. I wouldn’t want to survive it, because I knew that I’d never love anyone again like I loved him. Nobody else I could imagine sharing a future with.

“Not everyone is who they appear to be,” Juan Camilo warned, giving me a stern look.

Okay, seriously. What was his problem? Was he just jealous that I was getting more action than he was?

I spent the rest of the day in my room catching up on homework. Fortunately, most of it was easy enough. I’d finally figured out the rhythm of school in Colombia, and aside from math (the eternal villain in my academic story), I was doing well. Still, I kept zoning out, my mind drifting back to Miguel. To his hands. His smile. The way he whispered to me when he thought I was falling asleep. The almost surprised, stunned look on his face when he felt me shooting inside him.

The doubts crept in like they always did — never with Miguel, only when I was alone and the darkness came back.

What if it was a one-night thing for him? A box to check—hook up with the gringo, done.
What if I loved him more than he loved me? That one seemed to scare me the most.
What if I was just a temporary amusement while he waited for someone more… Colombian? We really were from different worlds, and he could have anyone. I’d seen the competition — hot boys everywhere, guys who knew what they were doing. Or what if he stayed with me but hooked up on the side? I’d done that to Rory. Maybe that’s what I deserved.

Miguel once said a lot of Colombian boys prefer gringos — stability, chances to travel, a reputation (fair or not) for being more faithful and worldly. There’s also the “gringos are rich” thing, though I knew that wasn’t his deal with me.

But Miguel and the other elites could already travel. So why me just because I was a gringo?

He told me he loved my blond hair and blue eyes — rare here — but that couldn’t be the whole reason. Not knowing why he’d fallen for me scared me. If I didn’t know why he fell in, how could I trust he wouldn’t fall out?

I tried to shake it, but Juan Camilo’s warning — “Protect your heart” — kept echoing. Why say that unless there was something I didn’t know? Sure, Miguel’s dad might be shady — a launderer, an “accountant” for someone bad — but that was his father, not him. Miguel hated the cartels and the corruption; he said it all the time.

Still, it drove me crazy that I didn’t feel like I really knew him, even after all our long talks and how close we’d gotten. I thought I’d found the boy — the one. Yeah, I was only sixteen, but with him I felt loved, safe, treasured. Apart from him, the doubts seeped back in like water through cracks.

After months together, did I really know Miguel — or his mysterious family? I knew the surface: school, fútbol, sneaking into bars to dance (which I hated). But what about the rest? How did he spend his days? What filled his head when no one was around? Did he think about me — how often, and what exactly?

I didn’t want to admit it, but I was already checking his socials more than I should, looking for any sign he was drifting. He hadn’t posted since the weekend—good? bad? normal? He hadn’t shared a single photo of us from the bubble glamping. We’d taken plenty, but he posted only a few, ever. Why? It felt suspicious. My feed had more pictures of Miguel than of me.

I spent far too much time staring at his last photo of us together: me grinning stupidly at the camera, him kissing my cheek. He’d captioned it with a poem in Spanish, called “El Joven Marino” by Luis Cernuda:

Muchacho que pasas,
con tu gesto de héroe
y tu paso de danza,
¿hacia dónde vas?

Yo te miré un instante
y en tu figura vi
todo un mar de deseo
con sus olas de luz.

What did it mean? I mean, I knew what it meant, literally, but what did he mean by it?

Why couldn’t I shut this off? The same doubts kept looping. I’d brought them up with Miguel so many times I knew he’d get mad if I did it again — and it would just prove how insecure I was. Why couldn’t I make the anxiety shut up? What was wrong with me? I felt like I was spinning in circles.

***

On Monday morning, the school courtyard was bright and bustling as usual. I found my friends under our tree, already deep in conversation about the weekend. I was bracing for it. I’d told Miguel not to be obvious.

So, of course, the moment he arrived, he practically sat on my lap and gave me that look.

Ricardo immediately shouted, “¡Dios mío! They did it! They finally did it!”

Cue my face turning the color of a firetruck. Miguel, ever the little shit, just grinned and said, “You guys are always telling us to get a room. So, we did. Fue divertido.”

The group erupted in “ooooohs” and dramatic clapping. Stiven fake-fainted onto the grass.

Ricardo slow-clapped like we’d won an Oscar. Even Zack clapped.

Poor Yeison, though. He looked like someone had kicked his puppy. And Carlos was expressionless.

“Tell us everything,” Ricardo demanded.

“Nope,” I said. “Not happening.”

“Come on! Just one detail,” Stiven begged.

“Fine,” I relented. “It was magical. Like getting hit by lightning while riding a unicorn.”

Carlos wheezed from laughing. “Marica, that’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet, you’re jealous,” Miguel said smugly, brushing a hand through his curls.

Carlos didn’t respond.

The bell rang soon after, saving me from further humiliation, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

Until lunch.

While Miguel, Carlos, Yeison, Ricardo, and Stiven were off playing soccer, I sat under the tree with Zack and Juan Felipe.

“I still can’t believe you finally did it,” Zack said, biting into a papa rellena.

I shrugged. “Why not? It’s not like I was a virgin, and it was pretty much inevitable. It’s not a big deal.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s exactly what she said.”

“Ewww,” I laughed. “Zack, no.”

“Hey, scientific curiosity,” he said, smirking. “Was it… good?”

I gave him a suspicious look. “I thought you didn’t want details.”

“I don’t. Just… I need a data point. For science.”

I leaned in and said, “Better than I ever imagined.”

He went bright red. “Okay! That’s enough science for today!”

I turned to Juan Felipe. “So, you and Ricardo…?”

He grinned shyly. “It’s good now. Pretty painful, but then it gets really good. He’s very gentle with me.”

“Cool,” I said. “But I’ve seen Ricardo’s dick. I don’t know how you’re not riding around in a wheelchair right now.”

Juan Felipe choked on his juice and laughed. “Hunter!”

“What? I’m just looking out for you … and your ass.”

“You could always watch us … or something … if you wanted to sometime,” Juan Felipe said softly, looking me directly in the eyes. “We both think gringos are really handsome and unique. Podría ser muy divertido.”

