Medellín

Waking up on Sunday morning was a completely different experience from the day before. No rooster was crowing obnoxiously in the distance, no cold sheets beside me. Instead, I was wrapped in warmth – Miguel’s body pressed up against mine, his arms loosely draped around my waist, his bare chest rising and falling gently against my back. I felt the heat of his breath tickle my neck, followed by soft, slow kisses along my shoulders, my throat, and the side of my face. I stirred and blinked my eyes open. As soon as I turned to look at him, I saw his eyes already on mine, full of something so deep and focused that it almost frightened me. His lips curved into a sleepy grin.

 

“Buenos días, mi amor,” he whispered. His voice was rough with sleep, which only made it more beautiful.

 

“Good morning,” I said, barely able to get the words out as his fingers gently traced the outline of my ribs.

 

He leaned in and kissed me again, this time on the lips. The kiss started soft, but soon deepened, and I felt a fluttering in my stomach, a heat that was hard to ignore. His hand slid across my chest, resting just over my heart, and I could feel his fingers spread and press gently, as if trying to memorize its rhythm. The intensity between us was building fast, and I knew we were dangerously close to crossing a line I wasn’t sure I was ready for yet.

 

I pulled back gently, placing a hand on his chest. “Soon, babe. I promise.”

 

He gave a soft, playful groan. “Mmmmmmm,” he hummed into my mouth. “You’re slowly killing me, mi rey.”

 

He lay back against the pillow with a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his tousled hair. I couldn’t stop staring at him. His morning face – slightly puffy-eyed, hair messy, lips swollen from sleep and kissing – was heartbreakingly beautiful.

 

“Can I ask you something really personal again? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Miguel asked, turning to face me again. “You have been with a lot of boys?”

 

I hesitated for a moment. I didn’t want to lie, not now, not with everything we were starting to build, but I couldn’t help feeling a little embarrassed.

 

“Yeah,” I said. “Quite a few. And you?”

 

He nodded casually. “Just a few, and mostly just to get off quickly, but nothing serious. I’ve been with a lot more girls.”

 

“Really?” I asked.

 

Then, as if sensing my unease, he added quickly, “Does that bother you?”

 

“Not really,” I said honestly. “I mean, I get it. You’re hot, charming, Colombian. You have a beautiful dick.”

 

He laughed and reached out to brush a strand of hair away from my eyes.

 

“You really think I have a beautiful dick?” he asked, teasing me.

 

“Yes, from what I saw and felt while we were cuddling naked yesterday,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

 

He laughed and planted a gentle kiss on my forehead. “It belongs to you now, mi vida.”

 

“But which do you prefer?” I asked. “Boys or girls?

 

He didn’t even pause. “Boys. Much, much more. I consider myself gay. Not bi. With girls... es complicado. Mostly because I had to. Expectations. You know? My father made me do it for the first time when I was twelve. He bought me a prostitute. Then I had a reputation to uphold. Now, I want something meaningful. I want to know what it feels like to be in love, and I can only feel that with a boy.”

 

My eyes almost popped out of their sockets. “Are you serious?” I asked, my mouth agape, gobsmacked by this revelation. “Your dad made you and bought you a prostitute?”

 

“Yeah, and she didn’t even end up charging me because she said my cock was so beautiful and I gave her two orgasms,” he shrugged.

 

Wow! I thought to myself. Miguel really was a stud. And he’s here, with me! And it suddenly made me think about having sex with him a lot sooner than I had planned.

 

“I’m sorry about all the questions this morning,” I said. “I’m just curious about you. I want to get to know you, everything about you.”

 

“You can ask me anything you want. I have nothing to hide from you. I’m an open book,” he said, brushing the hair out of my eyes.

 

“Do you believe in monogamy?” I asked. “Being with only one person at a time.”

 

“I didn’t always, but I do now. I’m tired of playing games. I just want someone who will love me forever and with no conditions,” he said.

 

When he asked me the same, I took a breath and confessed to cheating on Rory. I told him how I had hurt someone who had loved me, and how that was something I never wanted to repeat.

 

“I just want to be with one person now. One boy. I’m very sure about that.”

 

Miguel smiled softly and took my hand.

 

“Then we are on the same page. Everyone has a past, but the only thing that matters now is the present and the future.”

 

We kissed again – slow, unhurried, full of promise. Then we finally forced ourselves to get out of bed. We reheated the calentado from yesterday, scrambled some eggs, grilled chorizo, and Miguel taught me how to make arepas de chocolo the way he liked them – golden brown with plenty of butter and cheese.

