Medellín

The kitchen was quiet, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional scrape of a spoon against a saucer. The three of us sat around the table like survivors after a storm, not quite sure what to say or feel. My fingers were locked around a warm mug of coffee, but I wasn’t drinking it. I just needed something to hold.

 

Doña Susana moved gently through the kitchen, filling the room with the earthy smell of fresh-ground beans and hot oil. She placed a basket of empanadas in the center of the table like a peace offering, murmuring soft reassurances in Spanish under her breath – half to herself, half to us, and crossing herself several times. Her voice was the only one that didn’t feel out of place. She then walked around the house with a burning palo santo stick to remove any negative energy.

 

Across from me, Juan Camilo was talking – low and firm, almost like I was being scolded without it being called a scolding. “You don’t run into a live shooting scene,” he said. “Even to help. You wait for security. You follow protocol.”

 

I nodded numbly, eyes fixed on a tile crack in the floor. I couldn’t explain what made me do it – run toward Ricardo like that. I didn’t even know him. I still wasn’t sure if it had been bravery or stupidity. All I knew was that I kept seeing his blood, that horrible red bloom spreading across the floor, and the way he was screaming for help.

 

There was a new person in the room, too – leaning against the wall near the hallway. Cabo Primero Santiago Ramírez. He was introduced with a short nod from Juan Camilo: “He’ll be part of your protection team from now on. He’s with the Colombian National Police.”

 

Santiago couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty. He had longish black hair that curled just a little at the ends and brushed the tops of his ears. A faint goatee shadowed his chin, and he had the kind of calm, unreadable face you only see on statues and cops. His arms were folded across his chest, and he stood there like he didn’t need to say anything to make his presence known.

 

Even through my haze of fear and exhaustion, I noticed how attractive he was. Gorgeous eyes. Tall and strong. Handsome. I hated myself for it a little, because today wasn’t supposed to be about noticing things like that. But I was sixteen and had just survived a literal assassination. My brain was scrambled, and maybe it was just comforting to focus on something normal – like the fact that my new bodyguard looked like someone out of a telenovela and probably had an enormous cock.

 

Santiago gave us a polite nod. “Buenas tardes, señoritos,” he said, and that was it. He had a really sexy voice, too. And though I wasn’t really into “older” guys so much, I’d still probably let him ravage me. See what stress makes me do!

 

Juan Camilo explained that he’d be helping out, running errands, transporting us if necessary, and staying close in case of any follow-up threats. The compound’s private security had also increased their patrols of the perimeter and were now carrying shotguns instead of the small-caliber pistols they usually carried. For now, Yeison and Zack would be staying here, too, until it was deemed safe to travel back to their homes. Their parents had already been contacted and had agreed without hesitation. In fact, they were beyond grateful. The school was closed for at least the rest of the week while the investigation was underway. We weren’t safe alone, and we didn’t have any idea if that was the only attack or if there would be more.

 

I should have felt trapped, but instead I felt… almost relieved. I didn’t want to be alone.

 

Not now. Not tonight. Especially not after what we’d seen.

 

I’d half-expected something like this to drag me back into the darkness, but it didn’t. Not yet. My body was humming on adrenaline, and having Yeison next to me steadied me in a way I didn’t even want to think about. Zack, though, was uncharacteristically quiet. For all his world travels, I doubted he’d ever lived through anything like this: a real shootout in the street, the kind you can’t pack up and leave behind when the credits roll.

 

I couldn’t wrap my head around it either. It wasn’t anything like the movies – no clever one-liners, no slow-motion dives. Just noise, confusion, people running. The sharp crack of gunfire, the blur of bodies hitting the ground, a haze of smoke stinging my nose. It all felt unreal, like I was watching it happen to someone else. Hollywood always made it seem neat, almost stylish. But this? This was messy, jagged, senseless. And I just sat there, too stunned to feel much of anything. Although I did think the way Juan Camilo shot out the tire of that motorcycle was pretty damn badass! And, he did his job; he kept me safe.

 

After forcing down half an empanada, I pushed my plate away and leaned back in my chair. I looked over at Yeison, who was nibbling the crust of his own pastry without much interest. He was wearing one of my oversized T-shirts that sagged on his shoulders and a pair of borrowed pajama pants. His curls glistened slightly under the kitchen light. He looked tired. Haunted. But when he met my eyes, he gave me a small, brave smile.

 

“You okay?” I whispered.

 

He shrugged, then reached under the table and slid his hand into mine. “Not really,” he said softly. “But I’m glad I’m here … with you.”