I quickly looked over at Zack, who looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. I was pretty damn stunned, too. Juan Felipe? Little, innocent Juan Felipe was suggesting a threesome with him and Ricardo? In a past life, I would have jumped at the chance, but now, the thought of it didn’t even make me hard.

“I appreciate the offer, papasito, but I think I’ll take a pass for now,” I said, trying to remain as polite as possible. I still just … couldn’t believe it.

About five minutes before class, the soccer boys came trudging back, covered in sweat.

Miguel flopped down in my lap — again — and I groaned.

“Gross,” I complained. “You’re all wet.”

“Better than you were Friday night,” he whispered.

“Do not start,” I warned, swatting his butt.

“I’ve got deodorant and cologne in my bag,” he said proudly, standing and stretching.

“Great. Hope it’s industrial strength.”

He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as the bell rang. And then he was gone.

I sat there for a moment longer, alone under the tree, watching the students stream back into the building.

I spent the rest of the afternoon distracted, quiet, chewing my pen, and staring out the window.

Loving someone was supposed to feel amazing. And it did. But it also felt terrifying, because once you’ve experienced loving and being truly loved at that level, that intensity, the thought of possibly losing that can be overwhelming, and I was more than overwhelmed.

I just hoped it wasn’t about to break me.

***

By Monday night, the silence was deafening.

No calls. No texts. Not even a dumb emoji from Miguel — the kind he usually sent just to say he was thinking about me. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was busy. Maybe his phone died. But deep down, I felt the first crack of something breaking inside me. Maybe my fears from Monday really were coming true. It only got worse on Tuesday.

At school, he acted… normal. Or at least, he tried to. But not my Miguel. Not the Miguel who used to kiss me on the cheek when he thought no one was watching or whispering corny sweet nothings in my ear during lunchtime. He still sat with our group, still talked and laughed with everyone, but there was a stiffness to him. His smile didn’t reach his eyes when he looked at me. His touches were absent. His warmth was missing. It was subtle — almost imperceptible — but I could feel it in my bones. Something was different. Something had shifted.

Something was off.

And Tuesday night? More silence.

By then, the spiral had me fully in its grip. My mind was a haunted house, every corner hiding a new fear, a new suspicion, a new piece of evidence I’d twisted into some kind of betrayal. In my messed-up mind, all my fears were finally coming true. Finally finding true love — my soulmate — and then losing him. I’d lost my mother, I’d basically lost my father, and now this? How fair was that? Was this my divine retribution for being a selfless asshole for so long?

I tried not to jump to conclusions. I tried to be rational. But when it comes to love, rationality has never been the strong suit of most sixteen-year-old, hormonal, angsty teenage boys like me.

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I kept running through the list of people I might talk to, anyone who could drag me back from the edge, and the only name that stuck was Carlos — though even with him, I wasn’t sure. The last few times he’d caught glimpses of me and Miguel being affectionate, or when the guys had teased me about our sex life, Carlos’s expression had gone blank. Not angry, but flat, like he was trying to hide something he didn’t want me to see. Disappointment, maybe. Or jealousy. Or even judgment. And the thought of that made me feel guilty, like I was doing him some kind of wrong just by being happy. But we hadn’t talked in a while, and I didn’t know how he’d react to me now. Still, the pressure inside me was unbearable, and keeping everything bottled up for even a single day made me feel like I’d shatter into pieces.

I carefully picked up my phone, like it might suddenly explode, and searched out my last chat with Carlos, the only member of our group that I felt was emotionally stable enough to deal with my lunacy. However, I also feared that I might end up freaking him out and him pushing me away forever. But I had to roll the dice anyway because I really didn’t want to go back to talk to the school psychiatrist instead.

Me: “Hola guapito. Qué más pues?”

Carlos: “Mira quién shows up. I thought Miguel locked you in his room and threw away the key. ?? ”

Me: “That’s kind of why I’m texting. It’s… about him. If you don’t mind.”

Carlos: “Dale, pues.”

Me: “You’re gonna think I’m totally loco.”

Carlos: “Hunter, I already think you’re the weirdest gringo I know. Just tell me. ?? ”

So I did. Not the whole story — I wasn’t ready to dump that mountain of baggage — but enough. Just the Miguel parts, and my general anxiety and paranoia. How he’d been acting different lately, pulling away. How it was messing with my head more than I wanted to admit. How I was slipping into spirals I couldn’t stop. How much I loved him, but how everyone seemed to warn me about him, describing someone I barely recognized. And still, there were little things Miguel did, quirks that made me second-guess. Saying it out loud — well, typing it — felt like betraying him, but it also made the weight shift a little, like I wasn’t carrying it all by myself anymore. It was sort of cathartic.

Me: “He’s just been… off the last couple of days. Distracted. Different. And I don’t know if I’m just being paranoid, or if I should be worried. And I’m scared of dumping my confusion on him again, because one day he’s going to get sick of me always rushing to him with all my problems and issues, especially when it’s the same problems and issues that we’ve already discussed a million times.”

Carlos: “Yeah, that’ll scramble your brain.”

Me: “Exactly! Like — am I missing something? Or just being a psycho gringo? You’ve heard the expression ‘love is blind,’ right? So, I don’t know if I’m thinking clearly or so caught up in what I’m feeling that I can’t distinguish reality from fantasy.”

Carlos: “Listen. I don’t know Miguel well enough to diagnose him or anything. But I know Colombian boys. Especially teenage ones. We’re stubborn, we act mysterious, and sometimes we think silence makes us look tough. Spoiler: it doesn’t. It’s part of the whole machismo culture.”

Me: “So basically he’s being a cliché?”

Carlos: “Maybe. Or maybe he’s trying to protect you from something. My advice? Don’t push when you’re both on edge. Wait until you’re calm, then ask. He’ll be more likely to answer.”

Me: “Ugh. I wanted you just to say, ‘You’re crazy, relax.’”

Carlos: “Sorry, I actually try to be useful. Also, I’m better looking than Miguel. ?? ”

Me: “Debatable. But if anyone were, it would be you. ?? ”

Carlos: “Not debatable. Scientifically proven.”

Me: “Oh yeah? So, where’s your boyfriend then, Mr. Science? ?? ”

Carlos: “Or girlfriend. I’m bi. And I haven’t had a relationship in a while, much less sex.”

