Medellín

It had been two weeks since the Colombian government’s surprise counter-attack against the narcos. According to my dad, it had been carried out independently, without DEA input, which didn’t sit well with the U.S. Embassy. Still, by all accounts, it had been a decisive success. “El Chino” was still out there, but his network had taken a serious beating – lieutenants arrested, dozens of sicarios dead, guerrilla camps bombed, and entire logistics chains dismantled. It had even given the embattled president a small bump in the polls.

 

More importantly for me: it meant freedom. Or at least a taste of it.

 

I sat down with my dad and Juan Camilo in the living room one night when my dad was briefly home, and we hashed out the new plan. As long as I stayed within El Poblado or Envigado – Medellín’s wealthiest and safest zones – I could move around freely. If I wanted to go further, I’d need a chaperone. I was also allowed on short day trips or overnight trips outside the city, with a chaperone, of course. It wasn’t a full pardon, but it was better than being grounded from life.

 

That Thursday, I sat with my usual group under a nispero tree on campus, practically bouncing with excitement. My friends already had weekend plans – Ricardo was visiting cousins, Carlos had a family trip to Santa Fe de Antioquia, Ferney was taking his older sister and little nephew to the zoo, and Zack was Facetiming with his grandparents in California.

 

“So…” Yeison leaned in and brushed a curl away from his forehead. “It’s just you and me this weekend?”

 

“Looks like it.” I tried to sound casual, but I was already picturing us wandering the colorful streets of Envigado or making out in the back row of a movie theater.

 

Yeison grinned. “Mmm, me gusta. I wanna take you to this little café by the plaza. Very romantic. It has hammocks and candles.”

 

“Sold.”

 

Things with Yeison were good, honestly. Better. They’d improved a lot since the night he walked out of the party after I kissed Carlos during “Truth or Dare.” I liked spending time with him – we laughed a lot (he even laughed at all my crude jokes), he was sweet, he treated me well, and yeah, the sex was pretty good. Solid. Comforting, even. The only real issue – the one I kept trying to push to the back of my mind – was that I didn’t feel in love with him. Not the way I thought I was supposed to. Not the way I felt with Rory, and to me, that was the gold standard.

 

I told him “I love you” because I didn’t have the guts not to. Because I didn’t want to hurt him, or ruin something that was actually making me kind of happy. And I was happy. Mostly. Maybe this was just how it worked when you were a little messed up – maybe love took longer to show up when you were still trying to put the pieces back together.

 

After lunch, we all walked down to the artisanal ice cream shop a few blocks from school. It had a teal-painted facade, wood-slatted windows, and a chalkboard menu out front with the day’s flavors: lulo-lime, Oreo cheesecake, coconut with panela, maracuyá, and more.

 

Yeison held the door open for me and did a little bow. “After you, gringuito.”

 

Inside, it smelled like sugar and fruit and cold cream. An old-school fan rotated lazily overhead, and the tiny tables were mismatched and colorful. I ordered soursop with dulce de leche, and Yeison ordered Oreo cheesecake.

 

He took a spoonful and raised his eyebrows. “¡Uy gonorrea, qué chimba!”

 

I scooped a bite of his and nodded. “Okay, fine. You win. Yours is better.”

 

“Like always,” he smirked, then grabbed my spoon and stole a bite of mine. “But this one tastes like... mmm... like a sexy tropical grandma.”

 

“What the hell does that even mean?” I burst out laughing.

 

“Like it’s sweet, creamy, a little old-fashioned. I don’t know, papi, ask your tongue.”

 

We sat on the bench outside, our thighs touching, and passed our cups back and forth. Every time I thought about how lucky I was to have Yeison, I also felt a tiny twist in my gut. Because I still hadn’t told him about the friendship I was supposed to be cultivating with Miguel. He did not like Miguel at all, and this would devastate him. It was a damn big secret that couldn’t get out. And, of course, my crush on Carlos and my previous tryst with Ferney. It was a lot of secrets to keep tucked away, and only added to my almost perpetual anxiety.

 

After saying our goodbyes, which included a slightly-too-long hug and a whispered “I want to taste your mouth later,” I walked back toward the school entrance, where Juan Camilo was already waiting in the black SUV.

 

“Enjoying your freedom?” he asked as I slid into the passenger seat.

 

“More than you can imagine,” I said, and licked the last traces of dulce de leche from my spoon. “It tastes like liberation.”

 

Once we got home, I brought up the elephant in the room. “So, uh, about tomorrow night. Miguel texted me. He wants to hang out. Just boba tea.”

 

Juan Camilo gave me a sidelong glance. “Where?”

 

“Viva Envigado.”

 

“You’re not going alone. I’ll be there. From a distance.”

 

I groaned. “Seriously?”

 

“Seriously. It is at night. And it’s Miguel. I don’t trust him yet.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Juan Camilo shrugged. “Call it instinct.”

 

On Friday evening, after another ice cream stop with Yeison and the crew (I got custard apple this time), I headed home to get ready. I took a shower, styled my hair, put on cologne – yeah, it was just a meeting of “friends,” but it still mattered. I didn’t want to look like I’d rolled out of a laundry basket.