 

After breakfast, we took turns showering. It would have been nice to shower together, but there was no way we could both fit inside the shower in that tiny bathroom. While Miguel was in the bathroom, I checked my phone for the first time since Friday. My heart sank as I braced myself for angry messages from my friends, but instead I found something unexpected. There were messages from Zack, Carlos, Ricardo, and Ferney – all asking if I was okay, if I needed anything. Even Yeison had messaged. “I miss you. I hope you’re okay. I love you very much,” he wrote. My chest tightened, and I had to wipe my eyes. The only one I responded to was Carlos, because I felt a deeper connection with him and had been wanting to get to know him better (okay, maybe … crush). I wrote back, “I’m fine, just spending the weekend away from Medellín. I’ll be back for school. Miss you guys, and a hug would be nice when I return! 🤗” He replied: “Of course. ❤️ ”

 

Still, I was relieved. Maybe next week wouldn’t be the nightmare I had imagined. Still awkward. Still painful. But maybe survivable. The only big question now was how – or if – I would introduce Miguel to the group. I could see that causing problems. None of them liked him at all, and for good reason. Plus, he was still deeply in the closet, so I imagined we would need to be extra careful at school, which was a kind of bummer since I wouldn’t be able to hold my boyfriend’s hand or kiss him whenever I wanted. But this was the decision I had made, and I needed to live with it.

 

When Miguel came out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water glistening on his chest, I nearly forgot my own name.

 

“You okay?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

I nodded slowly. “Just overwhelmed. You’re... a lot to take in.”

 

He smirked. “Hopefully in a good way.”

 

“Let’s just say that if you want to have your way with me right now, I probably wouldn’t object,” I muttered, staring at my feet.

 

He walked toward me slowly and wrapped himself around me. “We’ll wait like you said. It’ll be better that way, so you know I am sincere.”

 

“I don’t know how much longer I can wait,” I admitted. “You drive me loco.”

 

We got dressed and hopped on the motorcycle to explore the countryside. The air was crisp, the sky a brilliant blue. The ride was bumpy but exhilarating. We passed banana plantations, sugarcane fields, and rolling hills covered in wildflowers. We rode through a small pueblo, its cobblestone streets lined with colorful colonial buildings, and stopped for lunch at a café across from the small central plaza.

 

To my astonishment, they had bagels on the menu. I ordered two salmon bagels with cream cheese, onion, and capers, plus a big plate of fries. You have no idea how hard it is to find a decent bagel (or any bagels at all) in Medellín, except for maybe at PriceSmart, Latin America’s version of Costco. Miguel ordered chicken fingers like a five-year-old, and I teased him mercilessly for it. I was slightly disgusted when he mixed ketchup, mayonnaise, and pineapple sauce to eat with his fries. Another one of those “Welcome to Colombia” moments.

 

“I happen to like them,” he said defensively, dipping one in pink sauce. “Don’t judge me.”

 

We spent lunch talking about everything – college dreams, bucket lists, music, movies, and even a frank discussion of sex (as if this morning wasn’t enough). He told me he wanted to study in the U.S. someday, maybe New York. I told him I’d love that, and maybe we could apply to the same schools. But perhaps I was getting way ahead of myself. We’d only been “together” for a couple of days. But it felt good to dream about the future. I hadn’t done that in a long time. I hadn’t felt this good in a long time. I was becoming addicted to Miguel, or rather, to the feelings he brought out in me.

 

When the conversation turned to sex, Miguel surprised me.

 

“I’m versatile,” he said casually. “But I prefer being on the bottom.”

 

I blinked. “Seriously? I thought for sure you were a top.”

 

He shrugged. “Everyone thinks that. But I like it when someone else takes control, dominates me. I guess in my real life, I’m always the one in control of everything, make all the decisions, and sometimes I like it when I don’t have to be in control.”

 

Interesting. There was something raw and disarming in the way he said it – vulnerable, honest, unfiltered. In Colombian culture, being seen as the “passive” one still carries stigma, and I could tell it had shaped how he viewed himself. Every day, I learned something unexpected that chipped past the surface and showed me the person underneath, and I liked that – getting to know him slowly, piece by piece, before any final step. It made me feel safer, like he was real – not just a pretty face, but someone I could actually trust. After a weekend tangled in each other’s lives, not just our bodies, I felt steadier, like this might be something I could hold without it slipping through my fingers.

 

“Have you ever thought about me fucking you?” I asked with a lecherous grin.

 

He laughed. “Honestly, many times. I’m looking forward to the real thing. You’re the perfect size for me. But it won’t be ‘fucking’ when we do it. It will be ‘making love.’”

 

I chortled. “You have got to be the most stereotypical ‘Latin lover’ I have ever met.”

 

“What do you mean?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

 

“The accent, the eyebrow, the ‘mi amor,’ the grand gestures, and even the ‘we won’t fuck, we’ll make love’ line. It’s just kind of funny and ironic because stereotypes are so fake. Yours just happens to be my type.”

 

A quiet, breathy laugh – almost a purr – followed by, “Cállate,” and a smile he couldn’t kill.

