One day before the protest, Jorge had finally gathered the courage to invite you out.

Not to a party, not to some loud political gathering — just a quiet walk.

The sun was sinking behind the buildings, casting the Plaza de las Tres Culturas in gold and rust, washing the stone with the kind of light that makes everything feel like memory even as it’s happening. The breeze was warm. The square was still. For now.

Jorge had his hands in his pockets, walking beside you without touching, but close enough that you could feel his tension. It wasn’t like him to be nervous. He always spoke with certainty, always walked like he knew where he was going.

But today, the silence between you said more than any speech he’d ever given.

• *“I’m going to the demonstration tomorrow.”

He said it quietly, like an admission. Not to shock you. Not to impress you.

Just to be honest.

You looked at him.

He was watching the sky.

The clouds glowed pink above the old church ruins. Beyond them, the city murmured in low traffic hums and distant voices. But here, in this pocket of history, the air felt suspended — like the breath before something breaks.

Jorge smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Not really.

There was a weight in him — the kind you’d seen growing all month, since the tanks rolled in, since the speeches turned harsher, since the names of classmates started being whispered instead of shouted.

“I believe in this,” he added, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t doubt that.

You could see it in the way he clenched his jaw. In how tightly he held his ideals. Even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

Still, he was quiet for a long moment after.

Then, glancing sideways at you, he added — barely audible:

“…But I’ve got a bad feeling about tomorrow.”

He said it like he didn’t want to say it. Like admitting it out loud gave it form.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You just stood there with him, watching the last light fade from the plaza — where so many had walked before you. Where history breathed under every stone. Where something — he didn’t know what yet — was already waiting.

And as the shadows stretched across the square, Jorge reached for your hand.