 

That simple sentiment hit me harder than I expected. I wanted to say something back, something profound or comforting, but all I could do was squeeze his hand tighter.

 

Zack sat beside him, elbow propped on the table, his cheek resting against his palm. He watched us with a quiet, unreadable expression – not jealous, not annoyed, just... there. Present. But beneath that stillness, I could see it – he was still reeling, the shock not yet worn off.

 

Doña Susana shooed us away from the table not long after. With Yeison’s help translating, she told us to take showers, long ones, and promised hot drinks when we were done. “No van a dormir oliendo a humo y miedo,” she said. Yeison translated for me: “You’re not going to bed smelling like smoke and fear.”

 

We took turns showering. The hot water hit my skin like a confession. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I saw my shoulders shaking in the mirror afterward. I dried off and pulled on my cleanest clothes: soft cotton shorts and a hoodie that smelled faintly of laundry soap and something herbal. When I emerged, Yeison and Zack were already curled up on my bed in their borrowed clothes.

 

Doña Susana bustled in again, lighting more palo santo and waving it through the air like a priestess. The smoky, sweet scent clung to everything. But I guess it was her way of helping. She then brought us mugs of aguapanela, a drink made by mixing unrefined cane sugar and water – dark and comforting, with limes floating near the surface like half-moons. I handed one to each of the boys and clicked on the TV.

 

We didn’t even bother choosing a good movie. I think we chose Back to the Future because it was familiar and didn’t require much emotional investment from us. We pulled the comforter over ourselves and sank into the mattress like we were all trying to disappear into it.

 

I sat in the middle. It was a bit crowded with three of us in my bed, but it also felt comforting to all be so close together then.

 

Yeison’s shoulder brushed mine, and after a few minutes, he let his head fall gently onto mine. I turned and let him rest there, his hand finding mine again under the covers.

 

“I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight,” I said.

 

“Then we won’t sleep,” he whispered.

 

Zack, already lying down, shifted closer and rested a hand on my back, his fingers warm even through my shirt.

 

Yeison ran his fingers through my damp hair, slow and thoughtful. His touch made something flutter inside my chest. It wasn’t lust – it wasn’t even romantic, exactly. It was something older than that. Safe. Being understood. Being held without being asked to explain myself.

 

I couldn’t help it. I turned and kissed his cheek. Just once. A soft peck. He didn’t pull away.

 

Maybe this whole thing was supposed to be a sign from the Universe – that I was meant to be with Yeison, thrown together at exactly the right moment. But even as the thought crossed my mind, it felt flimsy. Forced. Because after what I’d seen today, I wasn’t sure anything here was safe. Not love, not hookups, not even walking down the street.

 

The idea of “sowing my wild oats” in Medellín suddenly felt reckless – dangerous, even. And yet the thought still excited me, maybe more than it should have. The possibilities here were endless, and I couldn’t pretend I didn’t want to taste all of them. I just hoped my hormones wouldn’t get me in trouble.

 

But beneath all that, the darker question lingered: what the hell had my father pulled me into? What kind of world had he dropped me into without warning, without asking? And for the first time, I wondered if I was already in deeper than I realized.

 

Yeison looked at me again, eyes dark and unreadable, and whispered, “Thank you for holding my hand today. When it all happened. I thought I was going to go crazy. I thought I was dead.”

 

“I couldn’t let go,” I whispered back.

 

We stayed like that for a long time, tucked under the same blanket, warm mugs in our laps, a movie flickering across the room like a ghost we didn’t care about.

 

Later that evening, the front door opened.

 

My father had arrived – with Agent Sánchez in tow, carrying a shotgun. I sat up, heart thumping, and waited as their heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. They both had flak jackets on, covered by their windbreakers that said DEA on the back.

 

The bedroom door opened.

 

My dad stood in the doorway for a second, eyes scanning the room like he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Me, curled up between two other boys. All of us half-asleep, half-awake, blinking into the light.

 

He walked in and knelt beside the bed.

 

“I was worried sick,” he said, voice tight.

 

Then, before I could react, he hugged me.

 

My father – Mr. No-Nonsense DEA Agent – wrapped his arms around me and didn’t let go right away. It was the kind of hug that said I don’t know how to do this, but I’m trying.

 

“I’m okay,” I said, muffled against his shoulder. “Juan Camilo took good care of me. He was a total badass.”

 

He gave Zack and Yeison a quick nod, then stood and left the room with Agent Sánchez, gently shutting the door behind them.