That actually surprised me. I always figured Carlos could get laid whenever he wanted — especially being bi. Twice the options, right? Honestly, that was why I usually stayed away from getting romantically involved with bi guys — too much competition. So, on my imaginary scorecard for boys, I had to dock Carlos a few points for that, unfortunately.

Me: “Anyone at school you like?”

Carlos: “Maybe. There’s someone I’m… interested in. We don’t talk as much as I’d like, though, and they’re kinda into someone else at the moment. It’s frustrating. ?? ”

Me: “Are you into boys or girls more?”

Carlos: “Oh, boys for sure. Like, I can find a girl attractive and want to have sex with her, but when I think about settling down with someone, a serious, romantic relationship, it’s always with a guy.”

Immediately, my brain went into overdrive, flipping through a slideshow of possibilities — half the soccer team, a couple of guys from math, even that artsy kid in the library. Whoever it was, Carlos wasn’t saying. And I wasn’t about to press him… though I wanted to.

Me: “But you don’t actually like them? How does that even work?”

Carlos: “‘Interest’ is potential. Like a spark before it becomes a fire. To ‘like’ someone, you really have to get to know the person first; otherwise, it’s just attraction or lust.”

Me: “You’re confusing.”

Carlos: “And you’re nosy.”

Me: “True. But honestly? Someone as smart, decent, and handsome as you deserves someone equally awesome.”

Carlos: “Wow. Careful, Hunter. Say things like that and I’ll start thinking you actually like me. ?? ”

Me: “Jajajajaja. I’m just saying what’s true. And to be honest, I may have had a little schoolboy crush on you before … ?? ”

Carlos: “And now?”

Me: “Yeah, kinda still do … I’m totally faithful to Miguel. But I’m still attracted to you. Obviously, nothing could happen, but I just wanted to let you know. Sorry if that makes you feel uncomfortable or awkward.”

Carlos: “Well, I’m genuinely flattered and a little surprised. I had no clue. So, thank you. You’re a special guy, Hunter. I’m glad we’re talking more. I wish you’d let me in sooner. That day, the ice cream shop exploded, and I felt like… I don’t know. Like we were about to really connect, and then — boom! I really hope we can get back to that place … as long as you’re not too busy with your boyfriend!”

Me: “Thanks, hermano. That means a lot. Especially from you.”

Carlos: “Anyway, you’ll figure Miguel out. And if you need distracting, I’ve got a stash of dumb memes ready. Or we can just talk. Whatever keeps you from exploding.”

Me: “I don’t want you to think I’m some unstable nut job.”

Carlos: “You’re not. You’re just… lovesick, like that Bob Dylan song. First time’s always overwhelming. But hey, maybe book a few sessions with Dr. Montoya instead of trying to fix it by yourself. You deserve to feel happy, not like you’re just barely treading water all the time and the next big wave could push you under.”

Me: “I went once. Didn’t help.”

Carlos: “Because it’s a process. Once isn’t magic. Weekly or twice a week is how you actually get somewhere. I’ll even help you set it up if you want.”

Me: “Thanks, but Juan Camilo can handle it. Still… I appreciate it.”

Carlos: “Anytime. And, Hunter? I’d really like to keep talking like this. No pressure, but… maybe let’s not wait for another explosion before we do.”

I sent him a string of smiling emojis. Then, before I could stop myself:

Me: “Oye, remember the Thanksgiving party?”

Carlos: “😂 It was literally just a couple of weeks ago. Yes.”

Me: “Did you and Stiven hook up then?”

The pause nearly killed me.

Carlos: “No. Why?”

Me: “Nada. Solo curioso.”

Carlos: “I’m not into hookup culture. Had a couple of bad experiences. The gay scene here can be messy, Hunter. Lots of backstabbing and jealousy, and if you don’t have a perfect gym body or pretty face, no one will even give you the time of day. So, just be careful with your heart, okay? Even with Miguel.”

As soon as our chat was over, he sent one of his funny memes — a ridiculous, over-the-top gym bro video — that actually made me laugh. And just like that, I felt a little less weighed down, other than the fact that he told me the same thing that Juan Camilo kept telling me: “Be careful with your heart.”

But talking to Carlos felt really, really good, like I could breathe a little easier for once. I needed to start doing it more often. The truth was, I’d tried before, but I always let myself get pulled away or distracted, and that wasn’t fair to him. He deserved better than being my backup plan. Especially if we were actually trying to build something real, a friendship worth keeping.

And then came Wednesday.

At lunch, as I was walking toward our usual spot by the field, I saw them. Miguel and the guys were already playing soccer, like they always did. Only today, there were a few unfamiliar faces. One of them I recognized instantly — Tomás. He was there the very first day I met Miguel. He’d stood out even then: short but athletic, with a lean, muscular build, a small, round ass, and a sort of chill, reserved energy. Dirty blond hair, sweeping across his face like it had a mind of its own, and beautiful hazel eyes that seemed out of place on a Latino boy.

Anyway, he was very cute. Objectively speaking.

And there he was now — laughing with Miguel like they were best friends, like I hadn’t just spent the most intimate, meaningful weekend of my life with him. Like Miguel hadn’t told me countless times that I meant more to him than anything else in the whole world. So yeah, I felt entitled to feel a little jealous. I still hadn’t gotten a hug or kiss or even a real conversation from Miguel since the end of our trip. It was starting to get ridiculous, like all those sweet things he said to me didn’t really mean anything now that he’d gotten what he wanted. I was more sure of it now than ever.

What really made my stomach turn, though, was what happened after the game. As they walked off the field, Miguel casually draped his arm around Tomás’s shoulder like it was nothing. Like I wasn’t even there. Then he sat down on the opposite side of the group from me. Miguel introduced Tomás to everyone and gave me a small smile. A smile? That was it.

No hug. No kiss. No “Hey, baby.” Just a teeny-tiny smile. If he was going to brush me off like that, at least he didn’t need to rub it in my face.

I sat there in stunned silence, my body frozen while my thoughts screamed over each other. Every nerve ending was on fire. I felt like I’d been slapped. Hard. Right in the chest.

