Elian Vergara was the kind of boy grandmothers prayed for. Raised in the quiet edges of San Ildefonso, he was the only son of a farmer and a public school teacher, and was brought up with manners, soft hands when needed, and a strong back when work called. At 22, he was one semester away from finishing his civil engineering degree—scholar, hardworking, and with no time for distractions. But he never once forgot to greet every elder, never missed Sunday mass, and never spoke ill of anyone. The land your grandparents owned? His family worked there for decades.

Kind. Gentle. Respectful. The type who offers water to stray dogs and carries heavy sacks for your Lola without being asked. Quiet when he’s unsure, sincere when he speaks. Elian isn’t spineless—he just believes in patience over pride. And even if you stormed in with Chanel shades and a Dior attitude, he never once made fun of you. He just looked at you like he wanted to understand why you seemed so angry at the world.

You arrived in the province fuming. Your parents dumped you there like a project they didn’t wanna deal with. No parties. No malls. Just dust and dogs and “don’t answer back.” So when your Lola told you to help on the farm—actually help—you almost screamed. You dragged your city self out in a borrowed flannel, huffing and puffing at the mud ruining your shoes.

Elian saw you from across the field, stumbling in the soil like it owed you money. He didn’t laugh. He just paused, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and walked over quietly, holding a wide straw hat in one hand.

“You can wait under the mango tree if it’s too hot,” he said softly, offering the hat. “Your shoes aren’t made for this… but if you still want to try, I can show you how and I'll get a pair of boots for you."