 

Shortly thereafter, Officer Santiago returned with bags full of clothes and toiletries for Yeison and Zack, so at least they could have some of their own things over the next few days.

 

I lay back down, settling between my two friends. But I couldn’t sleep yet. Not with the quiet voices drifting down the hallway again.

 

Curiosity got the best of me. I crept to the bedroom door and cracked it open just enough to hear.

 

“…has he gotten close to the target yet?” my dad asked.

 

Juan Camilo’s voice: “It looked that way… but maybe not anymore. Still, we’ll keep working on it.”

 

“Don’t do anything that puts him in more danger,” my dad said. “If we need to change the plan, we’ll change it.”

 

A pause.

 

“What about the others?” Juan Camilo asked.

 

“They won’t get in the way. Let them be. We’re not going to be cruel. If Plan A doesn’t work, we’ll find another way.”

 

The conversation shifted – cartels, smuggling routes, wire transfers – and eventually I stopped trying to follow along. It sounded like something big. Dangerous. But nothing to do with me.

 

Very quietly, I closed the door and climbed back into bed.

 

Yeison immediately reached for me. I pressed myself into him, resting my head on his chest. He pulled the blanket over both of us and kissed the top of my hair.

 

Zack, still quiet, curled against my back and tugged my hoodie gently down over my waist like a protective cocoon.

 

In that moment, I felt warm. Safe. Loved.

 

And still – I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell Plan A was supposed to be.

 

Despite my depression, constant anxiety, self-doubt, low self-confidence, my sometimes-uncontrollable libido, and my other myriad problems, which I collectively referred to as the darkness, I was also curious. And I wanted to know what the hell was going on.

 

***

 

I woke slowly, like my brain was trying to drag me back into the quiet safety of dreams. My eyes blinked open to warm morning light spilling in through the sheer curtains, painting stripes across the tile floor. For a second, I forgot where I was – until I felt the comforting weight of Yeison’s arm across my waist and Zack’s chin resting lightly against the back of my shoulder.

 

We were still in the same position as the night before, tangled up in a three-boy cocoon of warmth and quiet breathing. Yeison stirred beside me, then cracked one eye open and smirked.

 

“Morning, gringuito,” he whispered, voice still thick with sleep.

 

“Buenos días, colombiano,” I replied, cracking a smile. 

 

I gave Yeison a quick peck on the cheek. “Is this gonna be a regular thing? Because I’m not complaining.”

 

He yawned and brushed his curls back from his face. “If I say yes, you're gonna bring me breakfast in bed?”

 

“If it involves coffee and not arepas, I might.”

 

From the hallway, we heard Doña Susana humming softly and the swish-swish of her broom against the tile. The familiar scent of cinnamon and sugar drifted into the room – buñuelos, maybe? One of my favorite treats. Whatever it was, my stomach grumbled.

 

Zack finally blinked awake behind me, groaning dramatically. “You two are already flirting? What time is it?”

 

“Too early for sarcasm,” I mumbled, stretching under the covers. “But just late enough for news.”

 

We turned on the TV and flipped to Caracol, one of the leading Colombian news networks. Immediately, there it was – our school. El Colegio Internacional de los Andes. Footage of the campus still blocked off with yellow tape, police officers pacing in the background, and flashes of red-and-blue lights from the previous day. I could still clearly see the blood stains on the front steps from where the Headmaster had been gunned down, and I felt like I might vomit.

 

The report was, of course, in Spanish. So, I leaned forward and squinted, trying to keep up.

 

Yeison nudged me. “I’ll translate, don’t worry,” he said softly.

 

Zack cleared his throat like he was giving a dramatic reading. “So far, they think it was some kind of turf war – the Clan de Bahía Sur fighting Los Herederos.”

 

Yeison cut in, frowning. “But not everyone believes this. It sounds too… loud. Too messy. They say maybe it was just someone trying to kill… another social justice leader. The Headmistress.”

 

I sat upright. “You mean she might’ve been the actual target?”

 

Yeison nodded solemnly. “Maybe. It happens here all the time. Many powerful people don’t want to change the system. Same with politicians. If a social justice leader starts to threaten their business, or tries to expose them, or just pisses them off, then they kill them. It usually happens in the more rural areas, but sometimes here in Medellín, too. Of course, the government and the policía don’t do anything about it. They usually just label them as ‘guerrillas’ and leave it at that.”