 

Viva Envigado was a colossus of a mall – less a shopping center and more a glittering palace of glass, lights, and life. With four sprawling floors, a rooftop carnival, and a massive IMAX theater, it was supposedly the largest mall in all of Colombia – and it sure felt like it.

 

Inside, the air was cool and perfumed, humming with music from hidden speakers and the chatter of crowds. Gleaming walkways stretched beneath high ceilings, flanked by hundreds of storefronts – everything from luxury boutiques to dessert bars, electronics shops, and bold Colombian brands. Neon signs blinked overhead. The scent of popcorn drifted from the top floor, mingling with the sweet aroma of arepas and churros from the food court.

 

Teenagers in tight jeans and crop tops prowled in packs, sipping overpriced iced coffees and pausing every five seconds to perfect another selfie. Couples clung to each other like they were auditioning for a telenovela, and little kids wobbled by with balloons twice their size. Up on the roof, a Ferris wheel spun in slow motion, framed against the mountains like some Instagram backdrop. And then there were the dogs – God, the dogs. In Colombia, you could bring your dog basically anywhere, even to restaurants, which sounded kind of awesome until I saw what that actually meant. Snarling matches breaking out in the middle of the food court. Random pissing contests on benches and potted plants. And I don’t mean the figurative kind. For such a glossy, high-end mall, it was kind of gross. Backward, even. Like someone polished the surface but forgot to house-train half the customers.

 

The whole place pulsed with energy – loud, stylish, alive. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like a prisoner under house arrest or some liability my dad had to keep an eye on. I felt like a normal teenager again, out on a Friday night, just hanging with a friend. If it weren’t for the constant stream of Spanish echoing all around me, I could’ve sworn I was back in the States, part of the world again instead of stuck on the outside looking in.

 

The only thing that still threw me – and probably always would – were the stares. And not just from teenage girls (or guys), but literally everyone. I guess gringo teenagers weren’t exactly a common sight here, so I definitely stood out like some kind of circus attraction. But honestly? I was feeling pretty cute that night, so I didn’t mind. Especially when the staring came from cute boys.

 

I met Miguel in front of Starbucks. He looked good – tight white tee, a silver chain, dark jeans, slicked hair. Less reggaeton-star, more fashion-week runway. He smelled like expensive cologne and confidence. Seeing him outside of school again after such a long time, dressed to impress and not in his stuffy uniform, I felt a slight pang of something. Bigger than a pang, actually, because it really unnerved me.

 

“Hey,” I said.

 

“Hey. You look… different. Less like a schoolboy today.”

 

I laughed. “Is that a compliment?”

 

“Sí. Relax, yanqui.”

 

We walked around the mall for a while. He showed me his favorite shops – Decathlon for athletic gear, Studio F for streetwear, and the Lego Store just because he liked the Harry Potter models.

 

“You ever build one of these?” he asked, lifting a Hogwarts Castle box.

 

“Once. Took me like four days.”

 

“Pff, baby speed. I build faster.”

 

“Lies,” I teased, bumping his shoulder, sending an unexpected jolt of electricity through my body.

 

Eventually, we got our boba tea. I ordered for both of us – plain milk tea with tapioca pearls.

 

Miguel took one sip, paused, and made a face. “What the hell is this?”

 

“It’s chewy tapioca. You’re supposed to eat it.”

 

He looked horrified. “This is a drink you eat? Ay, no. What kind of country is that?”

 

“It’s called texture, Miguel. Expand your horizons. It’s very popular in Asia.”

 

He tried another sip and chewed with great concentration. “Still not convinced.”

 

“More for me, then,” I said, snatching his cup.

 

We sat on a bench near the escalators, and for a while, just talked. About school, soccer, plans for the future, and the current security situation in Colombia. I got an education in cumbia, vallenato, and reggaetón, none of which I knew anything about. He also explained to me the biggest soccer rivalry in Medellín: Atlético Nacional vs. Independiente Medellín. By the end of that discussion, I don’t think I’d learned a thing, but I loved listening to Miguel talk; that beautiful, stereotypical Latino accent kind of drove me wild, not to mention the rich timbre of his voice. Everything about Miguel oozed sex appeal. And as we talked, to my dismay, I started to hate him a little less and wanted to learn more about him. And not because of my “mission,” but because he genuinely intrigued me.

 

Then I asked, “What do you actually want to do? With your life, I mean.”

 

Miguel blinked, caught off guard. “You always ask hard questions.”

 

“Sorry. It’s just… you’re hard to read sometimes. And I’m curious about you.”

 

“Curious about me?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Honestly?” I asked.

 

“Por favor.”

 

“Well, I guess … there are a lot of things to dislike about you. I think I’ve already told you quite a few of them. But despite that, there’s still some sort of weird connection, and I can’t figure it out. So, like I said, I’m curious about you.”

 

Miguel fidgeted around in his chair, looking a bit uncomfortable, which was unusual for him.

 

“So, you never did tell me what you want to do in the future,” I repeated, trying to keep the conversation going.

 

He looked down, lowered his voice. “I want to leave Colombia. Go to Europe. Or maybe New York. Make music. Or design clothes. Or… I don’t know. Just go somewhere … that’s not here.”

 

“What’s your dad like,” I asked next. “Is he, uh… is he, like, really strict?”

 

Miguel let out a long breath. “Complicated. That’s all. A very complicated man. And I am a very complicated boy.”

