“Anyone looking at you would never guess you’re afraid of that little thing,” he said through laughter.
I won’t lie, it was rather funny.
“You don’t have to take the piss, I know it’s embarrassing,” I muttered, a bit awkwardly.
As silly as it might’ve seemed, it genuinely triggered something in me. I didn’t quite understand why cockroaches unsettled me so much.
“Sorry,” Pedro said, making me forget the embarrassment for a moment. “I’m not laughing at your fear, it’s just… I thought it was something much worse, you know?”
“Yeah, I suppose I overdid it a bit on the call, didn’t I?”
“A bit, but I get it. If I were in your place and saw a spider, I’d have reacted the same way.”
We finally reached the bar, where I spotted Phillip downing a drink while dancing beside Aly in the middle of the floor.
“Want something to drink?” I asked Pedro.
“No, I don’t fancy ruining your night.”
“You haven’t ruined anything. Honestly, you can drink if you want.”
It didn’t take long for the bartender to bring us two shots of vodka. I still wondered how they managed to make the drink glow, like there was a galaxy inside the glass.
For a moment, it reminded me of the sky when the comet passed over the city in Your Name. That same peculiar feeling brushed against my chest again.
It wasn’t emptiness, but it wasn’t quite fullness either. It wasn’t pain, yet calling it happiness felt like an exaggeration. Instead of fear, what stirred inside me was a strange blend of excitement and calm.
My breathing slowed, and I recognised that faint almond scent mixing with the sweetness of the drink before me. For a moment, the chaos around me faded entirely, and all I could notice was the soft smile forming on Pedro’s face.
And somehow… it all felt oddly familiar.
The music gradually reached my ears, the warmth in my chest, the weight lifting off my shoulders as my breathing steadied.
If calling it happiness sounded excessive, saying I felt the touch of fate in that moment would’ve made me sound completely unhinged. Still… an unhinged man rather content with what was happening.
“Can I ask you something?” I ventured, drawing Pedro’s attention away from his drink.
I noticed the tension leave his shoulders as he turned towards me. His expression alone told me I was free to ask.
But deep down, I wasn’t even sure I should…
“I wanted to know if—”
A shout cut through the music, stealing our attention.
It was in Portuguese, so I couldn’t make out what was said, but it was impossible not to look towards the dance floor. I quickly spotted Aly facing a man in the middle of the crowd.
I didn’t hesitate—I left the bar and made my way over. Phillip stood beside her, trying to explain something, though the bloke in front of them ignored him completely.
All his anger was directed at Aly, whose eyes were wide, her breathing shallow.
“What happened?” I asked, stepping closer.
“Oh, tourists, are you?” the man sneered in broken English.
I couldn’t tell whether it was the drink slurring his words or simply poor English.
“What happened, Aly?” I asked again, turning to her.
Her eyes were red, distant—and that alone sparked irritation in my chest.
“This bloody girl spilled on me!” the stranger shouted behind me.
When I turned and properly looked at him, I recognised him—the same bloke who’d bumped into Aly earlier.
“Stop shouting at her,” I said, keeping my tone steady. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure she didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to? Do you see this?!” he snapped, lifting his white shirt, stained with bluish liquid across the front and splashed over his dark trousers.
Honestly, it looked like he was just looking for trouble. His shirt was already far messier with neon paint—the drink was barely noticeable among the rest.
“She should bloody clean this,” he barked.
“She’s not cleaning anything,” Pedro said firmly.
His gaze remained fixed on the man, brow furrowing as he stepped closer to Aly, clearly noticing how shaken she was.
“Oh, what, you her boss or something?” the man mocked.
The smile that had been on my face vanished instantly. I forced myself to ignore the remark. My focus was on Aly—I could see just how frightened she was.
I’d never seen her like that. Normally, she wouldn’t have taken that sort of disrespect from anyone.
“Just ignore him,” I said, resting a hand on her shoulders, barely holding onto my composure.
Phillip held her hands, trying to steady her trembling. The sight filled me with a mix of anger and sorrow so intense it nearly paralysed me.
“You piece of—” the bastard spat behind us.
And that was it.
“Apologise to her,” I snapped, turning around.
I didn’t bother hiding my anger as I looked at him like the piece of rubbish he was.
