I know—asking a stranger to show me around an equally unfamiliar city might sound a little… irresponsible, perhaps.

  Although many believe the first time I saw Pedro was when he collapsed in the restaurant, the truth is that I noticed him the moment I walked into the hotel lobby the night before.

  Pedro was standing near the front desk. Aly and Phillip were with me on the sofa, both talking about something that, honestly, I can barely remember now. His wavy hair and gentle smile were the first things that caught my attention, and in that instant, I think I can say—for the first time in my life—I felt drawn to someone purely by the way they looked.

  I won’t lie, I’ve seen hundreds of people whose appearance made me wonder what it might be like to have a ten-minute conversation with them. In most cases, the charm disappeared within five minutes. Pedro, however, made me certain he was interesting within the first—and only—two minutes we spoke before I took the risk of asking him out.

  “Why did it take you so long?” Phillip asked as I stepped into the hotel van.

  I sat beside him in the back seat, but soon shifted closer to the window.

  “It’s nothing, I just…” I let the silence finish the sentence for me.

   Aly rose from her seat and turned around, startling me slightly.

   “Did you get his number?” she asked. “Please, David, tell me that you were brave at least once in your life.”

   “What are you talking about?” Phillip asked, an amused expression on his face.

   “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that the guy who fainted is the same one David’s been eyeing since last night.”

 

   “I’m not eyeing anyone, Aly. Don’t start inventing stories where there aren’t any.”

   “Then tell me this, David — why did it take you so long to say goodbye to him?”

   “Did he ask you for an autograph?” Phillip chimed in.

   “Everyone settle in, we’re leaving.” Elisa announced, taking her seat at the front of the van.

   Aly moved seats, sitting beside Phillip before adding:

   "Come on, David, tell us.”

   I sighed, adjusting myself in my seat.

   “Nothing happened. I just… well, I asked if—”

   “Asked what?” Aly interrupted, suddenly enthusiastic for reasons still unknown to me.

   “I asked if he’d like to take us somewhere nice tonight. We were already thinking of going out anyway, so I—”

   “You asked a stranger to take us somewhere?” Phillip cut in, his face frozen in disbelief.

   “He’s not a murderer, Phillip,” I said. “There’s no need for the dramatics.”

   “How do you know, David? Twenty minutes ago you didn’t even know his name, and now you know him well enough to guarantee he won’t kidnap us?”

   Phillip’s gaze seemed to dissect my thoughts, making me slightly uncomfortable.

   “You really need to stop watching true-crime documentaries—they’re rotting your brain,” I muttered.

   “This has nothing to do with that. It’s called being sensible.”

   “Well, he’s partly right,” Aly said, eyes fixed on her phone. “But it doesn’t hurt to see where this goes. If something happens, at least we’ll have his details. He’s staying at the hotel, isn’t he? Won’t be hard for the police to figure out who he is.”

   “It’s comforting to know how much you trust people.” I turned my attention to the window, doing my best to ignore them both.

   I picked up my phone. As if the universe were testing me, a Twitter mention appeared instantly. I tried to resist the urge to look—but then Stella’s name popped up on my screen, a sure sign things weren’t exactly peaceful online.

   I opened the app. The first thing I saw was a post from @DavidConnorfanbase:

   “Guys, it’s obvious that @DavidConnor and @StellaSanchez are together, they just haven’t made it official yet!!! Stop pretending you don’t see what’s happening.”

   I held my breath, suppressing the irritation that always followed this sort of thing. Just beneath it was a reply from @4everDavidandOli:

   “Rubbish. @DavidConnor is gay!!! Everyone knows he and @Oli_ver are having an affair. Besides, he and Stella look like siblings.”

   Sometimes I felt an overwhelming urge to pretend Twitter didn’t exist—to delete my account altogether and avoid seeing what people said about me. But I couldn’t. Not while contracts still required a certain level of visibility and interaction there.

   My phone buzzed again. Another message from Stella.

   I switched to Instagram, ignoring everything else, and went straight to her messages:

   Are you really going to keep ignoring me?

   You’re so immature!

   Everything I heard about you was true.

   You're just a gay man too afraid to come out.

   You're an idiot!!!

    I hated the feeling of committing a crime simply by wanting to remove someone from my life. Stella had never been good for me, and even though nothing had truly happened between us, she behaved as if we’d shared some grand romance ever since the runway show where we first met.

   I should never have followed her back on Instagram. Never replied to her messages. Certainly never accepted her invitation to watch her walk at Paris Fashion Week the year before.

   I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work.

   I opened her profile and blocked her without a second thought. If I was going to feel like a criminal either way, then so be it.

   At least this way… I felt a little less trapped.