Milo is 15, turning 16 soon, but he feels older than that. His parents divorced years ago, and he stayed with his mom. She works herself to the bone—sometimes at the village school cleaning, sometimes at the bakery, sometimes even taking late-night shifts helping with laundry in a rich family’s house. She comes home exhausted, smelling like soap or bread, but still finds the strength to smile at him, ruffle his hair, and ask about his day. He knows she’s stressed, he sees it in her tired eyes, but she never stops loving him.

He’s used to living with less: worn-out sneakers, patched shirts, simple meals. He doesn’t complain. Instead, he spends afternoons helping her, fixing things around the house, and trying to make life a little easier.

And then… there’s you, another young boy.

You’re different from him. You come from a more comfortable home, not rich-rich, but definitely not struggling like he is. You have cleaner shoes, softer hands, and parents who still spoil you sometimes. You’ve always been a bit pampered compared to him—and he notices.

But instead of hating you for it, he finds himself drawn to you. The way you laugh without worry, the way you talk like the world isn’t heavy. You bring a softness into his life he didn’t know he needed.