 

I nodded, not pushing further.

 

When the mall started shutting down, Miguel offered me a ride home on his motorcycle.

 

“You ever been on one?”

 

“Nope. But I’ve always wanted to,” I replied. I knew Juan Camilo wouldn’t let me, though. He’d probably pop out of some bush and physically stop me.

 

He smiled. “Maybe next time?”

 

“So, you think there’s gonna be a next time?”

 

Miguel was fidgeting again, restless, his eyes darting before he finally looked at me.

 

“Escucha… this is weird for me, okay? Uncomfortable. But I get what you said about the connection. And you already know how I feel – about you, about Yeison – and yeah, it bothers me. A lot. But the truth is, it’s hard for me to say no to you. Hard to ignore you. You don’t know how many times I wanted to text you these last few weeks, and I just… couldn’t. I stopped myself every time. But I’m gonna try now, because I want you in my life. Even if it’s only as friends.”

 

You could say I was pretty stunned by his answer. He seemed so vulnerable, so honest, so real. So not like the Miguel I thought I knew. And I felt that pang in my heart again, much stronger this time, and this after just one evening spent talking like normal teenagers.

 

“But there’s one thing I need you to do for me, Miguel, please,” I pleaded with him.

 

He eyed me warily. “What’s that?”

 

“You’ve got to try to stop being such an asshole. No more bullying people at school and shit like that. Try to show some kindness and humility, not like you’re trying to be King Turd of Shit Mountain all the time. If you can do that for me, then I promise that I will do everything I can to be the best friend you’ve ever had,” I said.

 

“King Turd of Shit Mountain?” he laughed.

 

“Yeah, it means trying to be the top dog of something meaningless and pathetic.”

 

He nodded and grinned. “That’s funny. I’m going to remember that.”

 

“Good!” I said emphatically. “Because that’s exactly how you act.”

 

“And what does being best friends mean?” he asked, softly.

 

I gave him a big, goofy grin. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see!”

 

He stood there for a beat, staring at me, and I felt this strange flicker of vulnerability under his gaze. The sunglasses made it worse – I couldn’t read his eyes, couldn’t tell what was really going on behind them.

 

“Let’s do it,” he finally said. “Trato hecho, mi rey.”

 

A rush went through me. And it had nothing to do with the stupid “mission” my dad and Juan Camilo had shoved on me. This was different now. Personal. Real.

 

We hugged – maybe a little longer than two teenage boys are supposed to – and when I pulled away, I was already wishing we hadn’t let go. I slipped off to find my Uber, my chest buzzing with a restless energy I couldn’t name. The entire ride home, I kept replaying that hug, the way it lingered, the way it felt like it meant more than it should have. It only deepened the confusion I was already drowning in. Yeison. Carlos. Ferney. Hooking up with the plethora of other cute boys in Medellín. But still, somewhere under all that noise, I caught myself with the faintest grin that I couldn’t quite shake.

 

Juan Camilo was already home when I got back, looking uncharacteristically anxious. He raised an eyebrow. “So…?”

 

I dropped onto the couch. “It was fine. Actually, kind of nice. He’s different when it’s just the two of us. He’s more like just a normal kid.”

 

“Good. We may need more of that.”

 

I didn’t ask what that meant. I already felt dirty enough – lying to Yeison, kinda flirting with Carlos, Ferney, sneaking around with Miguel, and still letting my mind wander to other boys I could be with. Daniel, for example, the blue-eyed beauty from the pool who’d been practically begging me to come over and mess around, and I’d actually turned him down. For once. But the changes I kept promising myself I’d make never seemed to stick.

 

What I really wanted – though I hated admitting it, even to myself – was for someone to come along and make all of this chaos stop. A knight in shining armor who’d sweep me off my feet and make me forget every other boy, make me never want to look anywhere else again. But that wasn’t real. That was fairy-tale crap. And I didn’t believe in fairy tales – except for the part of me that secretly, desperately wished they were true.

 

As I got ready for bed, brushing my teeth and pulling on a tank top, I stared at my reflection.

 

This wasn’t just some teenage melodrama anymore. I was dating one boy, secretly meeting another, had a secret crush on another one, and was wrapped up in a geopolitical powder keg.

 

And I hadn’t even finished my homework.

 

Maybe one day they would turn my life into a telenovela.

 

***

 

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of my bedroom, casting pale golden lines across the floor. I blinked groggily, my head pounding, and groaned softly as I sat up. The previous night was still fresh in my mind – my so-called "date" with Miguel. It had been... good. Surprisingly good. And now I felt awful.

 

Today was supposed to be perfect. A day with Yeison. Just the two of us, without distractions, without bodyguards hanging over our every move. But instead of waking up excited, I felt a pit forming in my stomach. Guilt. Shame. Confusion. The kind of emotional hangover that doesn't fade with aspirin.

 

I glanced out the window to check the weather, and of course, the Universe decided to fuck with me. There was Daniel, down at the pool, splashing around with a couple of friends, sun hitting him just right like some setup. That smooth, skinny body, those freakishly blue eyes, that stupidly gorgeous smile – it was all too much. And when his wet board shorts clung to him as he climbed out of the water, showing off a perfectly rounded ass, it felt almost cruel.