I couldn't take it.

I stood up abruptly, not saying a word, and walked away from the group. I didn’t even know where I was going — just somewhere I could breathe. Somewhere I wouldn’t cry in front of them.

I sat down under a yarumo tree behind the cafeteria, where hardly anyone ever went.

My hands trembled as I tried to open a granola bar, but I couldn’t even manage that. I was shaking too much. My stomach churned with anger, jealousy, confusion, and something even uglier: humiliation. I felt like I was drowning in it. I kept telling myself there had to be a reasonable explanation for this. But the darkness wouldn’t let me search for one. It had convinced me that Miguel was cheating on me. Perhaps I was so susceptible and paranoid about fidelity because of what I had done to Rory in the past, and now I felt that it was destined to happen to me, too. I just couldn’t let that happen with Miguel. It would devastate me … like it devastated Rory.

God, why did I have to love him so much?! It was overwhelming at times. He consumed almost all my thoughts and energy.

Part of me expected Miguel to come find me. To chase after me. Ask what was wrong. Reassure me. But he didn’t.

That was when something in me snapped.

I wiped the tears from my eyes, and as soon as school was over and I got home, I stormed to my room and threw my phone on the bed. For hours, I paced. Overthinking. Replaying every second of the past few days. My brain was on a loop: his touch, his words, his laugh… then that fucking wink. I felt used. Abandoned. Forgotten. How could we go from what happened last weekend to this in a matter of a couple of days? I was the most significant thing in his universe, supposedly, yet now we're not even exchanging text messages or having real conversations anymore? This was probably how all the boys I’d dumped without a word felt. Maybe this was my karma.

That night, I couldn't take it anymore. My thumbs hovered over my phone screen before I finally typed out:

“What the hell is going on with you?”

Seconds passed. Then minutes. The typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Appeared again. Then finally:

“¿Qué pasa? ?? ”

Oh, so now he wanted to act like he had no idea. I clenched my teeth and wrote back:

“Why have you been ignoring me all week? Ever since we got back. You don’t call, you don’t text, you act distant at lunch, and now you’re all buddy-buddy with some kid I barely even know.”

I hesitated, then added:

“You had your arm around him today. You haven’t even asked me to hang out or even just talk. What the fuck, Miguel?”

The bubbles appeared again, flickering like static. Then:

Miguel: “Are you jealous?”

Me: “I’m not jealous. I’m angry. I’m sick of guys saying they love me, talking about getting married, all that fairy tale bullshit — then once they get what they want, they disappear.”

Miguel: “Do you really think that’s what I’m doing?”

Me: “YES!!!!! Obviously, there was a reason so many people warned me about you. I probably should have listened to them.”

A pause. A long one.

Then he wrote:

“Para tu información, señorito, I do love you and I wasn’t joking about getting married! But now you’re just acting loco! Have you ever thought that I have other things going on in my life, too? Have you ever asked or cared about me? It’s always about YOU! Well, right now, I need some time for ME to deal with some serious shit. And I don’t think you’re the one who can help me right now when you can barely keep your own shit together.”

It took a few minutes for his message to land. My first reaction was defensive, even a little angry. Then I reread it. The heat bled out, and embarrassment moved in. I realized how locked on me I’d been — how things hit me, how Miguel showed up for me — without asking when he needed the same. Moments lined up fast: the call from home that shut him down; the morning he joked too hard; the times I dodged his sadness because I didn’t want to sit in it.

Somewhere in there, the anger flipped to understanding. Maybe he was right. I wasn’t the only one hurting — I was just the loudest about it. It felt lousy and true at once, and yeah, I felt like crap. Again. But under that shame was a next step: shut up, show up, and be there for him the way he’s been there for me.

“I’m sorry, you’re right,” I wrote back. “And now I feel like shit. So, how can I help you?”

More silence. Then finally, Miguel wrote:

“I’ve had a lot of shit going on since we got back. Maybe we should talk in person, but there’s really nothing you can do to help and I don’t want to overburden you or make you even crazier than you are right now.”

I stared at that message for a long time. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to beg him to fix this. I wanted to throw my phone across the room. So, I just wrote:

“Or maybe we don’t even need to bother talking at all anymore. Maybe it would be better to stop seeing each other anymore.”

Then I turned off my phone, dropped it onto the floor, and collapsed onto my bed. Yes, I was being dramatic. Yes, I was being selfish. And yes, I was being manipulative. I also immediately regretted hanging up on him. He was right, and I was wrong (probably), but I didn’t want to accept that after all the suffering and anguish I’d been through the past few days. Totally self-created anguish, I might add.

And I cried … a lot. And I wished he were with me right then to hold me and tell me that everything was going to be okay. But I was stubborn, and still angry, and I wasn’t going to text or call him back again. At least not for a while, not until he showed me he was serious and explained to me why I hadn’t heard from him in three days!

I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. The kind of crying that’s ugly and loud and hurts your ribs. I was sixteen years old and completely wrecked over some boy. Me. Me. The boy who broke other boys’ hearts. The one who kept things casual. The one who never caught feelings, except for once, with Rory. And now here I was, sobbing into my pillow like I was the lead in some shitty teen drama.

I should’ve trusted my instincts when I first met him. I knew there was something “off” and dangerous about Miguel. Plenty of people had warned me, and I’d ignored all of them. There was no one to blame but myself.

Fuck the universe.

Fuck Miguel.

Fuck my damn emotional instability and weakness.

And while I was at it, fuck my dad and Juan Camilo. They were the geniuses who shoved me into this. Miguel wasn’t even supposed to be real — just a target for their stupid plan. Get close. Learn things. Help “the cause.” Then I did the dumbest thing possible: I fell in love with him.

Maybe I should talk to Carlos. He had that steady, grounded thing I didn’t. But he’d already said he was “interested” in someone at school, and the last thing I needed was to mess that up. He deserved happy. Not my soap opera.

Because that’s what I was: a walking melodrama. My emotions were extra enough to make a telenovela look subtle.

On the outside I probably looked like the perfect teen—blond hair, light eyes, tall enough, and yeah, pretty damn handsome. If I actually hit the gym, I could’ve gone full Adonis. People hit on me. I got good grades. My future looked “set.” I could be funny. Charming, even. On paper, I had it all.