 

We rode back to the finca at sunset. Miguel grilled steaks and corn while I made a salad with a spicy vinaigrette. The food was incredible. Afterward, we changed into hoodies and sweatpants and sat outside sipping tinto under the stars. The night sky out here was vast, endless, pinpricked with stars I couldn’t see in Medellín. I could even make out a few constellations and was surprised at how many I remembered from what my dad taught me when I was just a little kid. We hadn’t done anything like that in many years, and yeah, I deeply resented him for it.

 

“Can you believe we live in a place this beautiful?” I whispered.

 

Miguel took a drag from his cigarette and nodded. “I’ve seen it all my life. I still feel very afortunado in that respect.”

 

“But you still want to leave,” I said.

 

He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Es muy complicado, mi monito. Maybe one day I can tell you. We all have secrets. I have some very big ones that I can’t even share with you.”

 

He was right about that. I had my own secrets. But I couldn’t help but wonder what his were.

 

Later, we curled up naked under the comforter on the couch, trying to watch a movie. But our hands kept wandering. Touching. Exploring. Learning all about each other. And in a moment of weakness, I couldn’t help but put his hardness in my mouth. I only intended to take a small taste, but before I realized it, my head was bobbing up and down furiously. His cock was the perfect size for my mouth, and I was easily able to deep-throat him. He tasted so fresh, having just recently taken a shower, but he still had just a slight hint of that boy-musk that drove me wild. I momentarily took a break from sucking on him to lick his heavy balls thoroughly while his hands gripped my hair tightly.

 

Within a few seconds of returning to sucking his cock, he blasted several large shots of cum into my mouth, which I greedily swallowed. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, kiss me deeply, and taste the remainder of his own cum in my mouth, he pushed me on my back and quickly dove onto my cock. Of course, he was sensational at that, as with everything, and I was shooting in his mouth within minutes. I could now cross one of my concerns off my list: we had excellent sexual chemistry. I just hoped he could keep up with my libido, because I knew I would want to make love with him at least a couple of times a day.

 

We never made it to bed. I fell asleep in his arms, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back.

 

Tomorrow we would return to the city. To reality. But tonight, I was his. And he was mine.

 

***

 

Miguel dropped me off at my house on Monday afternoon. As soon as the motorcycle rumbled to a stop in the driveway, Juan Camilo appeared in the doorway like he’d been waiting for us. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there with his arms crossed and a look on his face I couldn’t quite read – something between disapproval and calculation.

 

Miguel waved at him, smiling easily. Juan Camilo responded with a terse nod. No smile. No warmth. Just a nod. He’d treated my other friends so much better – joking with Zack, polite and kind to Yeison, even helping carry Ricardo out of the car that day he sprained his ankle. But with Miguel? Ice cold.

 

I climbed off the bike and took off my helmet. “Thanks,” I said softly, squeezing Miguel’s hand.

 

He leaned in like he wanted to kiss me, but then held back. “Text me later, sí?” he whispered.

 

I nodded. “I will.”

 

“Isn’t there something else you want to tell me?” he smirked,

 

I had to think for a moment, and then I realized what he wanted. “I love you more than the moon and the stars.”

 

“And I love you, mi monito,” he said, smiling.

 

He gave me one last smirk, then sped off down the street, the engine fading into the distance. When I turned back toward the house, Juan Camilo had already gone inside.

Whatever. My love life was my love life. It had nothing to do with him.

 

The rest of the day, I mostly spent curled up in my room with Max, still floating in that warm, post-weekend glow. I felt rested, content – even giddy. And especially after our quick round of oral sex, I was feeling super horny, too. Miguel had been everything I’d needed these past few days: attentive, tender, funny, and more real than I’d ever seen him. It was as if we had entered a secret pocket of the universe, where all the city's bad had been left behind.

 

But that little paradise was over now. I just hoped the coming weeks and months would continue to improve, helping me heal and make me whole again.

 

I caught up on some homework during the afternoon and read ahead for chemistry, just to stay on top of things. I took a nap, then scrolled through my messages for the first time since we got back. I wasn’t surprised to see a few from Miguel.

 

“Eres mi sueño hecho realidad.”
“Eres mi refugio en la tormenta.”
“Eres mi media naranja.”

 

The first two I understood easily enough. I was his dream come true. I was his refuge in the storm. Cheesy, but... sweet. But the third one? You are my half orange? I actually laughed out loud.

 

I went downstairs and asked Juan Camilo what it meant. He was at the kitchen counter making coffee, still brooding.

 

“It means you’re his other half,” he said, stirring the sugar in with one hand.

 

“That’s a thing here?” I asked.

 

“Colombians are dramatic. And romantic. Especially teenagers. They say stuff like that when they’re in love, or think they are.”

 

I studied him for a moment. “But you don’t approve?”

 

He sighed. “Es muy complicado, Mr. Hunter.”

 

There it was again. That damn phrase. “Why does it have to be complicated?” I said, my voice rising. “It’s just two boys who really like each other. What is complicated about that?”