 

I tried to feed myself the usual line: that I’d just make friends with him. I needed more friends anyway, and it wouldn’t hurt to have someone outside of school. Maybe I could even use it as proof that I was capable of a normal, platonic friendship with another cute gay boy. Like some kind of test for myself.

 

Yeah, right. Even I didn’t buy that bullshit, because when I looked down at my boxer-briefs, I was hard as a rock.

 

And then the darkness started to creep back in, because not only was I not getting better, I was getting worse.

 

Over breakfast, I tried to push those feelings down. I picked at some calentado and scrambled eggs while talking to Juan Camilo about our plans.

 

"Are you sure you're feeling okay?" he asked, eyeing me.

 

"Headache. Nothing serious," I said. "I just didn’t sleep much."

 

He seemed to believe it, though his expression was unreadable. Eventually, I brought up what was really bothering me.

 

"I know you and my dad want me to be friends with Miguel. But it's screwing with my head, Juan Camilo. I can't be in two places emotionally. And I'm not you. I'm not a trained agent who can flip a switch and become someone else."

 

He leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "You're right. It's not fair. But sometimes life isn't. You can still choose how much of yourself to give. Compartmentalizing isn't pretending. It's surviving."

 

"But I don't want to survive, I want to live. I want to be a real person in my own story, not just some pawn in my dad's operation. And I’ve got plenty of other shit going on in my life and in my head right now that I’m trying to deal with, and this is just making it a lot harder. I’m like the king of teenage angst right now."

 

He nodded slowly. "Then make sure Yeison stays your center. Hold on to what keeps you grounded."

 

Could Yeison really be that center for me? Could anything steady last across the fault line between our worlds? The doubts kept slipping back in, louder each time. I loved being with him – at least I thought I did – but half the time it felt like we were speaking different emotional languages. There was a thin pane of glass between us; I could press my hand to it, but it would never break. And the old pattern was back: interest thinning, attention wandering. Maybe this is just who I am – always moving on while I’m still young and cute enough, then one day not. Then it’s me, a small apartment, and a dog that never asks for explanations.

 

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure how much longer Yeison and I are gonna last,” I admitted to Juan Camilo.

 

“Really? Why not?”

 

And in a moment of stark honesty, I told him that I thought I was just losing interest. Other boys out there had caught my eye.

 

Juan Camilo nodded his understanding. “And is Miguel one of those boys?” he asked.

 

I sighed. “I don’t know – is that good or bad?”

 

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” he said. “But follow your heart… not your… you know…”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah – abort mission, don’t finish that sentence,” I said, making a face.

 

Look, I liked Juan Camilo a lot. He was pretty much the only real father figure I had in my life right now, and honestly, he wasn’t terrible at it. But if we were going to play the whole surrogate-dad thing, there had to be ground rules. Rule number one: my sex life was absolutely, positively, off the table.

 

Juan Camilo smirked, eyes glinting. “Relax, muchacho. I’ve been a teenager too, remember? I can fill in the blanks.”

 

“Great,” I muttered. “That’s exactly what I needed. Mental images.”

 

He just laughed and clapped me on the shoulder, clearly enjoying how much he’d managed to get under my skin.

 

Now, my biggest problem seemed to be what to do about Yeison. We hadn’t been together very long, but I did like him, and I knew he was pretty much infatuated with me. And I’d been warned about jealous Colombian boys. What crushed me most was that Yeison made me feel seen – wanted – in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. But even before Colombia, I’d been grappling with the same internal roadblocks: this thing inside me that wanted love desperately, but never quite knew how to hold onto it. No matter how good it felt at first, I always reached a point where something inside me pulled away. Where I couldn’t go further. That’s how it always ended. That’s how I ended up with a trail of boys behind me – each one just a step I couldn’t finish.

 

Maybe I was too hasty in settling down with a “boyfriend” almost as soon as I got here. I was emotionally desperate in a brand-new place, a new situation, and he was one of the first genuinely good guys I met. It made sense. But now something was missing. Me.

 

Juan Camilo’s advice stuck with me as we drove across the city to pick up Yeison from Estación Manrique, but how much could he understand? It made me want to talk to Rory again, but I doubted he would let me.

 

Yeison looked radiant in the morning sun, wearing a sleeveless athletic tee that showed off his tan arms and his lightning tattoo, curls slightly damp from a shower. The second he climbed into the SUV, he leaned over and kissed my cheek, flashing that smile that always made my chest flutter.

 

"Ready, mi gringuito?"

 

"Ready as I’ll ever be."

 

The drive was long and winding, taking us through the heart of the city. We passed through narrow streets bustling with life – vendors selling mango slices in plastic bags, avocados that cost less than twenty-five cents, public high school students in uniform walking in pairs, women hanging laundry on sagging balconies. As we climbed higher into the mountains, the neighborhoods grew quieter, the noise replaced by birdsong and the occasional revving of a distant motorcycle.

 

The road curled like a ribbon along the green ridgelines, flanked by walls of dense vegetation. Vines wrapped themselves around electric poles, and massive banana leaves swayed lazily in the humid breeze. I spotted bursts of color among the trees – orchids, yellow trumpet flowers, fiery red heliconias.

 

"This place is insane," I said, staring out the window.