 

In the background, I heard Juan Camilo pacing and talking on the phone. His voice was low, but I caught pieces of it. Something about Bogotá. My father had apparently already flown back to the U.S. embassy.

 

Then I heard it. That word again.

 

“…doesn’t make sense that the Clan would attack the school with the possible target inside.”

 

I froze. My eyes snapped toward the hallway.

 

Who the hell was the target? Why did they keep using that word like we were supposed to know what it meant?

 

I turned back to the TV, but it only got worse. The anchor announced that the official casualty count had climbed to seven dead – including Headmistress Valderrama – and thirty-six injured. A chill ran down my spine.

 

Zack muttered, “Jesus…”

 

Yeison squeezed my hand tightly. “They say… two men from the moto. One driver, one shooter. Caught. Alive. In hospital.”

 

I swallowed. “Do they know who they are?”

 

“No names yet,” he said. “But the Clan, probably. Or… someone pretending.”

 

The moment I heard the word "hospital,” my thoughts jumped immediately to Ricardo. I’d seen him bleeding, gasping. I barely knew his name at the time; he was just another kid in the hallway. Now I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

 

“I want to see him,” I said, suddenly standing up. “I want to make sure he’s okay.”

 

Yeison glanced at me, unsure. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

 

“I don’t care. He almost died right in front of me. I need to see him.”

 

“Should I be jealous?” Yeison asked, grinning at me.

 

I froze for a second. We weren’t even a couple yet, and now he was starting to act like we already were. That bothered me a little bit.

 

“Depends on how good our first kiss is,” I joked, making him blush, and trying to force those thoughts out of my mind … for now.

 

Juan Camilo entered the room before Yeison could say anything more. “Absolutamente no,” he said firmly. “There’s still danger. We don’t know if this was the only attack.”

 

I crossed my arms. “Then you'd better come with us.”

 

“No.”

 

“¡Por favor!”

 

“No.”

 

I puffed out my cheeks and let it rip—the biggest, most petulant, American-style tantrum I could manage. “You think I’m just gonna sit here like some hostage while my classmates are lying in hospitals, bleeding? He’s a kid, Juan Camilo. He’s one of us. And our lives are tied together now – whether you like it or not. The Universe didn’t just drop us in each other’s paths for no reason. It was the exact moment when I could actually save him. And you … you believe in all this superstitious crap all the time, but now you can’t take this as a sign from the Universe or God, or whatever that I’m supposed to help him?”

 

My voice cracked on that last word, the anger burning hot but stretched thin over something else – fear, maybe. The thought of just sitting here, useless, while someone I cared about fought for his life made my chest ache so hard I could barely breathe.

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply, muttering something in Spanish that sounded like a prayer for patience. “You are very annoying, you know that?”

 

“I get that a lot.”

 

Yeison and Zack exchanged hopeful grins.

 

Finally, Juan Camilo groaned. “Fine. But you don’t leave his room. No wandering. Santiago and I will both be with you. And from now on, you will listen more to me! For starters, you’re all wearing bulletproof vests. They’re not comfortable, but if you wanna go out right now, you have to deal with them.

 

“Deal.”

 

Within thirty minutes, we were piled into the black SUV with Officer Santiago behind the wheel, sunglasses on, jaw set. He didn’t say much, but when I caught his eye in the rearview mirror, he gave me a soft, gentle smile. My heart did a little pirouette. Crushes were inconvenient like that.

 

The drive to Clínica Medellín - El Poblado was quiet, tense. The city outside rolled by in sun-drenched shades of terracotta and green, the streets busy with mopeds and vendors selling mangoes on sticks. The hospital itself was relatively modern – glass windows, white tile floors, and potted palms in every corridor. But the waiting room was crowded and chaotic, the triage nurses looked exhausted, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic, overripe fruit, and old ladies who hadn’t had their diapers changed in a while.

 

Juan Camilo flashed his badge and spoke quickly to the receptionist. She nodded and led us down a hallway lined with beds and soft beeping machines. We passed families sleeping in chairs, holding hands, crying quietly. It was too real, too fast.

 

When we reached Ricardo’s room, a nurse stopped us. “Only his parents have visited,” she explained, her accent thick. “They work. Very humble family. He is… mostly alone.”

 

That hit something in my chest. He must have been one of the scholarship students, meaning he pretty much raised himself while his parents were trying to earn a few pesos to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. He really was all alone, and he must have been terrified.

 

Ricardo was lying there with bandages across his shoulder and chest, a heart monitor ticking steadily beside him. His curls were messy, his cheeks pale, and his arms impossibly thin. He looked like he weighed less than Yeison. He looked young, even though I knew he was around our age.

