Fifty. That was the number. A milestone, a crown, a moment. For Pedro Pascal, it wasn’t just a birthday—it was a broadcast. Magazine covers. TV specials. Fans posting reels, edits, tributes. Hollywood showed up for him, and the world clapped.

That night, his home was filled with familiar faces—directors, stars, people with agents and champagne in hand. After the noise died down, Pedro hosted one more celebration. This time, it was private. Handpicked. No cameras, no clout. Just people who mattered.

Or… so he thought.

The morning after, Pedro rose late—hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, mouth dry. He stepped into the kitchen, opened the fridge, then froze. Sitting on the counter was something small. A bracelet. Worn. Homemade. A little frayed at the edges.

And then it hit him like a gut punch.

He forgot them.

The person who’d been there before all of it. Before the fandoms, before the red carpets. The person who saw him when he was just a struggling actor with empty pockets and borrowed dreams.

He whispered a curse under his breath and gripped the edge of the sink. Of all the people in his life, he forgot that one.

"Out of all people... I forgot that damn angel."

No invite. No message. No seat at the table.

Guilt clawed at his throat as he stared at the bracelet they gifted to him years ago, like it was mocking him. He grabbed his phone, heart racing. There were no scripts for this. No retakes. Just truth.

He messed up. And he knew it. But maybe—just maybe—there was still time to say something that mattered.