 

"Wait until you see the view," Yeison said, squeezing my hand.

 

Finally, we reached the infamous La Catedral. Or rather, what was left of it.

 

"You know the story?" Juan Camilo asked as we stepped out.

 

"Sort of. Pablo Escobar built it to lock himself up?"

 

"He made a deal with the government. He’d turn himself in and serve his sentence in his own luxury prison. Guards loyal to him, no real oversight. He had a disco, a spa, a waterfall, a soccer field, and the inside was built like a palace. Rumors say he even tortured and killed people here. He escaped less than a year later when they tried to move him to a government-run prison. He ran his entire operation from here, living a life of luxury, while much of Colombia starved."

 

Now, it was nothing but ghosts and vines. The old prison had been completely torn down, and graffiti marked the few remaining concrete blocks and surfaces. Wild grass covered what had once been the helipad. A parking lot covered what used to be Escobar’s private soccer field. But the view – God, the view. The entire Aburrá Valley lay below us, the city sprawling like a painting beneath a gauzy curtain of clouds. Mountains ringed the valley in every direction, blanketed in velvet green.

 

Yeison stood next to me, quiet, watching.

 

"Hard to believe someone so evil could choose a place so beautiful," I murmured.

 

"That's how they work," Yeison replied. "They make you forget what they are."

 

“This was also where he came from – Envigado,” Juan Camilo interjected. “So, he felt safe here, safe from his enemies in the Cali Cartel and the government. He knew these mountains like the back of his hand, from when he played here as a child. He could see them coming from far away and get away very fast. He felt safe in Envigado. The people knew him and loved him. If you talk to the old men playing tejo or chess or billiards, they all have stories about Pablo back in the days when he was still just smuggling cigarettes and stolen electronics, before he became a cocaine kingpin.”

 

Yeison reached for my hand again, his fingers slipping between mine with quiet certainty. For a while, we just stood there like that – silent, steady – watching the valley stretch out below us in soft golden light. The breeze barely moved, but his touch anchored me, as if nothing else mattered at that moment.

 

After taking in the view for a few more minutes – and taking a ton of selfies – we set off to explore the hills. The heat was thick and heavy, clinging to our skin and making each step feel a little slower, but neither of us complained. The landscape was rugged and wild, dotted with scrubby trees, sun-bleached rocks, and the occasional flash of color from blooming flowers. Every turn felt like the start of a new adventure, and despite the sweat and dust, we were completely in our element – two curious teenage boys chasing the thrill of discovery, side by side.

 

Back at home, Doña Susana greeted us with a smile and a lunch of arroz con pollo, patacones, and fresh-squeezed mandarin juice. We ate until we were stuffed and then changed into swimsuits to mess around in the pool. The sun was relentless, but the water was crisp and clean.

 

We spent a couple of hours roughhousing in the water and cooling off. I was beyond relieved that we didn’t see Daniel there. Yeison climbed on my shoulders for a chicken fight, then dunked me underwater with a laugh. At one point, we floated on our backs side by side, our fingers barely brushing.

 

"You ever wonder how long we can keep this up?" I asked.

 

"What, being happy?"

 

"Yeah."

 

He looked at me and smiled faintly. "As long as we try."

 

Later, exhausted, we crawled into bed for a siesta. I kissed him softly and pulled him close, and for the first time all day, I didn’t feel torn.

 

Just before sunset, Juan Camilo woke us and told us to hop in the car – he had a surprise.

 

We grabbed some McDonald’s on the way and started climbing again, this time toward the Mirador Las Palmas, a famous viewpoint above the city. As night fell, the entire valley shimmered with golden lights, like someone had poured glitter over the mountains. Streetlamps flickered on one by one, tracing the roads like glowing veins, and the windows of distant houses blinked to life, scattered across the hillsides like stars. The city below seemed to breathe – quiet, alive, and beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.

 

Vendors lined the edge of the lookout, selling arepas, grilled meats, and drinks. We grabbed cups of hot chocolate. I took a sip, savoring the rich flavor, before suddenly gagging.

 

"What the hell is this?"

 

Yeison burst out laughing. "Queso."

 

"There’s cheese in my hot chocolate?!"

 

"You’re supposed to let it melt and then scoop it out. It’s good," Yeison insisted, and Juan Camilo nodded his head in agreement.

 

I stared at him like he’d gone insane, but he was already pulling out the gooey white blob and popping it in his mouth.

 

"You Colombians are weird," I said, smiling.

 

“You yanquis are weird,” he responded, smirking.

 

He pulled off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. The air up here was crisp, the wind licking our cheeks. I leaned against him, his warmth soothing.

 

"You know," he said, watching the lightning flicker in the distance, "someday we’ll come back here on a motorcycle. You and me. I am saving up to buy one."

 

I stiffened a bit at the mention of motorcycles – my brain flashed to Miguel.

 

"Yeah," I said, quietly.

 

Back in the car, I fought to quiet the storm in my head. I had no intention of betraying Yeison, but something about Miguel – cocky, dangerous, sharp, and weirdly tuned to the darker parts of me—kept pulling; beneath the armor I could feel a guarded heart, and his defensiveness when I probed for tenderness only made him more alluring. Being near him felt like standing on the edge of something wild and a little destructive. Meanwhile, another part of me tugged elsewhere: the pool kid, Daniel, whom I’d barely spoken to; the lingering schoolboy crush on Carlos – probably the safest fantasy and the least likely, because he’s a genuinely good friend I couldn’t stand to hurt; and, of course, Ferney’s standing invitation for hooking up whenever I wanted. Two sides of me were fighting, and I wasn’t sure which would win.

