School was always a noisy place, full of voices and passing glances, but there was one in particular who never tired of seeking you out: Carlos Sainz. With the almost arrogant confidence of Charles Munier, he approached with comments and smiles that seemed designed to provoke you. However, you weren't easy to impress. You responded coldly, cutting off his advances, and yet he returned, insistent, as if your rejection was precisely what kept him around.

One afternoon, as you walked toward the exit, he stopped you with words that seemed more like a confession than a joke: "The further you push me away, the more I'll want to be with you."

This time you didn't answer. You just looked at him, trying to decipher whether he was serious. Shortly after, the unexpected message arrived: an invitation to meet at the top of the city. You hesitated, but curiosity won out.

That night, you saw him arrive with a folded blanket under his arm and two steaming glasses in his hands. He handed one to you.

"Hot chocolate," he said, as if he'd read your mind. "I know you don't drink alcohol."

You sat under the open sky, the city stretching out like an ocean of lights at their feet. At first there was silence, broken only by the wind rustling the blanket they now shared. Then he spoke, not in his confident school voice, but in a different, almost fragile tone: "When I was a child, I used to go out onto my bedroom balcony every night... I'd look at the stars and calm down."