 

Juan Camilo studied me. “Nothing here is simple, Mr. Hunter. We asked you to befriend him and learn what you could about his father – work, money, background. Your father pushed for it. Now you think you’re falling for the boy, and that complicates things. Be careful. Tell me whenever you see him, and if it gets serious.”

 

“So you think Miguel’s a criminal,” I shot back.

 

“I didn’t say that,” he said. “His life is complicated. We don’t want you in danger. His father is a person of interest. You will not share that—or anything about why you’re here, la DEA, any of it. ¿Cierto?”

 

“So he’s dangerous? He could hurt me?”

 

“No. Right now, he seems like a normal teenager. We just need info – ideally his father’s whereabouts. Ask if it fits naturally; if not, let it go and wait for the right moment. This is important. La DEA isn’t here to play matchmaker.”

 

He sighed. “I also need your location at all times. You’ll wear a GPS tracker and this panic button.” He held up a simple silver bracelet. “Press it if you feel unsafe. ¿Entiendes?”

 

“And what would happen if I pressed that button?” I asked.

 

“Then you would be surrounded by anti-terror special forces police within minutes, with helicopters and everything. So, try not to press it by accident,” he smirked.

 

“But you won’t tell me what this is about?” I asked, frustrated. “This is my life.”

 

“They’re precautions,” Juan Camilo said. “Given where things are with Miguel, stay close, be smart, be safe. If you feel uneasy, call – or hit the button. His father has ties to dangerous people. We don’t know what Miguel knows or who he knows. We don’t want you anywhere near that world. ¿Sí me entiendes?”

 

I didn’t mention Miguel had already hinted at knowing folks from that circle. If I did, Juan Camilo would forbid me from seeing him.

 

“You know he can tell you don’t like him,” I said. “Try honey, not vinegar. Maybe he isn’t who you think. His dad might be mixed up, but Miguel’s a sixteen-year-old kid. Let me have this. Be patient and you’ll get what you want – and I’ll get what I want, which is Miguel.”

 

“Sí, Mr. Hunter. I’ll try. But this is time-sensitive. If we have to get the information another way, we will.”

 

What did that even mean?

 

I was left with more questions than answers – stomach tight, thoughts looping. Still, one thing was clear: I wasn’t letting them take Miguel from me. I’d lived under the DEA’s shadow my whole life. Dad promised reconnection and adventure; instead, he vanished into work and dragged me into this. If I were making my own adventure, it would be Miguel. The DEA could fuck the hell off.

 

Miguel wasn’t perfect – cocky, reckless, too smooth – but with me, he was genuine: honest, open, affectionate. I felt it in the way he held me, looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Like I mattered.

 

So why did they see something else? Why the bad reputation? Solo Dios lo sabe.

 

My truth: I trusted him. Maybe too much, but since we decided to try this, he’d been a gentleman – direct, caring. The problem wasn’t Miguel. It was everyone else in our business.

 

If they actually saw us together, they’d get it – the way he made me feel safe, made me laugh, whispered like prayers, chased off the dark with a smile. He was healing me, and all he asked was to let him try. But people only saw what they wanted – even at school. He was the most popular boy there; everyone wanted to orbit him, and then they whispered behind his back. I couldn’t stand it.

 

That night, just before bed, I got one last message from Miguel.

 

“Buenas noches, mi corazón. Good luck tomorrow. I will be watching over you. Everything will be fine. Soñaré contigo. Te amo mucho 😘 ~~ Migue”

 

It was exactly what I needed. I curled into bed with my phone still glowing in my hand, Max curled up in a ball by my side, and we drifted off to sleep.

 

By morning, my stomach was in knots.

 

As Juan Camilo drove me to school, the nerves started kicking in. Sure, my friends had seemed supportive over text about the break-up with Yeison – but how would it feel in person? What would I say to Yeison? Would he even talk to me? Or worse – what if he tried to hug me or something? That would be … awkward. For me, at least.

 

As for Miguel, after a lengthy chat, we had agreed to keep our “whatever-it-was” private for now. I didn’t want to rub it in Yeison’s face, and I didn’t want to make things complicated for Miguel with his friends either. We’d tell everyone when we were ready, which had been my plan all along, despite having to live now with one foot back in the closet. But I was doing it for him, the one small thing I could do for him.

 

Still, after this weekend, it would be hard to go back to pretending we were “just friends” – or worse, pretending we were frenemies again.

 

I was the first to arrive on campus and headed straight to our tree. I unwrapped a protein bar and pretended to be deep into my Colombian history reading, but my mind was already racing. One by one, the others arrived. Zack sat down first, then Carlos, Ferney, and Ricardo. No one said much at first. The tension was thick, unspoken but impossible to ignore.

 

Ricardo broke the silence. “Did you have a good weekend?”

 

“It was okay,” I said, shrugging. “Despite the circumstances.”

 

Carlos tilted his head. “What’d you do?”

