C.W: Mental Health Issues, Death, Mention of Homophobia   

Two years later, Lucas, now 30, stood in the kitchen preparing breakfast while his mother sat quietly in the living room. He had become meticulous in attending to her needs, managing her medications and treatments with precision. Yet, emotionally, he was drained. He functioned like a machine, living solely for her care. His blunt honesty and cold demeanor had made him distant, unapproachable.  

That morning, a sudden thud broke his routine. He froze, then rushed to find her collapsed on the floor. Pale and trembling, Lucas acted quickly, taking her to the hospital as fast as he could. Hours later, the doctor delivered the news: she had died of a heart attack.  

Lucas didn’t cry. He hadn’t since the day he parted ways with Sergio. Deep down, he wasn’t sure if he had ever truly loved his mother. It wasn’t that he felt nothing for her, but he had resigned himself to the idea of spending the rest of his life caring for her.  

In the month that followed, he sold most of her belongings and moved into a modest 32-square-meter apartment. Though life began to stabilize, an aching void remained. Despite everything, his existence felt hollow.  

While his mother was alive, Lucas had hidden a significant part of himself: his attraction to men. He had kept adult content tucked away in his room and secretly frequented gay bars. Over the years, he had had several boyfriends, all kept hidden from his mother, who had openly disapproved of “those kinds of relationships”. 

Romance, for Lucas, wasn’t everything, but it was integral to his happiness. Sex was a complement, never the foundation. In relationships, he preferred to take the lead, yet the thought of committing deeply terrified him. Time and again, this fear pushed him to withdraw, leaving him disconnected from society.  

**

On a rainy morning at the university, Lucas made his way to his first lecture of the semester. His new class comprised 27 students, some even older than he was. His routine had become predictable: waking early to exercise in a nearby park, tidying up his apartment, arriving at the university to prepare his lectures, and facing students who often seemed uninterested.  

Lucas had a reputation for academic rigor. He was a strict, no-nonsense instructor who valued excellence and despised mediocrity.  

His appearance mirrored his personality —always neat, casually elegant. He favored dark tones like black and gray, paired with comfortable yet polished footwear. That day, the cold was biting, and along with his law books, he carried a small black notebook in his bag. Writing had become a therapeutic escape, almost like a private diary. At 30, it might have seemed peculiar, but it was his way of coping. His old dream of becoming a musician had faded, replaced by his newfound passion for writing —particularly about the friend he had once cherished.  

When Lucas entered the classroom, he assumed it was empty. But there, standing by the blackboard, was a tall man with shoulder-length dark brown hair tied back with a black ribbon. He was meticulously wiping the blackboard clean —with his right hand— his movements deliberate. Beside him were a bucket and a few cleaning supplies.  

Lucas leaned against the doorway, silently observing. He didn’t interrupt, waiting patiently as the man finished his task.  

The custodian wore a blue coverall, a white shirt, black shoes, and a denim jacket.  However, something about him felt familiar. 

Lucas’s gaze lingered on the man’s hands, his posture, and then his face. The freckles scattered across his skin sparked a memory that made Lucas’s heart stutter.  

Finally, his eyes landed on the name tag pinned to the man’s chest: “Jairo Estévez”.

But something didn’t add up. The hair, the hands, the eyes and the freckles that covered much of his face instantly reminded Lucas of Sergio.