“Apologise?” he scoffed. “She’s the one who—”
“Apologise, for fuck’s sake,” I barked.
“David, leave it,” Phillip urged, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m not apologising. She’s the one who should be—”
The punch I threw landed squarely on his face.
I won’t deny it—my hand hurt—but it was nothing compared to the fire burning inside me.
He got up quickly and swung back, hitting my face. Then again. I ducked, shoved him, and struck harder this time.
Pedro tried to step in and separate us. He managed for a second—until the bloke shoved him aside and punched him, sending him crashing onto the floor.
I lunged forward, landing another hit square on his jaw.
Voices rose.
The music stopped.
Before I realised it, I was on top of him, returning every punch he threw.
I shouldn’t have done it.
Not just because my hand felt like I’d been punching a wall—but because I shouldn’t have done any of it.
I was dragged back by two men, held firmly as they pulled me away. My face burned with anger, my vision blurred, locked onto his smug expression—as if he’d won something.
I wanted to go back.
Ignore the alcohol, the heat in my chest. But what snapped me out of it was the sight of red droplets hitting the floor beside me.
My body froze instantly.
When I looked up, I saw Pedro—hands pressed to his bleeding nose.
[...]
The silence on the way back was suffocating, though my thoughts were anything but quiet.
Aly clung to Phillip the entire time. She cried so much it broke something in me—I felt responsible for her pain. Phillip, meanwhile, wouldn’t even look at me.
Pedro sat further back in the van, holding a cloth with ice to his nose. Thankfully, it didn’t seem too serious, though even in the dim light I could see the blood on his shirt.
Everything still felt muddled.
Were they angry with me? Upset about what happened? Or just as lost as I was?
I found no answers—internal or otherwise. Only confusion. Doubt.
It was nearly 7 a.m., and I was still awake, lying in bed with my hand on my forehead.
The room felt far too big. Far too empty.
The darkness and Phillip’s absence only made it worse—he’d stayed with Aly, who still looked shaken even after we got back.
I turned on my side, staring out through the open curtains. Nothing interesting outside—yet I watched the city lights for quite some time. It was colder than the night before.
My phone buzzed, and my hand throbbed as I picked it up. I knew it wouldn’t take long for my mum to find out—but I hadn’t expected it to be that fast.
She wasn’t one to follow social media closely, but whenever something about me surfaced, it was like she had a sixth sense.
Mummy:
What happened, Benjamim?
I just saw a video of you fighting a man.
Are you alright?
Have you eaten?
Call me as soon as you can.
Me:
I’m fine, don’t worry.
I’ll call you later.
Calling her right then wasn’t an option. I wouldn’t be able to pretend everything was fine—and lying to her had never been my strong suit.
Judging by the flood of notifications from Twitter and Instagram, I already knew people were talking. Moments like this made being an actor feel dreadful. A single rumour could undo years of work.
And even though I didn’t regret hitting that bastard… I did regret not thinking about the consequences.
My phone buzzed again—a message on Instagram:
How are you?
Every time I opened the app, it showed me as online. I’d meant to turn that off ages ago. Not that I minded Pedro messaging me.
Truth be told… I’d wanted to message him first.
Me:
I should be asking you that.
How’s your nose?
Pedro:
Still hurts a bit, but it’s manageable.
How’s your hand?
Me:
A bit sore, nothing to worry about.
He saw the message—but didn’t reply.
Maybe that was for the best. I understood. I wouldn’t want to talk to someone who’d just got me punched in the face either.
How had I managed to disappoint so many people in a single night?
And yet, among all the chaos in my mind, the memory of that night in bed with Pedro kept pushing to the surface.
At some point during the night, I’d woken up—and everything felt… comfortable.
When I came to, I was holding someone. My arms wrapped around a body I didn’t immediately recognise. It felt right—too right—which only confused me further.
Then I realised where I was.
And whose back was pressed against my chest.
It was probably one of the most questionable decisions I’ve ever made—but despite how warm it felt, I carefully untangled myself, making sure not to wake him. I wouldn’t have known how to explain it.
Truth be told, I didn’t even know how I’d ended up holding him in the first place.
He didn’t notice. At least, I don’t think he did. If he did… he was very good at pretending otherwise.
On one side, a perfect night had already become just a memory.
On the other, the worst night since arriving in Brazil felt frozen in time—like it had no end.
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