 

I kept my tone casual. “We rented a little finca out in the mountains. Just to unplug, get away from the noise and the gossip, you know?”

 

They all nodded. Carlos even said it sounded cool. I wouldn’t have minded spending a long weekend at a finca with Carlos. It seemed like that boy just got hotter every day, and he had to have noticed me constantly stealing glances at him and drooling. But, alas, I belonged to Miguel now … or I would, as soon as we figured out what exactly our relationship was. I mean, I guess he was my boyfriend now?

 

Yeison showed up looking wrecked – red eyes, bruised circles, a smile that didn’t land.

My stomach dropped.

 

He looked straight at me. “Hunter, I miss you. And I still love you.”

 

Everything went quiet. Shoes scuffed. Someone coughed. I felt heat rush up my neck.

 

I opened my arms before I could think. He stepped in like he’d been holding his breath, clutching hard. His tears hit my collarbone. I held on – awkward, too long, but real.

 

“I… miss you and love you, too,” I whispered, voice thin. “We’ll figure it out. Stay friends. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” he breathed, not letting go for a beat too long.

 

Ricardo and Carlos traded a look, then peeled him off me and steered him toward the field. No one needed to sit in that.

 

Zack eyed me. “You look better than I expected. After a weekend of mourning.”

 

“Sleeping pills help,” I said.

 

“Uh-huh.” He tried for casual. “So… how’s Miguel?”

 

I tensed. “Ask him yourself.”

 

Zack raised his hands. “Relax. Just curious.”

 

“Then keep your nose out of it,” I snapped. “You’re messing with people’s feelings.”

 

“Like you’re not messing with Yeison’s?” he shot back.

 

“You don’t know the whole story,” I said. “People break up. It happens.”

 

The bell rang. We shouldered our bags. As we split, he leaned in. “Miguel and Yeison were kind of a thing – right before you got here. Didn’t last. Miguel ended it when you showed up. Thought you should know.”

 

I froze. “Not my business. Or yours,” I said, and walked faster.

 

But it lodged under my skin. Did it matter? It was before me – but then why the weirdness when they’re near each other? Why did Miguel kick Yeison from their soccer group? And if that happened, why did Yeison tell me he’d never been with a boy? And if Zack knows, how closeted is Miguel, really?

 

By midmorning, I was spiraling again, thinking up all kinds of possible scenarios. Was this some competition to win the confused American? That didn’t sound like Yeison; he’s sweet, straightforward. It did sound like Miguel. And neither told me.

 

I cut past the field. Miguel was shirtless, laughing, weaving past an upperclassman – ridiculous and beautiful. Off to the side, Yeison bent to tie his shoe and kept sneaking looks. Lingering ones. He jerked his gaze away when someone noticed. I saw it anyway.

Anger. Jealousy. Confusion. Embarrassment. Part of me wanted to march up to Miguel and demand the truth; another wanted to yell at Yeison; another wanted to know nothing at all. My head pounded – breakup ache, finca-high, now this. A rollercoaster I couldn’t get off.

 

I needed to talk to both of them. Soon. I wanted what was real, not more drama. I thought about Dr. Montoya, then choked on the shame; I already felt like the star of a telenovela I didn’t audition for.

 

Right now, I didn’t know who to trust. And somewhere beyond all this, a low-intensity war still burned in the mountains, ready to flare. Not exactly the best timing for my life to fall apart.

 

***

 

For some reason, every single one of my teachers had decided to lose their minds in the same week and assign a mountain of homework like it was their life’s mission to destroy mine. I wasn’t pleased. I had better things to do – more important things to figure out. Like, what the hell was going on between me and Miguel… and Miguel and Yeison. And what was that little worm Zack’s role in all of it? School was just getting in the way of my fucked up social life.

 

To be fair, it wasn’t like Yeison or Miguel had cheated on me. If what Zack said was true, whatever happened between them had ended before I even set foot in Colombia. But still… it didn’t sit right. Not even close.

 

Neither of them had mentioned it. Not once. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t worth telling me. Like I wouldn’t care.

 

But I did care.

 

It felt important – damn important. A missing piece in a puzzle I thought I’d been solving. My first two boyfriends in Colombia had been together right before I arrived. It just sounded fishy. If I’d known, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten so close to either of them. Maybe I would’ve guarded my heart more carefully. Perhaps I would’ve made entirely different choices.

 

Now it was too late to undo any of them.

 

And I was stuck trying to piece together the emotional wreckage while knee-deep in history readings, Spanish vocab quizzes, chemistry experiments, and math problems I didn’t care about. I was tired. Not just physically. Emotionally. Mentally. I needed space. I needed to breathe. I needed to think … or to be able to stop thinking.

 

After forcing myself to finish a decent chunk of homework, it was already edging toward dusk. The shadows in my room were growing longer, and the orange-pink sky outside the window looked too pretty to ignore. I closed my laptop and rubbed my eyes.