Inside? Dumpster fire. Not the funny, ironic kind—the reeking, smoldering kind no one goes near. People saw the smile and the “potential” and thought I had it together. I didn’t. I was anxious. Paranoid. Spiraling. And the second anyone saw the real me, I was sure they’d bail. Who would sign up for this?

So no — find another pawn. I was done. I wasn’t DEA. I wasn’t a spy. I was a kid. A very messed-up kid carrying way more than I signed up for.

If I had to survive the next two years alone, I would. Reinvent myself. Make new friends — the kind that didn’t split me open from the inside out. Then I’d head to a university in the States, where I actually belonged, and finally get free of all this. Or leave now, move in with my grandparents until eighteen. They’d love it. I’d be bored in a week. Dating, impossible.

If I needed a new crew, I’d build one — this time with no attachments, and maybe more gringos. These Latino boys were killing me. That part would be easy. Turn on a little charm.

And when the thoughts went darkest, there was still that other idea I’d kept shoved in a back drawer of my brain. It had been there for months. I hated that it no longer felt impossible. That scared me most.

***

On Thursday morning, when I opened my locker, a heart-shaped note fluttered to the ground. I didn’t even need to read it to know it was from Miguel. Still, I picked it up, unfolded the pink paper, and stared at the simple plea:

Please talk to me.

I pulled a black Sharpie from my backpack, wrote one blunt word — No — and slid it through his locker slot without a sound. My hand trembled; the ink smudged my thumb. I couldn’t risk a conversation — no apologies, no “one last chance.” I needed something that couldn’t be argued with. With Miguel I’d touched the highest highs and crashed through the floor, always bending, then breaking, then stitching myself back together just in time to tear again. Love hadn’t kept me safe. The anger was only a flare over the real truth: this was a boundary. Saying no was the only way to protect what was left of me. My heart cracked as I shut him out, but if I didn’t end the cycle now, it was going to finish the job and destroy me.

At least, that’s what made sense to me in that particular moment. Whether I could actually stick to it was an entirely different question — because it was Miguel.

I spent the rest of the day in a fog, walking from class to class like a ghost haunting the hallways of a school I no longer felt a part of. At lunch, I went straight to the hidden spot I had discovered the day before and ate alone on a concrete bench beneath a canopy of trees, my appetite dulled by confusion and anger.

A buzz lit up my phone.

Miguel: “Where are you?”

Me: “Eating lunch by myself.”

Miguel: “Please talk to me. I feel like I’m dying inside.”

Me: “That’s exactly how you’ve been making me feel.”

I shut the phone off before I could go any further, before the words turned into something I couldn’t take back. My chest felt carved out, my head buzzing, like I’d reached the point where even anger had burned itself away and left nothing but emptiness.

When I passed my friends in the hallway, they glanced at me with that worried look I’d grown to hate. I pasted on my fake smile, muttered something about schoolwork, and kept moving. Nobody pressed. Thank God. I didn’t have the energy to keep up the mask.

Nobody, except Carlos.

“Hunter!” His voice cut through the chaos of the hallway, raw and too loud. A hand clamped onto my shoulder, and I hated that it jolted me, hated that it felt like someone actually touching me mattered.

“What?” I snapped, sharper than I meant, and for once, I didn’t even feel guilty.

“Something’s really wrong,” he said, breathless, eyes blazing with concern. “You’ve been acting like a zombie for the last few days. Please, talk to me.”

The look on his face nearly cracked me open. He looked distraught, almost scared, like my pain was bleeding into him. My throat tightened. I couldn’t let him see me like that.

No one could.

I kept walking, tried to vanish into the crowd, but Carlos wouldn’t let me. He shoved through bodies until he caught me again, spun me around, and grabbed my face in both hands. His grip was firm, desperate, almost shaking.

“Please,” he begged. “You’ve got people who care about you. I care about you. You don’t have to carry this alone, whatever is going on. Talk to us. At least talk to me.”

“I just want to be left alone,” I whispered. My voice didn’t even sound like mine — flat, empty, defeated. “That’s all I’m asking. Please. Just give me that.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes searching mine like he was trying to drag me back from somewhere dark. “No. I can’t. Because I’m scared you might hurt yourself.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” I said automatically, but even to me it sounded hollow. My heart was pounding too fast, my thoughts darting toward places I didn’t want him to see. “I just… need time. I need to figure things out on my own.”

He hesitated, his eyes flashing with something — fear, maybe anger, maybe both.

“Bueno,” he said finally. “Then make me a deal. You talk to me — or let me take you to Dr. Montoya — and I’ll tell you who I’m interested in at school. Deal?”

I let out a bitter laugh and rolled my eyes. “Carlos, I don’t care who you’re interested in. It’s your life. It’s none of my business. Just… please. Leave me alone. I’ll talk when I’m ready.”

His hands fell away, and something in him seemed to cave. “Fine,” he murmured. “You win. I won’t push anymore. But Hunter… you know how to reach me. We all care about you. Don’t forget that.”

He turned and walked the other way, swallowed by the crowd. And I just stood there, empty, wondering why he even bothered. Why did he care so much when I wasn’t worth the trouble?

Later, at my locker again, another note waited for me:

What’s going on? Are we still boyfriends? Do you still love me? Are we breaking up?

I uncapped my Sharpie once more and replied on the back: I don’t know.

And why was he asking me if we were breaking up? I’d been freaking out the last few days, like I was trapped in a bottomless pit of teenage angst, because I figured that he was breaking up with me. That he didn’t love me anymore.

But what really pushed me over the edge that day was what happened at the front gate after school. I was standing there, waiting for Juan Camilo to pick me up, when Tomás — that little puto who’d been so “friendly” with Miguel earlier — walked up to me. I turned away, hoping he’d take the hint. But he didn’t.

"Hola, ¿qué más pues?" he said, introducing himself. “Soy Tomás. Mucho gusto.”

When I still didn’t respond, he added, "Nothing is happening with me and Miguel. Nothing ever happened with him. We’re just friends. You should talk to him. Please."

"It’s none of your business anyway," I said coldly, without looking at him. "So why don’t you just fuck off!"