 

At Parque Envigado, the last stop of the night, we walked through the square past the towering Iglesia de Santa Gertrudis. Old men played cards beneath flickering streetlamps. A woman sold buñuelos from a portable fryer. Laughter and music spilled from the bars on the corners and billiard halls. Prostitutes hung around outside the casinos, hoping to get lucky with a jackpot winner, flashing their goods for just a couple of thousand pesos.

 

Yeison and I sat on a bench, watching life swirl around us. He leaned on me and sighed.

 

"This is what I love. Just being. Here. With you."

 

I wanted to say something profound, something to assure him that I was fully present, fully his. But I knew it wouldn’t be the truth.

 

Back home, after showers, we curled up in bed. He reached for me, but I froze.

 

"I’m tired," I said. “It was a long day. Could we save it for another night, babe?”

 

He didn’t protest. Just rested his head against my chest, one arm draped over my stomach.

 

I watched the flickering shadows on the ceiling, wondering if this was the beginning of me slipping back into my old ways. No, I knew it was. I cared about Yeison a lot. I was sure of that. He was a great friend and a great guy. But something inside me had shifted. And I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to control it.

 

***

 

Yeison had to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to go to church with his family. They were all devout Catholics, except maybe for him. Juan Camilo had offered to drive him to the nearest metro station, and Yeison kissed me goodbye sleepily, his hand brushing my cheek as he whispered, “Mi amor, my parents really want to meet you. Maybe next Sunday you can come to lunch, sí?”

 

I smiled and nodded, but something heavy settled in my chest. That invitation should have made me happy, but instead it left me breathless with anxiety. Meeting the parents was serious business. It signaled all sorts of commitment. And I wasn't sure I was ready. No, I knew I wasn’t ready.

 

After they left, I lay in bed with Max curled beside me, his head rising and falling. I scratched behind his ears – he was the only creature who wanted nothing from me but a belly rub. I needed someone to talk to, not another “compartmentalize” speech or good-little-agent orders. Juan Camilo had tried, but he wasn’t what I needed. And Zack? Loyal, sure, but not built for this – and in our friend group, news spreads fast. The chisme here could rival the abuelas peeling potatoes on their doorsteps.

 

I hesitated. Then I opened my messages and texted the one person I thought might get it, even though I probably should have learned from the last time I tried it.

 

Me: “Hey, Rory. How are you?”

 

I waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. I started to second-guess myself. Then finally:

 

Rory: “What do you want?”

 

The words punched me in the stomach. Still, I pushed through.

 

Me: “We promised we would always stay friends when we broke up, and I really need a friend right now. Please.”

 

Another long few minutes passed by. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected much from an old promise made while my cock was buried in his ass.

 

Rory: “Let me guess. Sticking your dick where it doesn’t belong again?”

 

In the few seconds it took me to process that hurtful message, which I totally deserved, my phone buzzed again.

 

Rory: “You’re right. I’m sorry. Go ahead, Hunter.”

 

Me: “You’re the only person I can talk to right now. I’m really fucked up, and I don’t know what to do.”

 

His reply took longer this time.

 

Rory: “Every time you do this, it makes it harder to get over you. When you invited me to visit Colombia to see you the last time, I was seriously considering it. I daydreamed of us lying on the beach and holding hands, talking about anything and everything. That’s how fucked up I still am. But you’re the asshole for what you did to me.”

 

I stared at the screen, fighting back a surge of shame.

 

Me: “I know. I deserve that. I’m sorry, I swear. But please. Just give me five minutes. I’m not asking to be forgiven. I just need to talk, and I don’t know anyone else who would get it. No one else gets me.”

 

He finally agreed, and I poured it all out. About Yeison. About Miguel. About the kid from the pool. About how I thought I was building something real with Yeison, but how I was being pushed to hang out with Miguel again for reasons I couldn’t explain, and how I was feeling things for Miguel, too, and things had just started getting boring and lacking excitement with Yeison. And then, there were so many boys down here, and I couldn’t touch a single one. I probably sounded like a whiny little bitch, and I imagine it was awful for Rory to have to deal with.

 

I watched the text bubbles start and stop and start again. I could only imagine the tongue-lashing I would get from Rory for being such a damn idiot. But I deserved it.

 

Rory: “Don’t cheat on Yeison. Trust me, you don’t forget what that feels like. I still feel it, every day. If he’s not the one for you, just break it off. Maybe you can still be friends. If you cheat on him and he finds out, he’ll never speak  to you again.”

 

The guilt hit me so hard it felt like my lungs were being crushed. Rory hadn’t deserved what I’d done to him. Not even a little. He’d been good to me. Loyal. Safe. And I’d crushed him, just like I was on the verge of crushing Yeison now.

 

Me: “You’re still speaking to me at least … after what I did.”

 

Rory: “And you have no idea how hard it is, especially hearing what you’re telling me. Especially when I still fucking love you and I hate myself for it. You’ve moved on. I can’t.”