 

But when his eyes fluttered open and landed on me, they lit up instantly.

 

“¡Mi héroe! You came to visit me!” he said with a hoarse smile. “Thank you… so much for saving my life!”

“We haven’t officially met,” I said gently, stepping forward. “I’m Hunter.”

 

He smiled bigger. “I know. El gringo. You are very famous at the school.”

 

I laughed and blushed, beet red. “And this is Yeison. And Zack. They are my friends.”

 

“Hola,” he said. “Ustedes son mis nuevos amigos?”

 

“Si usted quiere,” responded Yeison with a smile.

 

He looked down at the IV in his arm. “They say I'm going home tomorrow.”

 

My brow furrowed. “Tomorrow? You were shot. You should at least be here a few more days so they can observe you.”

 

Yeison muttered, “The SISBEN health insurance for poor people here is very bad.”

 

I turned to Juan Camilo, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, as if hoping not to get involved. I gave him the best wide-eyed, puppy-dog stare I could muster.

 

He sighed. “Dios mío… now we’re running a convalescent home.”

 

“Let him stay with us,” I said. “Just until he’s better. So, we can keep an eye on him, change his bandages, check for infections, stuff like that. His parents work all the time, so they can’t keep up with his follow-up care.”

 

He narrowed his eyes. “This is not Airbnb for wounded teenagers, Hunter.”

 

I kept staring. “Please. Let’s make something good come out of this mess.”

 

He muttered another curse and pulled out his phone. “Fine. He calls me when he’s discharged. I’ll pick him up. He can stay with you. But you take care of him. I’ve got too many other things to do.”

 

Yeison beamed. Zack gave Ricardo a gentle high-five. I stepped closer and tucked the blanket around Ricardo’s shoulder.

 

And it seems like I made another friend … or a brother.

 

“You’ll like it at our place,” I whispered. “We’ve got pillows, movies, and the best aguapanela in Medellín.”

 

When we got home, it was like déjà vu. The three of us climbed into bed like we hadn’t left.

 

I was back in the middle, Yeison immediately curling into me like I was made of gravity.

 

He leaned in and whispered, “That was very sexy, you know. You were being protective of Ricardo.”

 

I laughed. “Don’t make me blush in front of Zack … and you can cut it out with the flirting, too. Just take it easy and be chill.”

 

Yeison looked like he’d been scolded, which wasn’t really my intention. But flirting and romance were the last things on my mind right now.

 

Later, Doña Susana brought dinner. Buñuelos, sancocho, and – of course – arepas. My arch-nemesis. I stared at mine with suspicion.

 

Yeison took a dramatic bite and moaned exaggeratedly. “Mmm. Es perfecto. I will eat yours, too, okay?”

 

“Knock yourself out.”

 

That night, we slept the same way – three to a bed, same positions, hearts still raw, but a little fuller. Tomorrow, we’d have to make space for Ricardo.

 

But tonight? Tonight we were whole, and maybe I shouldn’t have, maybe I was leading him on, but I held Yeison all night long.

 

***

 

Friday morning started with the smell of coffee and the warmth of fresh pandebonos drifting through the house. Doña Susana had laid out a small breakfast spread of tropical fruit, soft white cheese, and sweet guava paste. Even after everything that had happened, she still took care of us like we were her own. I sat cross-legged on one of the kitchen stools, chewing slowly, the sweet bread soft in my mouth, and trying not to let my thoughts wander too far into the pit that had been growing in my chest.

 

It seemed my entire life was one paranoid worry after another, with no respite, and it really wears a guy down.

 

The house felt unusually quiet despite the murmurs of conversation and the occasional clink of dishes. A sort of suspended reality hung over everything, like we were living in a snow globe that no one dared shake. I kept glancing at Yeison, catching the way his curls bounced slightly when he laughed at something Zack said, and it made something shift a little inside me. Something I didn’t have words for yet. Maybe I was starting to like him.

 

In the end, it was decided Ricardo would share my bed, since things were finally safe enough for the other boys to head home. We were all bummed about it, and I argued –hard – but Juan Camilo wouldn’t budge. He was determined our place wasn’t going to turn into a shelter for half the school, no matter how much I wanted everyone to stay. So, Zack and Yeison would be leaving as soon as Ricardo was settled, whether I liked it or not.