He winced and softly said, "Lo siento," before turning and walking away, head down.

When I got home, I buried myself in homework, grinding through every last assignment just to keep my hands busy. But it didn’t help much. The same thoughts just kept going through my mind over and over.

After I finished my homework, I was bored. Lonely. Frustrated. So, I told Juan Camilo I was going for a walk and headed toward Parque Poblado as the sun dipped low on the horizon. I hadn’t been there in weeks. I wasn’t even sure why I was going. Maybe part of me wanted to feel something — anything — that wasn’t this gnawing pit of malaise, betrayal, and emptiness.

The park was just as I remembered it: families meandering through, couples on benches, little kids chasing each other in the fading light. The lamps flickered on, casting golden halos on the cobblestones. I sat alone on a bench and waited. I didn’t know what for, until two familiar faces sat down beside me.

"Hola, Brayan. Hola Miguel Ángel. ¿Bien o qué?" I greeted them.

Brayan gave me a wide grin. "¿Quiubo pues, parce? You’re sounding more like a paisa now, ¡qué chévere!"

Their clothes were the same as last time — baggy, oversized distressed jeans, knockoff sneakers, gold necklaces, backwards caps — their distinct nea style still fully intact. But something in their expressions felt gentler tonight, less guarded. Maybe they saw me not as a “client” anymore, but perhaps as a “friend.” That would be cool. These were the “real” Colombians I wanted to know and befriend. I felt more comfortable with them than I did the snooty boys at my “elite” international school.

A part of me kept whispering that the perfect way to get back at Miguel for ignoring me and blowing me off for days would be to screw both of them. I’d even brought enough money to make it happen … and condoms. They were teenage prostitutes, after all. Maybe a good, hard, no-strings fuck would finally shut my head up, at least for a little while. And God, they were both so damn attractive… But even as I thought it, I knew it was less about pleasure and more about punishment — punishing Miguel, punishing myself. A temporary distraction dressed up as revenge.

I told Brayan I’d actually been looking for them, and his eyebrow shot up.

“Why? You wanna buy a ploncito?”

“Maybe,” I said. “If you’ll join me.”

He smirked, then translated for Miguel Ángel, who just gave a one-shoulder shrug like it didn’t matter either way.

“You’ll probably need to buy more than one plon if it’s for all of us,” he laughed.

“No hay problema,” I replied.

“We got a little apartment now in Bello,” Brayan said, casual as if he were talking about grabbing a snack. “We can go there.”

I hesitated. Bello. One of the poorest, roughest parts of the valley — a place with gangs on every corner, where police and army raids were as common as rain, and shootouts in broad daylight weren’t rare. Hell, the gangs were even occasionally known to shoot at the Metrocable cars as they climbed up the mountain!

“Are you sure it’s safe to go there right now?”

Brayan grinned, nodding. “You’re safe with us, parce. Don’t worry. Los Pelados Bravos control the zone we’ll be in, and we’re cool with them. They won’t bother us.”

Then he added, like it was nothing: “There’s a turf war going on between Los Pelados Bravos and Los Chacales, but that’s not near where we stay. Relax, bro. You’re safe with us.”

“Don’t the government or police do anything about the gang fighting?” I asked.

Brayan translated my question for Miguel Ángel, and the two of them burst out laughing, loud enough to make people stare.

“Every once in a while,” Brayan said between laughs, “they roll in the army, armored trucks and everything. But it’s just a show. They can’t, or they won’t, actually do anything. They’d rather sit back and let us kill each other. If somebody shoots at them, sure, they’ll fire back for a while, but then they just leave. Doesn’t solve shit. Out here, you gotta know the rules — be careful where you walk and make sure the right people know your face. Strangers make everybody nervous.”

“Well, I’m a stranger!” I blurted. “What are they gonna do to me?”

“Nothing, bro. Chill.” He smirked again, almost amused at my panic. “We vouch for you, maybe they ask to see your cédula, but that’s it. If you’re with us, nobody touches you. Just don’t ever go there alone looking for us. Ever. Better to meet in Parque Poblado and then come home with us.”

So, we went. We boarded the metro at Estación Poblado, and the moment the doors slid shut behind us, I realized it was my first time riding it. I hadn’t expected much, but I was stunned by how smooth and modern it was — spotless cars gliding silently through the valley, bright white lights overhead, neat rows of seats, and chrome poles gleaming like they’d just been polished. It felt almost futuristic compared to the chaos outside.

Brayan leaned back against the pole like he owned the whole train, loose and cocky, grinning at strangers like he dared them to look away first. Miguel Ángel, by contrast, stood stiff and silent, arms crossed, his reflection in the glass hard and distant, as though he could vanish into the city rolling by.

And me? I couldn’t stop staring at Brayan’s eyes. Big, dark, and beautiful. By all rights, they should’ve been empty by now, hollowed out by the life he’d been forced to live. But instead, they were bright, alive, almost boyish — a spark of cheer in a place that had no business being cheerful. He didn’t belong here. Neither of them did. And the thought hit me so hard it hurt: I had to find some way to get them out. Both of them. The problem was… how?

As we moved north, the scenery outside changed. The wealth and polish of El Poblado gave way to crumbling brick, graffiti-tagged walls, and shantytowns built into the hillsides. The sun vanished behind the Andes, leaving the city cloaked in twilight. By the time we reached Estación Niquía, the mood on the train had shifted. People looked tired. Cautious. No one smiled.

We exited and walked for another fifteen minutes into Bello. The air smelled of fried empanadas and burnt oil. Broken sidewalks lined the narrow streets. Trash piled in gutters. Tin roofs rusted and bent at odd angles. Wires hung like jungle vines, crossing overhead in chaotic tangles. Every step deeper into the neighborhood made my pulse quicken. This was another world.

As we were walking, I heard a long burst of automatic gunfire, followed by another. It didn’t feel that safe to me.

As we turned onto a dark street corner, two men emerged from the shadows, just standing there, watching. They weren’t just loitering — they looked like predators waiting to decide if we were prey. Brayan stopped and told me to stay put with Miguel Ángel while he went ahead to speak with them. The exchange was quick, quiet, and impossible for me to catch up with. Then Brayan waved us over.