 

“I need air,” I said out loud to no one in particular.

 

I headed down to the living room, where Juan Camilo was still glued to some classified-looking paperwork.

 

“I’m going for a walk,” I told him as I grabbed Max’s leash off the wall hook. “Just around El Poblado. To clear my head.”

 

He looked up, already frowning. “Where?”

 

“Nowhere specific,” I lied. “Not Parque Lleras, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

 

His eyes narrowed, but he gave a short nod. “Good. Stay away from there. You know the rules.”

 

He offered to drive me and hang around out of sight, but I told him, “No thanks.” I wanted to explore the city on my own.

 

I clipped the leash to Max’s collar, and he immediately perked up, tail wagging furiously like he’d been waiting all day for this exact moment. He was practically vibrating with excitement, sneezing dramatically and trotting in tight little circles as if trying to walk himself.

 

I already knew where I was headed: Parque Poblado.

 

It was walkable – right at the junction of Calle 10 and Avenida El Poblado, a kind of open plaza masquerading as a park. Less touristy than Parque Lleras, but not much less gritty. It had been renovated a few years ago – with new paving stones, fancy benches, and LED lighting – but the vibe was still very much Medellín. Street vendors, cheap snacks, couples making out in shadowed corners, some prostitutes, loud music leaking from nearby bars and restaurants. Across the street stood the modest Parroquia San José del Poblado, its bells silent but its façade glowing faintly in the fading light.

 

The plaza wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either. Old men in straw hats shuffled by walking toy-sized poodles in knitted sweaters. Middle-aged women with grocery bags dangling from both arms passed me with tired eyes. A pack of kids, no older than ten, tore past playing soccer with a half-deflated ball. A cop rode by on a scooter, giving me a casual once-over but saying nothing. The smells were overwhelming – a mix of grilled chorizo, cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and the faintest whiff of piss that always seemed to linger in the corners of the city.

 

Max immediately began sniffing every square inch of the pavement, nose to the ground like he was on a mission from God. He stopped to pee on a trash can, then on the base of a statue, then tried (unsuccessfully) to lift his leg on a passing teenager’s shoe. I had to yank him back before he could complete the act. “Bro,” I whispered, “we talked about this.”

 

We found an empty bench near the middle of the park, just beneath a crooked palm tree, and I sat down while Max flopped at my feet with a satisfied grunt. I scratched behind his ears the way he liked – right in the soft crease – and his leg started thumping like a drumbeat on the cement. He was such a good boy.

 

I didn’t have a real plan. I just needed to be somewhere that wasn’t my room. Somewhere that felt alive, even if a little run-down. I leaned back, took a deep breath, and let the noise of the city wash over me.

 

An old man approached me, hunched under the weight of a large metal tank strapped to his back. His spine curved sharply, the kind of bend that doesn’t come from age alone, but from decades of labor – jobs that wore down the body long before the soul. In his face was a quiet resignation, the look of someone who’d spent a lifetime at the bottom rung, in a country where moving up was a fantasy for most. In Colombia, poverty wasn’t just economic, it was systemic, generational, stitched into the fabric of society so tightly that escaping it felt impossible.

 

He looked up at me and asked if I wanted a tinto – strong, bitter Colombian coffee served scalding hot in a flimsy plastic cup that always burned your fingertips. “Dale,” I said softly. With practiced hands, he worked the pump connected to the tank on his back, filling the little cup like it was nothing. I gave him a 1,000-peso coin – about twenty-five cents – and he nodded, said, “Dios te bendiga,” and walked off to find his next customer.

 

As I sat there in Parque Poblado, sipping my little plastic cup of tinto like it was the last warm thing in the world, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything we’d learned in class – the numbers, the graphs, the way the teacher’s voice got flat and clinical when she talked about poverty, like it was just another vocabulary term we had to memorize.

 

But sitting here, actually seeing it – kids barefoot and selling gum, old men with sunburned faces digging through trash cans, girls not much older than me trying to flirt their way into a meal – it stopped being numbers. It was just people. People stuck. People surviving. People likely never to escape their lot in life. It just made me even more depressed.

 

I remembered reading that 33% of Colombians lived below the poverty line. That’s the official number. Everyone knows the real figure is much higher. Unemployment was something like 8.6%, but for young people? It was over 17%. Whole generations aging into adulthood with nowhere to go, no doors open. No futures that didn’t involve hustling on the street or getting swallowed by something darker.

 

And the few jobs that did exist? Half of them got snatched up under the table, paid in cash, no protections, no benefits – mostly by desperate Venezuelan refugees just trying to survive after fleeing the cruel Maduro regime in Venezuela. It wasn’t their fault, obviously, but it created this endless spiral. One person’s survival becomes another person’s roadblock.

 

Colombia is one of the most unequal countries in the world – another thing I’d learned but never really understood until now. The top 10% controlled nearly half the country’s income. The poorest 40%? They share just over 10%. That math doesn’t math for anyone hoping for a better future. Any future.

