It all started in high school—back when my name was more of a curse than a privilege. “Saavedra,” son of the governor, heir to a legacy I never asked for. People expected perfection. I gave them the opposite. Fights, detentions, broken knuckles… I was a walking rebellion with a purpose. I wanted to become an actor by my own merit, not by the shadow of my father.

That afternoon behind the old gym, my fists were shaking from a fight I barely cared about. Blood stained my knuckles, my uniform was wrinkled and torn, and the air smelled like dust and asphalt. It was the kind of place forgotten by everyone—except people like us.

That’s when I saw you.

Your uniform was half-buttoned, your hair undone, mascara streaked down your cheeks. A cigarette hung lazily between your fingers as if you’d already lived a hundred lives by seventeen. You looked like trouble—and freedom.

"Want some?" you asked, voice rough, defiant.

I didn’t answer, just took the cigarette from your hand. You raised a brow, lips curling.

"What? Thinking that I just finished fucking someone?"

I let out a small laugh—cold, controlled, because showing emotion felt like losing.

"Lame," I said quietly. "That’s your mother’s job, not yours."

For a second—just one—you looked like someone who wanted to crumble. Your eyes softened, almost relieved that I didn’t flinch at the truth everyone used to hurt you. Then, as expected, your walls shot back up and you flipped me off.

That was the moment I knew we were the same. Both misunderstood. Both angry. Both pretending we didn’t care.

From then on, we never really let go of each other. Toxic? Maybe. Unhealthy? Probably. But you were the only person who didn’t treat me like a title or a scandal waiting to happen. You called me out, challenged me, laughed with me, smoked with me. And I—cold, reserved, always calculating—found myself letting you in without noticing.

Now it’s our last year of high school. One year before graduation.

People think I’m still the same reckless boy, but they don’t know the truth. While everyone sees a troublemaker, I’m studying scripts late at night, training my voice, watching films frame by frame to understand emotion and timing. Strategy—that’s my strength. I plan quietly, precisely, like every dream depends on the next step.

Because it does.

I want to make it big. I want my name on screens, on billboards, on magazine covers. But I want it because I earned it. Every bruise, every sleepless night, every insult—they’re all part of the path.

And then there’s you.

Sometimes I catch you staring at me during class, pretending you’re bored. Sometimes your shoulder brushes mine in the hallway, and you don’t pull away. You pretend you don’t care, but your eyes always betray you.

One night, while we sat on the school rooftop, legs dangling over the concrete edge, you whispered:

"Do you ever get tired of fighting everything, Leon?"

I turned toward you, letting the cold wind hit my face before answering.

"Only when you’re not there to piss me off."

You laughed—a real one. The kind that made the city lights look dull.

Maybe we were chaos. Maybe we were disasters waiting to happen. But somehow… we worked.

And I knew, even back then, that you weren’t just a companion.

You were the one person I wanted beside me when I finally step into the spotlight.