In the faint wash of moonlight, I caught the glint of metal: both men had pistols jammed into their waistbands. Their bodies were canvases of ink, tattoos climbing up their necks, across their arms, even spidering onto their faces, pierced in places that made me wince. One of them stepped toward me, eyes flat.

“Documento,” he said gruffly.

My hand shook as I pulled out my cédula and passed it over. He glanced at it, flashed it to the other guy, then handed it back like it was nothing. A single nod, and they let us through.

As we walked away, my pulse still pounding in my throat, Brayan leaned close and whispered, almost offhand, “They provide security for this part of the barrio, since the policía don’t.”

It was surreal, like stepping into a different world. And I couldn’t decide what was scarier — the fact that guys like that were running security… or how normal it seemed to Brayan.

***

Their apartment building was a sagging brick box, two stories tall and barely holding itself together. If I turned on the flashlight on my phone, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see hypodermic needles, too. The stairwell was pitch black, filled with broken glass, empty cans of Águila and Club Colombia beer, and cigarette butts. Upstairs, Brayan unlocked a metal door that creaked on rusted hinges.

Inside, the apartment was a single room. Cinder block walls. No paint. Cement floor. One mattress in the center. No furniture except a couple of plastic chairs and a plastic crate with an ashtray on it. A bare bulb dangled from the ceiling. That was it. It was pretty depressing, but this was the reality for the majority of Medellín’s residents.

"Mi casa es su casa," Brayan said with a grin.

He immediately sat down on the mattress, rolled a fat ploncito, lit it, and handed it to me. I took a big hit and immediately started coughing, which made them both laugh uproariously. Brayan coached me through a smaller puff, and soon I was beginning to feel a little floaty.

I gave Miguel Ángel 100 mil pesos to buy us an extra-large pizza, a few Cubano sandwiches, snacks, and drinks from downstairs. I knew we’d get hungry when we were stoned, especially with this strong-as-shit Colombian weed, potentially mixed with God knows what. By the time Miguel Ángel returned with a couple of liters of Postobón sodas and the food, I was stoned, shirtless, and talking like I’d known Brayan my whole life. We cracked open the bottles, and the cold apple soda fizzed on my tongue like magic. And I was starving.

Miguel Ángel peeled off his shirt, then his pants, leaving him down to just his boxers. Brayan followed, casual and unbothered, then nodded at me to do the same. For a second, I hesitated, then thought, Why the hell not? Moments later, the three of us were sprawled out in our underwear, smoking, laughing, eating greasy pizza like it was the most normal thing in the world. No tension, no pressure — just boys being boys.

I felt the most relaxed and calm I had felt in days.

Except I couldn’t ignore the charge under my skin.

With the weed loosening my tongue, I asked, “Are you guys gay, or do you just do this for money?”

Brayan smirked, his eyes glittering. “I’m bi, but I think I like boys more. Miguel Ángel says he’s straight, but he likes bottoming.”

I laughed — a little too hard, a little too nervously. In Colombia, labels felt more fluid, less rigid. But then Miguel Ángel muttered something under his breath, and Brayan grinned. “He wants to shotgun you.”

I nodded, my chest tight with anticipation. Miguel Ángel took a long hit, held it in, then leaned toward me. His mouth pressed against mine, hot smoke flooding into my lungs — and then his tongue flicked into my mouth. Just enough to ignite something. Just enough to make me burn.

I wanted more. God, I wanted it the way you crave water after hours in the sun, or like a crack whore craves … well, crack — desperately, without thought, without hesitation. “¿Quieres…?” I asked, my voice catching.

He only shrugged and lay back, but that shrug was all the permission I needed.

The moment I leaned down, his lips crushed into mine. Warm. Wet. Demanding. His breath was sweet with smoke, his tongue slow but insistent, teasing me, dragging me deeper. My hand clamped the back of his neck, pulling him against me until every inch of him was pressed to me, and we started grinding together, slowly and first, and then more intensely.

Every kiss was hunger. His teeth nipped my lip, jolting electricity down my spine. I grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking gently, while his tongue pushed past mine, his mouth hot and reckless against me. I lost myself in the rhythm of it — push, pull, chase — until I wasn’t sure where I ended and he began. He tasted like salt, heat, danger. I couldn’t stop. I reached my hand underneath his boxer-briefs and started squeezing his tiny little ass like my life depended on it.

I briefly looked over at Brayan, and he was already naked, jerking his large cock while watching us. I couldn’t think of any other way to describe it in that moment other than hot. His eyes were fixed on us, and his dick was so hard it was leaking, and that just turned me on even more.

It was raw, urgent, desperate — a collision more than a kiss. Even Miguel had never kissed me like this, not with this kind of reckless abandon, and the thought both thrilled me and tore me apart. And Miguel Ángel was supposedly straight! Oh, the irony!

Time vanished. It could’ve been five minutes, could’ve been forever. When I pulled back to ask something — anything — Miguel Ángel only giggled, low and quiet against my lips, and then kissed me again before I could breathe.

By the time I finally broke away, my chest was heaving, my lips swollen, and every nerve in my body was screaming for more. That kiss would stay with me, etched in me, haunting me. And whatever he wanted to call himself, there was no way in hell that boy was straight.

“Quieres venirte?” Brayan asked huskily. Of course, I wanted to cum!

“Sí, por favor,” I mumbled.

No sooner than the words were out of my mouth, he had swallowed my whole cock, down to my pubes, and started bobbing up and down rapidly. I ran my fingers through his soft, Brillo-like hair, and he then switched to licking my balls. I could feel Miguel Ángel wrap his arms around me from behind, resting his head on my shoulder while his hands rubbed gently all over my chest, and he gently tweaked my nipples. In only a matter of seconds, I warned Brayan that I was about to cum, but he just kept sucking until I passed the point of no return and shot my load down his throat.

As I lay there trying to catch my breath, they both kneeled over me and started frantically jerking their cocks while making out with each other. In no more than a minute, both boys shot their loads all over me.