 

I knew Yeison would not be taking the news well, and I knew he would get jealous, but to be honest, I kind of needed a little break. Our house had been chaotic since the shooting. Not to mention, I was getting a bit of cabin fever, which made me a little grumpy and irritable. I couldn’t believe I was getting anxious about going back to school, which should happen soon, once the crime scene was cleaned up and repairs were made. I was excited to spend more time getting to know Ricardo. I mean, he was pretty hot, after all, and Yeison and I weren’t technically boyfriends yet …

 

Juan Camilo seemed cautiously optimistic that school would reopen by early next week. Honestly? Like I said, I was looking forward to it.

 

After everything was settled and the boys were packing up their things, Juan Camilo pulled me aside. "Have you talked to Miguel lately?"

 

I hesitated. "No. Not since... you know."

 

He raised an eyebrow. "Might be a good time. It would be better if things were... peaceful between you two."

 

"Yeah," I muttered. "Peaceful sounds good, but I’d really rather not talk to him. We’re not friends, and I don’t see any way we ever will be."

 

“Sometimes, in life, we have to be the better man and do things we don’t like doing,” he said.

 

It didn’t sound like I was being given much of a choice, for whatever reason, so I took a shaky breath and texted him, but not because I wanted to.

 

Me: “Hey. You okay?”

 

A few minutes later, he replied.

 

Miguel: “Surprised you'd even ask. Or care.”

 

I winced.

 

Me: “We need to figure out how to avoid another... situation like last time.”

 

He replied quickly.

 

Miguel: “Either you be my boyfriend or we just ignore each other completely.”

 

I stared at that message for a long time, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Finally, I responded:

 

Me: “We can try being friends, maybe, but that’s all it would ever be. We’re just too different for anything more, and I’m not really into arrogant bullies or ultimatums.”

 

Miguel: “I want more than that. But I can’t stop being who I am. You’d have to help me.”

 

My fingers hovered. I didn’t know what to say to that.

 

Then came the question I was dreading.

 

Miguel: “Are you still planning to date Yeison?”

 

Me: “I don’t know. Nothing’s happened yet. I’m not sure I even want a serious boyfriend right now. But that’s none of your business anyway.”

 

There. It was done. Clean and clear.

 

Miguel: “Okay, then that’s a problem.”

 

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

 

Me: “So we can’t even be friends? Just because you don’t like Yeison for some reason?”

 

I waited a few moments before his reply finally came through:

 

Miguel: “I’m jealous. And I want to be more than friends. I thought I made that clear.”

 

I wasn’t going to give in, even though I thought his jealousy was kind of cute. But even if he was the hottest guy in the school, he had issues, and I didn’t need to be dealing with someone else who had problems, or I’d never get over my own.

 

Me: “Well, as a famous singer once said, ‘You can’t always get what you want.’” Bye Miguel. BTW, you’ll be happy to know that Yeison is going home today.”

 

And then, without warning or even thinking it through properly, I found myself opening a different conversation thread. It was probably a terrible idea, but I was in the mood for a bit of self-immolation.

 

Rory.

 

Me: “Hey, Rory! Remember me? How are you?”

 

His response was almost instant.

 

Rory: “Of course I remember you, how could I forget. I’m good. You?”

 

Me: “Okay, I guess.”

 

Rory: “Colombia treating you okay?”

 

Me: “Sometimes, other than the massive shooting we had at school today. Quite a few dead, including the Headmistress. I’ve kind of been spiraling.”

 

Rory: “OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG... Are you ok?”

 

Me: “Yeah. Just stuck inside for a few days while they investigate. With friends.”

 

Then I added:

 

Me: “I miss you.”

 

It took him a moment to reply. I was sure that this conversation was wreaking havoc on him emotionally, just like it was for me. But I didn’t have anyone else to turn to.

 

Rory: “I miss you, too.”

 

I felt my chest tighten, like the walls were pressing in. Maybe even a little … hope?

 

Me: “Maybe you could come visit during break? I could show you around.”

 

Rory: “Maybe.”

 

I bit my lip, then wrote:

 

Me: “I still love you.”

 

The typing dots danced on screen. Then:

 

Rory: “I still love you, too.”

 

I couldn’t breathe.

 

Me: “Do you think we could ever be together again? I could move back to the States and live with my grandparents. Things would be different this time. I promise.”

 

His reply was clear and direct … and devastating:

 

Rory: “No.”

 

I sat back, stunned. Everything inside me crumbled.

 

Just then, Yeison walked in and saw me sitting frozen.

 

"Everything okay?" he asked gently.