 

And then there’s inflation. Prices go up, salaries stay the same. Official inflation was something like 4.8%, but it felt higher on the streets. A basic lunch cost more than what most people earned in an hour. Minimum wage hovered around USD $387 a month – not even enough for a family to survive, let alone live.

 

No wonder people risked everything to get out. To chase some tiny, flickering dream in the U.S. or Spain or wherever might be marginally better. It’s not about greed – it’s about needing a life that doesn’t feel like quicksand.

 

And now, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, the U.S. administration decided to slash nearly USD $400 million and eighty vital USAID programs that actually helped people. Cut. Gone. Like a giant “fuck you” to every struggling family trying to keep it together with duct tape and borrowed hope.

 

It made me sick. Sitting there, watching all of it play out in slow motion. And knowing I’d get to walk away from it one day – back to my American life, with my American passport, my safety net.

 

They didn’t have that. They never did, and they never would.

 

As I was pondering all of that, I almost had a heart attack when two teenagers, the typical Colombian nea-types, sat down on either side of me. Smooth. Casual. Like they’d been waiting. It scared the living crap out of me, and I was pretty sure I was about to get mugged. And, me being me, my initial thought was, Damn, they’re really cute!

 

Both were around my age – maybe a little younger – but street-worn in a way that made them feel older. Tougher. But kids younger than that had been known to kill, without a second thought. The cartels sought them out.

 

The one on my left had that classic nea look – short, gelled hair poking out under a crisp backward cap, knockoff Adidas tracksuit, white sneakers that had seen better days, and a pair of gold hoops in his ears, a large gold chain around his neck. His face was sharp, all angles and attitude, but his smile and eyes were disarmingly pretty, and he had a certain softness.

 

The other was smaller, quieter, and sat to my right. He had lighter skin, soft brown curls, and wire-rimmed sports glasses that looked like they belonged to a nerdy kid in a private school, not a streetwise teen in Medellín. His T-shirt hung loose on his frame, and his sneakers didn’t match. But he was undeniably cute, in an awkward, almost delicate kind of way.

 

“¿Quiere cigarrillos o dulces o… otras cosas?” the one on my left asked, low and casual.

 

I glanced between them and gave a quick shake of my head. “Lo siento, no hablo mucho español.”

 

That was only half true, but pretending otherwise had its advantages. I already knew he was offering cigarettes, candy, or – judging by his tone – something stronger, maybe pot or cocaine. Either way, I wasn’t interested.

 

The boy on my left laughed softly. Then, to my surprise, he answered in near-perfect English. “You don’t want cigarettes or party favors, bro?”

 

I blinked. “Wait… you speak English?”

 

He grinned. “Born here in Medellín. My mom smuggled me to the States when I was five. Grew up in Houston. La migra deported us a few years ago, so I grew up speaking English.”

 

“Damn,” I said. “That’s rough.”

 

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “I’ve had worse experiences.”

 

“What’s your name?” I asked.

 

“Brayan. And that’s Miguel Ángel,” he said, gesturing to the quiet one beside me.

 

I smiled. “Hunter.”

 

Brayan let out a low whistle. “Like the guy who chases animals?”

 

I smirked. “Something like that.”

 

Max, of course, chose that exact moment to sneeze violently and then try to climb up into my lap, despite being about forty pounds too large for it. I gently shoved him down, and Brayan chuckled.

 

“What’s his name?”

 

“Max. He’s a drama queen.”

 

“Looks like a cop dog. You sure you’re not undercover?” he joked.

 

I laughed. “Pretty sure. I don’t think they hire kids – especially gringo kids – to be cops in Colombia.”

 

“Maybe la DEA then,” he chuckled.

 

I just rolled my eyes. He wasn’t entirely wrong – but also not exactly in the DEA’s line of fire. Street kids like him weren’t on their radar. The DEA cared about kingpins, labs, supply chains – not teenagers selling weed and candy in a city park. If anyone was a threat to him, it was the Colombian National Police. But even they usually couldn’t be bothered with small-time dealers, especially in a country where weed and even cocaine were already decriminalized. Too much effort for too little payoff, unless the police thought they could get a decent bribe out of it to let them go, but Brayan and Miguel Ángel obviously had nothing to give.

 

Brayan leaned back and studied me. “So, what’s a gringo like you doing in a place like this at this time of night? It’s not really safe for you.”

 

“You’ll protect me, though, won’t you?” I smirked. I could never seem to stop myself from flirting, and he was cute. Both of them were.

 

He smiled, and it was such a sweet and genuine smile. “Sí, por supuesto, you’re always safe with us.”

 

“Pero, osea, what are you doing in Colombia? Tourist? Overseas study?” he persisted.

 

“My dad has a job down here. I live in El Poblado. I just needed to get out for a bit. I felt like I was suffocating in my house. Lots of … family problems, I guess you could say.”