 

Me: “I didn’t mean to hurt you. You were perfect. I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sick.”

 

Rory: “You didn’t want something stable. You wanted chaos. Excitement. You still do. And you jumped into this thing in Colombia way too fast. Probably just because you were lonely and you’d already been through all the cute boys in D.C.”

 

I wanted to argue. But he wasn’t wrong.

 

Rory: “Look, Hunter -- you’ve gotta pick: stability or excitement. You can’t have both. You want love, but something in you won’t let it stick—maybe you don’t think you deserve it. Maybe you need time to be slutty and burn it out by 30. Maybe talk to someone. Just don’t hurt anyone else like you hurt me. I’m still not over you, and it sucks. If you hadn’t left, I probably would’ve taken you back. That’s how in love I was.”

 

I was stunned to hear that. If I had known that that was even a possibility, I probably never would have left. But then again, if I’d cheated on him once (well, several times), I’d probably do it again, and then we’d be back in the same boat. So yeah, for his sake alone, I needed to leave or I’d just keep hurting him.

 

His final message shattered me:

 

Rory: “I love you, Hunter. You know that. And I know that you love me, too. Even when you cheated on me, when you were inside another boy, when you came inside another boy, I think you still loved me in your own messed-up way. There is one thing that I am truly thankful to you for … that you never gave me an STD. But I hope I don’t hear from you again for a long time. Preferably never.”

 

I sat there, numb, the phone cold in my hand. Max whined and nudged my arm with his nose.

 

And then, rather than seeking comfort from my boyfriend, I immediately texted Miguel:

 

“You free today?”

 

If I’d had Daniel’s number, the beautiful little teen twink from the pool, I’d have texted him, too. Go big or go home, right?

 

But if I were forced to choose right now, if someone had a gun to my head, I knew I would choose Miguel, the dangerous, exhilarating choice.

 

Miguel responded almost instantly. Said he could pick me up on his motorcycle. I knew I should study, catch up on homework. But I said yes. Of course I did.

 

Juan Camilo wasn’t thrilled. He only agreed if we stayed within El Poblado or Envigado. However, I was still prohibited from visiting Parque Lleras, in the heart of El Poblado, because it had gotten “too dangerous” lately. Parque Lleras had always been the center of nightlife and gringo life in Medellín, but had gradually turned into a den of drugs, prostitution, robberies, and violence.

 

 When Miguel arrived, he looked hot in a low-key way: jeans, hoodie, backward cap, sunglasses. I climbed onto the bike, put on the spare helmet, and gripped him tightly.

 

The engine roared to life. I held on, feeling the surge of adrenaline as we pulled away, all that horsepower between my legs.

 

The ride was exhilarating. The wind whipped past my face, tugging at my hair through the open visor. Every curve in the road made me cling to him tighter, my chest pressed against his back. We flew through El Poblado, then climbed the winding mountain roads that snaked along the outskirts of Medellín.

 

“I thought we had to stay in town,” I shouted over the engine.

 

Miguel laughed, his voice muffled through the helmet. “Today, I am your security escort.”

 

Reckless. Stupid. Dangerous. God, I loved it.

 

We ended up in El Retiro, a quiet pueblo about an hour outside the city. Cobbled streets, colorful houses, and an old-world charm that made it feel like we’d stumbled into a postcard. He told me that his dad’s house (or one of them) was not far away, in Llanogrande, where all the wealthy businessmen and politicians lived ... and the narcos. I couldn’t believe that the police knew where some of these guys lived, in plain sight, and did nothing about it.

 

Miguel’s response was simple. “Welcome to Colombia.”

 

Finally, Miguel parked in front of a tiny Chinese restaurant.

 

“Trust me,” he said. “It's real Chinese food. Not the fake Colombian kind.”

 

And it was, sort of. Crispy egg rolls, spicy General Tso’s chicken that actually tasted like chicken, egg foo yung doused in a thick brown gravy, and Mongolian beef. Sure, it wasn’t authentic Chinese food – more like American-Chinese food – but it was still good, and I’d missed it. We didn’t talk much. Just light conversation. He asked why I wanted to hang out again so soon.

 

“I was bored,” I said, then added, more honestly, “I wanted to see you.”

 

A slow smile spread across his face. “Good. Because I wanted to see you too.”

 

“I’ve thought about you a lot,” I admitted, eyes dropping to the ground.

 

“Same,” he said softly, his fingers brushing along my arm in a way that made my skin spark.

 

“This… is not how I pictured things going between us,” I sighed.

 

“Oh yeah?” He tilted his head, smirking. “And how did you picture it?”

 

“Hating you forever. Then one day, having a dramatic, slow-motion fight to the death in the school courtyard,” I said with a laugh. God, it felt good to laugh again.

 

Miguel laughed too, shaking his head. “That’s not what I pictured.” His grin stretched wide, boyish and bright.

 

“So, what did you picture? Where do you see this going?” I asked, my voice dropping into something more serious.

 

He met my gaze, the smile fading into something steadier, more intent. “I see us getting closer. Much closer. I picture winning your heart. Proving to you that I can understand you better than anyone else. That I can make you feel alive again. And then…” He paused, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Then I give you mine.”

