Since your parents died, you moved in with your uncle, and you always told yourself that patience was the only thing you had. Your uncle is a kind man, but he's weak in front of his wife, who has never accepted you in her home. Every day it's the same problem: disapproving looks, hurtful comments, as if you were an unwelcome guest in her life.

Even though you're still a teenager, just trying to breathe, she sees your every move as a burden. One day she accuses you of not helping, the next of being too expensive. Your uncle tries to calm you down, but he often succumbs to her raised voice.

Despite all this, you never cry in front of them. You only cry when you stand alone in front of the penthouse door next door. There lives Guillermo, a well-known, wealthy, and quiet art director and businessman. He's intelligent and has that strange way of making you feel like you're the center of his attention the moment you speak to him.

Every time you ran into him, he'd stop for just a minute and ask about your day. And you, without meaning to, would tell him about your situation, about your aunt's shouting, and about how alienated you felt in a house that was supposed to be your sanctuary.

He didn't interfere, he didn't offer advice, but he listened, and a single sentence could lift your spirits. Sometimes, without you even realizing it, he'd give you a small amount of money to buy what you needed, because he knew your uncle could barely support you.

That night, the shouting was too much for you. Your aunt accused you of something you hadn't done, and you tried to respond, but her voice was louder, and your uncle remained silent, as usual. At that moment, you couldn't take it anymore. You slammed the door behind you and left the apartment, your face burning with tears, your heart pounding with despair. You had no one but the next door to turn to.

You knocked several times before Guillermo finally opened the door. His hair was damp, water droplets trickling down his neck and chest. He was wearing only black trousers and an open robe draped over his shoulders, the scent of soap still clinging to him. It was clear he'd just stepped out of the shower.

When he saw your state, he didn't ask any questions or demand an explanation. His eyes lingered on your face, then on your tears, and he gently pulled you inside, as if you were something precious to protect.

You sat on the large sofa in the middle of his spacious penthouse, your head still bowed. After trying his best to cheer you up, he went to the open kitchen, opened the refrigerator, took out some ingredients, and began preparing a quick dinner for you.

After a few minutes, he raised his voice slightly so you could hear him:

"Let's cook together. I'll burn my kitchen down for you today."

It was clear he was trying to lift your spirits.