 

He gave me a look that was both skeptical and intrigued. “Brave to walk around here at night. You don’t really blend in.”

 

“Yeah, I know. But Max makes me feel a little safer. And I ran into you two, and you guys seem cool and safe enough.”

 

“Sí, es verdad”, Brayan chuckled. “Tienes razón.”

 

Brayan smiled at that, then looked down at Miguel Ángel, who hadn’t said a word. “He doesn’t speak much English. But he’s cool.” He was damn cute, too. I would have loved to scrub him down in a long, hot shower and then have my way with him. Brayan, too. But not right now, not the way I was feeling.

 

I nodded, then looked over. “Hola, Miguel Ángel.” He looked up and offered a small smile. His eyes were big and brown, and he seemed younger than Brayan. A little more fragile and … nervous.

 

Brayan shifted a lot closer, until our sides were touching. “Are you sure you don’t want to party a little with us? We’ve got some tussi or some Molly. Lots of good weed? We can just hang out and whatever happens …”

 

Ah, there it was … they weren’t just low-level drug dealers, they were boy prostitutes, too. That made me even more depressed.

 

“Sorry, not my thing,” I said. “No judgment, though. Gracias.”

 

He leaned in even closer to where I could feel his warm breath on my neck and whispered in my ear. “We won’t even charge you for the sex, just the drugs. You’re really guapo, and we’re really horny, and we like to try new things. We’ve never been with a gringo boy before.”

 

“Sorry, hermano. Normally, I would. You’re both super cute, but it’s just not a good night for me. Some other time, I promise. You guys hang around here a lot, so I can find you again?”

 

I continued, “Sorry again, man, I didn’t mean to offend you. You guys seem really cool.”

 

Brayan nodded. “Todo bien, bro, sin ofensa. Yeah, you can find us here most nights. I hope we see you again. You’re cool, not like most of the imperialistas blancos around here,” he said, chuckling.

 

“Honestly, you seem like someone I’d actually hang with. Like, real friend stuff – grab food, hit a movie, whatever. Yo invito. You’re cool, not like the fake people here. And who knows… if we click more, I might be down to party with you guys.” I grinned.

 

His eyebrows lifted. “Seriously?”

 

I nodded. “Seriously. You’ve probably seen more than most adults I know. And you’re not like the stuck-up, sheltered rich kids I deal with at school every day. This is the Colombia I want to know.”

 

He seemed genuinely surprised. “You’re weird.”

 

“I get that a lot,” I chuckled.

 

I pulled a couple of 50 mil peso notes from my wallet and handed one to each of them. About USD $12.50 each; while not a lot to me, it meant they’d have a good meal tonight.

 

“For your time, and to show you that I’m serious about being friends.”

 

Brayan looked at it, then at me. “You’re really not like the other gringos.”

 

“I’m not a tourist. I live here. I guess you could say I’m a gringo-paisa.”

 

They both had a great laugh at that. “Even weirder.”

 

I smiled, then gave each of them a brief, friendly hug and a kiss on the cheek. Max barked once, wagging his tail like he approved.

 

As I walked away, I felt … better. Not because they were poor, young, or struggling. But because they were real. And for once, I didn’t feel like I was pretending to be someone else. I wasn’t running away from my drama – I was just stepping outside of it for a moment. And maybe, someday soon, I’d run into Brayan and ask him to hang out again.

 

I had a feeling we’d have a good time, even if it was only dinner and conversation. Although if I didn’t figure out where things were really going with Miguel – and soon – I’d probably be down for a threesome with the two of them, too. Like I said, they were really cute.

 

Back at the house, Juan Camilo was hunched on the couch, watching Caracol Noticias with that grim face he wore when things were about to go sideways.

 

“Anything happen?” I asked, unclipping Max’s leash.

 

He didn’t look up. “Skirmishes. Up north. Narcos and guerrillas again. Nothing here yet. But it means we’re not done. Not even close.”

 

“Do you think it’ll reach Medellín again?”

 

“Maybe,” he said. “Depends on how stupid people get. We need more intelligence. More support from the U.S., maybe boots on the ground. We would have caught Escobar a lot quicker if the U.S. had sent in the special forces to help us look for him.”

 

Comforting.

 

I wasn’t tired. Not even close. But I knew I needed sleep. So, I did what I wasn’t supposed to and swiped one of my dad’s Ambien tablets from the medicine cabinet. Just one. Just enough to dull the noise in my head.

 

But before it kicked in, I picked up my phone and typed out two messages – one for Miguel, one for Yeison.

 

“Did you two hook up before I got here? Be honest.”

 

I hit send.

 

Then I curled up on my bed with Max tucked against me like a furry, oversized teddy bear. His breathing slowed. Mine followed.

 

Whatever happened tomorrow... it could wait.

 

Tonight, I slept.

 

 

 

 

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