 

Miguel sure knew how to turn on the charm and romance, and while I was aware of what he was doing, I was still falling for his sweet words, falling for him. And I had no idea how or why this was happening.

 

There were still so many things I wanted to ask him – stuff I couldn’t stop circling. Why act like such a stuck-up asshole half the time? Why bully people, make them feel small, walk around like the school owed him? Could he change? Were the coldness, arrogance, and cruelty just armor he could take off – maybe even a little, maybe even for me?

 

But I didn’t ask those questions. I couldn’t. Because today was too perfect and I didn’t want to spoil it. Those questions would have to wait for another day.

 

And maybe part of it was because I was scared to know the answers to those questions.

 

The ride back was quieter. I wrapped my arms around him, this time resting my head on his shoulder despite the awkward helmets. He placed his hand over mine. My stomach fluttered.

 

At the house, we played in the pool. I gave him my American flag swimsuit as a joke. Again, Daniel was nowhere in sight. But Daniel couldn’t hold a candle to Miguel.

 

“Don’t tell your friends,” I teased. He splashed me in revenge.

 

Later, we lay side by side on my bed, damp hair, clean clothes, smelling of chlorine and coconut soap.

 

“I think maybe I’m getting used to just being friends,” he said. “But I still like you.”

 

“You’ll get over it,” I said quietly. “I’m nothing special.”

 

He looked at me seriously. “You are. Way more than you think.”

 

The words hit me harder than I expected. I wasn’t comfortable with the cognitive dissonance they caused.

 

“And then you’d get bored with me after a while, when the excitement of being with a ‘gringo’ wears off, and you’ll dump me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I’ve done the same thing to plenty of other guys. I know how it goes.”

 

“If you give me a chance, I will show you that I am different from what you think,” he said, looking me directly in the eyes. His expression seemed so honest, sincere … and vulnerable.

 

“Step-by-step, getting to become real friends, just like we talked about,” I reminded him. “Remember, I still have a boyfriend … Yeison.”

 

He gave me a look that barely contained his disappointment.

 

I wasn’t about to tell him I’d been thinking about ending things with Yeison. That was mine – my call – not something for Miguel to spin or claim credit for. If I broke up with Yeison, it had to be because the relationship wasn’t working, not because I was defecting to Team Miguel. And I wasn’t even sure I wanted that anyway; the guy had more baggage than the Bogotá International Airport and enough secrets for a Netflix thriller. Half the time, I could barely stand him; the other half, I hated the pull I couldn’t shake. He didn’t get to know that. For now, all I could offer was what I promised: a real friendship, step by step. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

As the sun set, Miguel said he had to go home. I walked him out, watching his bike disappear down the road. I stood there for a long time, chewing the inside of my cheek.

 

Something real was blooming. Something I didn’t plan for. And I didn’t know what to do about it. There were so many voices screaming in my mind to stay far, far away from Miguel, that he would break my heart, that he would hurt me, that I’d be another toy for him. But I still couldn’t ignore that connection I felt. I knew there was something there, I just wasn’t sure what it was yet.

 

Yeison was everything I should’ve wanted – funny, warm, loyal, effortlessly sexy. He made me laugh, held me when I sank, and never made me feel like too much or not enough. He deserved someone who could say “I love you” without hesitation. But the spark—the rush that makes your heart race—felt faint, maybe never really there, and I’d tried to will it into existence because he was there and adorable and I needed someone. I wanted to find it again – for him and for us – but you can’t fake a fire once the coals go cold. The guilt was suffocating; he hadn’t changed—I had. Or maybe I hadn’t, and that was the problem. I wasn’t just scared of losing Yeison. I was afraid of losing myself – again.

 

I had come to Colombia to start fresh; to become someone better. Kinder. Healthier. Less chaotic. Less selfish. I told myself this time would be different. This time, I would get it right. This time, I would be better.

 

A couple months in, I could already see the rerun: the slow withdrawal, the restless itch, the craving for something reckless and scarring—the kind of fire that makes your knees weak and your chest ache and that I still insisted was the only love that felt real. I hated wanting it, knowing that high always gutted me, and wanting it anyway. Underneath sat the part I knew too well: charm to hide the cracks, little lies to spare feelings that only cut deeper later, the quiet unraveling of something good. The darkness started whispering – soft at first, then louder – asking whether I was built for happiness at all, or wired to ruin anything that tried to love me.

 

Was I broken? Was I toxic? Was I a bad person? Was I just destined to leave behind a trail of boys who tried to love me, while I watched them fade in the rearview mirror, telling myself I never meant to hurt them?

 

I rolled over, and Max trotted into my room like he could sense it – like he could smell the guilt crawling under my skin. He leaped onto the bed and curled up beside me without a sound. I pressed my face into his fur, holding my breath, like maybe I could disappear for a second. Like perhaps I could inhale some of his innocence and push the rot out of my lungs.

 

I didn’t have any answers. Just questions. A thousand of them, echoing off the walls of my skull. I had people who cared about me – who’d listen if I let them – but that was the worst part. Because no matter how many people I talked to, no matter how many times I was told I was good, or worthy, or loved… it didn’t change the fact that I owned this darkness.

 

It was mine. It had my name on it.

 

And it was coming back.

 

And I didn’t know how to stop it.

 

 

 

 

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