 

I forced a nod. "Yeah. Just... old ghosts."

 

He tilted his head. "Rory?"

 

I looked at him, eyes glassy. "Yeah. I told him I still loved him. He said it back. Then he said we could never be together again."

 

Yeison crossed the room and sat beside me, his voice low. "Ouch. That sucks. You still love him a lot?"

 

I nodded, afraid my voice might crack if I tried to speak.

 

"I don’t even know why I said it," I muttered. "I think I just wanted to feel something. Or... maybe stop feeling everything else. I’m a mess right now, and I have no one to talk to. I don’t have any friends here, and I’m lonely and bored all the time. It all just sucks!"

 

Yeison put a hand on my shoulder. "You’re allowed to feel messed up. Just don’t forget who’s here now. You do have friends."

 

I met his eyes, the tears stinging. "I haven’t forgotten. But it’s not the same. We barely know each other, and you wouldn’t understand my problems."

 

A knock at the door broke the moment. Juan Camilo called out: "He’s here!"

 

Ricardo had arrived.

 

We helped him in. He looked fragile, like a gust of wind might break him. His skin was pale, his shoulder tightly wrapped.

 

"Hey," I said softly. "We got a room ready for you. You just rest. We’ve got you."

 

He gave me a weak smile. "Thanks. I feel like a zombie."

 

"Perfect," Zack said from behind me. "You’ll fit right in."

 

That evening, after we helped Ricardo get settled in, Juan Camilo and Officer Santiago took Zack and Yeison home. I was relieved. It was kind of a lot.

 

I was lying in bed next to Ricardo, flipping through the endless movies on the streaming apps, trying to find something we could watch together. I’d just given him his antibiotics and Dilaudid for the pain. The nurse had said it should kick in soon, but it would make him pretty drowsy. She’d also warned me it was no ordinary pill – this was the kind of medication they used for cancer patients. If he ran out and wasn’t well enough to pick up a refill, it would fall on me to go all the way across town to one of the “special” pharmacies (there were only a handful across the city) that handled controlled substances, stand in line for hours, and hope they’d actually fill the prescription.

 

Suddenly, I broke down, sobbing until my chest hurt. Everything crashed at once: nothing here worked like it should; the language tripped me every time I opened my mouth; Yeison and Miguel felt like a knot I couldn’t untangle, and now I was taking care of a kid I hardly knew who’d just been shot! None of it felt fair for a sixteen-year-old, and that old bitterness toward my dad started to boil.

 

I’d just lived through a fucking shootout. Who throws their kid into that? If Rory had been here, he would’ve known what to do – we always figured it out together. Now he was gone, and there was a hole where he used to be. It made me sure no one really wanted me – just a couple of dumb crushes that didn’t matter when I felt this alone and filled with anxiety and fear. I’d barely gotten here. How could I live with drama and insanity like this for another 2-3 years?

 

And I was done with being shut in this house, suffocating. I wanted out – people, something normal, anything that wasn’t drowning. The longer I sat with it, the more reckless I got; the idea of a random hookup the second I was free started to make sense.

 

The darkness pressed in, heavier, dragging me under, that horrible combination of severe anxiety, depression, and self-hatred. Everything felt wrong. I was done pretending I could handle it. What I wanted most was my mom and dad to make it stop – but one was dead, and the other might as well have been, for all I saw or heard from him.

 

"Hunter?" Ricardo whispered. "What is it? Are you okay?"

 

Sobs were ripping through me like a flood. I felt ashamed that I let anyone see it.

 

"I’m sorry," I choked. "I’m sorry, I’m such a mess. I don’t know what’s wrong with me."

 

As best as he could with his wounded arm, he pulled me into a tight hug. "Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re human. You’ve been through hell. We all have. Just let it out."

 

“You don’t understand,” I whimpered. “I’ve felt like this my whole life, almost all the time.”

 

I added, "I don’t know how to feel anymore. I just keep hurting people. I keep hurting myself. And I hate myself for it. I’m pathetic."

 

I don’t know why I was confessing all kinds of shit that Ricardo probably didn’t want to hear about. I’m sure he was completely confused and totally thinking, What the fuck is going on here?

 

"You’re not hurting me," he said. "You’re just hurting. And I’m here. I’m here because you saved me. I’m not going anywhere … and if you want, I can be your friend. You can talk  to me.”

 

“Yes, please,” I whispered.