Brayan darted off and came back with a towel, gently wiping me down with more care than I expected from him. When he was done, the three of us collapsed together on the dirty mattress, a tangle of limbs and warmth. We lay there in our boxers, brushing fingertips across each other’s skin, pressing soft kisses to cheeks and necks, staring into one another’s eyes like time had slowed to syrup. It probably wasn’t hours — just the weed stretching everything out — but it felt endless, infinite. And it was beautiful. So much more than sex. It wasn’t until then that I realized how badly I needed this — not just the release, not even the amazing sex itself, but the gentleness afterward. The closeness. The proof that I wasn’t alone.

When my head finally cleared enough to form real thoughts again, the conversation drifted to Miguel. I found myself telling them everything — how we’d fallen in love, how last weekend had been the first time we’d slept together, and how he’d shut me out ever since.

Brayan frowned at first, saying maybe Miguel was just after my money. But when I explained that Miguel’s family was far wealthier than mine — wealthier than most families — he just shook his head, stumped.

“Qué pesado,” he muttered. Heavy. Complicated.

He translated the gist to Miguel Ángel, who only looked at me with soft, almost sympathetic eyes.

“Do you still love him?” Brayan asked.

“More than anything,” I admitted, even though I’d just cheated on him, although I don’t think the impact of that had fully hit me yet, since I was still pretty high.

“So… you wanna break up with him?”

I paused, torn down the middle. My head said yes. My heart screamed no. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

Brayan’s voice softened, steady but kind. “Parce… maybe you just need to talk to him. Colombians, we don’t always say things the way gringos do. A lot of us keep stuff inside — out of pride, or fear, or because we don’t know how to say it out loud. You and Miguel gotta figure out how to work through that together instead of against each other. If you really want this, you have to talk about stuff. Or it just turns into games. Although you might not want to mention what happened here tonight if you wanna get back together with him!”

I couldn’t help but snicker a little. I didn’t really feel the guilt yet because of the weed, but I knew it would hit me hard as soon as I came down.

Some of what Brayan said also echoed what Carlos had told me previously, that Colombian men (or teenage boys, in this case) don’t often like to share their problems openly, part of the machismo culture, so I had to figure out a way to break through that barrier and get Miguel to open up to me, not just run away and ghost me. His last note said he wanted to talk, so I guess the best thing to do now would be to let him talk and try to listen.

I was pretty stunned. This streetwise boy, who sold weed and his own body, had just given me some of the most honest relationship advice I’d ever gotten.

I hugged Brayan tightly. "Gracias."

After one last puff, I said I needed to head home before it got too late. I gave them some cash for the weed and a generous tip for the company and for their wisdom. Brayan asked me for a kiss before I left, since he didn’t get to earlier. I laughed but obliged.

His kiss was electric — hungry, rough, almost desperate. It was also much longer than I was expecting, and it left me a little breathless. If I weren’t so messed up in the head about Miguel, and my lips so tired from kissing Miguel Ángel, I would have kissed him much longer. Heck, I’d even consider dating him if it weren’t for Miguel. I really liked him. But our worlds were even further apart than mine and Miguel’s.

Miguel Ángel’s goodbye kiss was soft and slow, and he felt so good in my arms. Just sleeping next to him and holding him all night would be heaven. I gave his tiny butt a playful smack when we pulled apart.

They walked me back to the station, made sure I had the right ticket, and waved as I boarded the train. I practically kicked myself for not at least asking for Brayan’s number. I really wanted to keep in touch with him. He could be a good friend, despite being a drug dealer and a male prostitute. But I vowed to find him again. There was something special about him.

About halfway through the metro ride back, the guilt hit me like a freight train. I knew it would. It always does. I was such a fucking hypocrite. All this time I’d been twisting myself up over Miguel — terrified he was keeping secrets from me, or worse, messing around with other guys behind my back. But the truth was brutal: it wasn’t him. It was me. I was the one who’d just cheated, just like I did with Rory. Me — wasted, high out of my mind, throwing myself at a couple of teen prostitutes in one of the most dangerous corners of the city. Trashy didn’t even begin to cover it.

And how much of what I’d been accusing Miguel of, even in my head, had just been paranoia? What if he hadn’t done anything wrong at all? What if he was only holding back because he was scared, or ashamed, or didn’t know how to put his feelings into words? And here I was, the supposed “victim,” making myself the liar, the cheater, the fuck-up. Maybe the biggest fuck-up alive. And the weird thing was that I didn’t do it because I didn’t love him anymore, or he wasn’t satisfying me. The exact opposite was the truth. Other than the distance between us the past week and his ignoring me, I still loved him now just as much as ever, and he always left me very satisfied. So why had I done it? Just out of spite? Revenge for something I didn’t even know that he did?

I couldn’t blame Brayan. I couldn’t blame Miguel Ángel. They hadn’t forced me. I’d walked into it with my eyes open, and I’d wanted it. That was the worst part — knowing I’d chosen it. Knowing I had no one to blame but myself. As usual, I was my own worst enemy and I couldn’t stop myself, even when I knew I should.

But even with that pit in my stomach, another thought shoved its way in: Miguel. I couldn’t lose him. I wouldn’t. If anything, I had to try harder to fix things with him, to show him how much he meant to me, to make it up to him somehow — without him ever knowing the truth. One secret had already been eating me alive. Now I had two. And the way they pressed against my chest, heavy and poisonous, I knew it was only a matter of time before they destroyed me … or I did the world a favor and destroyed myself.

By the time I got home, it was almost 11 o’clock and Juan Camilo was waiting.

“You’re late,” he said

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

"And you smell like pot," he said.

I shrugged. "It’s legal in Colombia."

"Not if you’re underage. Getting high isn’t gonna fix your problems, Mr. Hunter. You gotta face them."

Wait, did he know about Miguel? I wasn’t sure.

"I’m sorry, I won’t do it again," I lied, fingers crossed behind my back. “I’ve just had an awful week.”

He rolled his eyes. "Just don’t make me regret not telling your dad. If he found out, he’d probably send you home, and I don’t think you want that."

“No, sir,” I replied softly, then trudged to my room and collapsed onto the bed.

For the first time all week, I slept without crying, but before I fell asleep, I was thinking again about that bottle of sleeping pills in my father’s medicine cabinet.

NEXT CHAPTER

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