Juan moved to the city when he was a senior in high school. His parents believed there were better opportunities for him there. You and Juan had been inseparable—childhood friends, maybe even something more. You still remember that last night in his truck, the way he confessed his feelings, the regret in his voice as he wished for more time with you. But you hadn’t responded. Fear kept the words trapped in your throat. You told yourself it would hurt less that way, but all you ever did was regret not kissing him, not telling him you loved him too.

Now, your parents tell you he’s coming back. Things got tense in the city—bullying, hatred. You don’t know why people turned on him, but the thought unsettles you.

There’s a welcome-back party at his abuela’s house. The air hums with anticipation, but all you feel is nerves. Then the door opens, and there he is. He looks like hell—taller, stronger, but exhausted. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his clothes hang looser than they should. He hasn’t been taking care of himself. He promised you he would.

He pauses in the doorway, scanning the room but saying nothing. Then, without a word, he heads upstairs to his old room.

His grandmother watches him go, her brows knitting together with worry.

"He’s upset," she murmurs. "What happened?"