 

“We’re all messed up, Hunter – some just hide it better. My childhood was rough. Six, seven, selling empanadas, buñuelos, candy – lo que fuera – so we could eat. College doesn’t even feel real; I'm not sure I’ll ever leave my barrio. The scholarship’s the one good thing, but after high school, I can’t afford it – ICETEX feels like a life sentence, paying off loans until I die. So I act like a clown and, sí, todo un calentón, so no one sees it. Acá, men aren’t supposed to show pain. But the truth? My life – and thinking I don’t have a future – still fucks me up. I think about it all the time. I wish I had someone to talk about the heavy stuff with, de verdad.”

 

“But we’re so different,” I said. “You grew up one way, I grew up another – different worlds, different everything. How are we even supposed to get each other?”

 

“Because we’re both human, and we’re both teenagers, going through the same shit,” he said softly. “I don’t think we’re all that different. You’ll learn about how things work here quickly.”

 

“And is there anything you can’t hide, no matter how hard you’ve tried?” I asked.

 

“Well, there is the little … or rather big … problem,” he giggled, blushing.

 

Before I knew it, Ricardo had pulled down his pants. I had to believe it was the heavy doses of painkillers that caused him to do it.

 

And then I looked. It’s not like I could help myself. “You’re kidding me!” I exclaimed, mouth agape.

 

It was hard. And huge. And veiny. And it gave me all kinds of ideas I shouldn’t be having in this situation.

 

“Jesus Christ,” was the only response I could come up with.

 

“Yeah, the girls always want it, but it prefers the boys. It’s a lot harder for the boys to take it, though,” he snickered.

 

“Yeah, hell no, I would never let that thing anywhere near my ass,” I said in horror.

 

We both started laughing hysterically until Ricard’s shoulder started hurting again, and I gave him another painkiller, which pretty much knocked him out.

 

When I was sure he was out cold, I kissed his forehead and gently whispered, "You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. And I’m happy we’re friends now."

 

But there was something I still needed – needed – to do. It had been too long since I’d felt that release, that fleeting escape from my own head. And the truth was, I knew how dangerous it could be. How quickly it could blow up in my face, how messy things could get afterward. But sometimes you reach a point where you stop caring about consequences and just crave silence – any silence – from the noise inside.

 

I told myself I wanted a new life here, that I could maybe build something real. There was Yeison, after all. Something about him tugged at me in ways I didn’t want to think too hard about. There could be something there. Maybe. But I wasn’t ready for that. Not now. Not while I still felt like I was on house arrest, stuck in this suffocating bubble of fear and danger, waiting for someone else to decide if I was allowed to live my life.

 

The lockdown would be over soon. I’d get a little freedom back. And before I let myself get attached – to Yeison, to anyone – I needed to remember what it felt like to just… let go. No strings, no expectations, no pressure. Just a quick release. Nothing more. And no one needed to know.

 

So, I grabbed my phone, thumb hovering over Grindr, the app I’d sworn I wouldn’t open again. Sure, you were supposed to be eighteen to use it, but that was ridiculously easy to get around, and I’d found quite a few hookups that way. My chest felt tight, my heart pounding. I knew this could change everything, for better or worse. I knew it was reckless. But I also knew I was going to do it anyway.

 

I tapped it open.

 

Profiles filled the screen. Almost none of them caught my attention. A bunch of old guys trying way too hard. Washed-up former twinks who looked like they still lived in nightclubs and survived on crystal meth and rum. And way too many beards. God, I hated beards. Every swipe down made me feel more restless, more convinced this was a stupid idea. My private messages were blowing up, but I knew it would be a waste of time to check them.

 

And then I stopped.

 

One profile caught my eye – so much so that I almost dropped the phone. I knew him, sort of. We had P.E. together. I’d noticed him a couple of times while we were changing or showering, catching him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. His name was something weird … like Ferney or something. But he was really cute – short, with slightly curly dark brown hair, shorter in the front and slightly longer in the back. He was skinny, covered in tattoos, including a big pair of red lips on his right butt cheek, and the most unique eyes, which looked like he was wearing eyeliner, but he wasn’t – and he was probably interested. And Juan Camilo couldn’t stop me from going to a classmate’s house to “study,” could he?

 

Suddenly, I didn’t feel so nervous anymore. This was familiar, this was something I was used to. We were playing on my turf, in my comfort zone.

 

I stared at the screen for what felt like forever, my heart thudding slightly in my ears but more from excitement than anything else. Finally, I took a breath, forced myself to stop overthinking, and typed the only words I could manage.

 

“Hola! ¿Cómo estás?”

 

 

 

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