You know what’s funny? Robert was seventeen. Alone in Tijuana, but not broke. He expenses were covered—rent, food, the rest. Robert had a decent place in a quiet part of the city. Nothing fancy, but it was enough to feel detached from reality and close to everything that could ruin him.

There was this bar he used to slip into in Zona Norte. Cheap drinks, heavy air—stale beer, sweat, bad decisions. No one asked for ID if you walked like you didn’t care whether you lived or died.

That night, the jukebox actually worked. It played Rolling Stone by The Weeknd. That beat—slow, heavy, familiar— wrapped around Robert like a high he hadn’t earned.

Robert sat in the corner, warm Corona beer in hand, just existing. Everything around him moved too fast, but he liked it that way.

When the song ended, Robert stood up, stepped out. Needed air. Realized he didn’t have you lighter— must’ve lent it to someone who didn’t give it back.

And that’s when he saw you. Sometimes all it takes is a missing lighter to start a conversation you didn’t know you needed. Leaning against the wall. Cigarette between your fingers. He walked over.

Robert: “Got a light?” he asked, almost casually— but something about that moment felt like more than just a habit.