I didn’t want Pedro to see me merely as some chap whose work he admired. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but for once in my life, I wanted someone to be interested in who I actually was, rather than 'David Connor, the British actor'.

   I would love nothing more than to meet someone who just liked the David who loves playing the piano late at night. To feel free around someone without them viewing me as just another actor.

   I truly thought Pedro saw me that way. Even in just a few days, we’d done more things together than I’d ever done with people I’ve known for years. We’d had coffee, lunch, dinner; we’d gone out, visited the gardens, and I’d talked to him on Instagram—something I rarely did with anyone. We’d even slept in the same bed.

   How could I ever face him again?

   I had been utterly stupid with him.

   Kissing him without a single thought for how he was feeling about it was a right arsehole move. I completely ignored everything Pedro might have been feeling just to satisfy my own urge to kiss him, as if he were a bloody toy instead of a person with feelings.

   Pedro didn’t deserve to be treated the way I treated him. I was so... God, I don't even know how to describe what a prick I was. I managed to ruin our night, which had been absolutely perfect until then.

   After long minutes lying in bed, brooding over it all, the burning sensation in my cheeks and stomach subsided a little. I thought about sending him a message to apologise for everything. I had a duty to apologise, didn’t I?

   I didn’t want to be the sort of bloke who messed up and then hid away out of fear. But... I was afraid. 

   

   Terrified, in truth.

   There were days when I caught myself thinking how wonderful it would be to go back to being fifteen, when my biggest problem was wanting to finish my studies to focus properly on my career. Back then, I hadn’t been entirely sure if I wanted to be an actor. Of course, I loved acting, but I also had a massive passion for singing, and at the time, I was torn between trying to be a singer or an actor.

   When you’re fifteen, what every teenager wants is to be someone, to be noticed. Every teenager wants to drive their parents’ car—if they have one—and draw attention somehow, whether by dyeing their hair, blasting loud music through the house, or changing up their habits. There’s nothing wrong with that at all.

   My mum always used to tell me that adolescence begins when a young person goes in search of who they truly are, and lasts until the day they find themselves. Not definitively, mind you, but when they find the path they want to follow. That’s when adolescence ends, marking the start of the phase where you try to fit into the world you’re seeking amidst your current reality.

   I suppose at nearly twenty-one, I was still a teenager according to her definition. It wasn’t as if I were completely lost. During this period of my life, I’d found myself in small fragments of the story, and each piece had shaped who I’d become. That was a good thing. Yet, why did I feel so uneasy about it? Sometimes it felt as though I were drifting, aimless, and those rare moments of happiness were becoming fewer and further between. 

   Perhaps that was what had drawn me to Pedro the most. He was someone admirable—my trip had become so much happier thanks to the memories I was making by his side, and that alone made me question how I could have got it so terribly wrong with him.

   

[...]

   I don’t know what time it was when I woke up, but the sunlight was already filling the room as if it were a bright summer’s day, despite the chill. If it hadn’t been for Phill rustling through his things, I probably wouldn’t have woken up so early.

   I went into the bathroom and spent a long time in the bath. The water wasn’t nearly as hot as when I’d first got in, yet I stayed there, pondering what had happened—both with Aly and with Pedro.

   I was exhausted, my body feeling heavy in that tub.

    “Want me to bring you some coffee?” Phill asked when he saw me leave the bathroom.

   Despite not being hungry, I nodded. At least the caffeine would do me some good. Whenever I saw Phillip looking a bit down, I’d give him coffee. To Phill, coffee was like a magic potion, capable of curing any problem that came his way.

   Whilst Phillip went to fetch the coffee, I decided to tackle the problem that seemed easiest to resolve at that moment…

   When I knocked on her bedroom door, Aly didn’t look in the best of moods.

   “You look awful,” she said.

   “You don’t look brilliant either.”

   She shrugged and wandered over to the bed, resting a hand on her chest as she stared up at the ceiling. I closed the door and went to lie down beside her, interlacing my fingers over my stomach whilst staring at the ceiling as well.

   I spent a few moments observing her new ceiling painting.

   Aly always requested a painting above the bed. This time, the image showed two bluebirds flying free amidst hundreds of leaves from a withered tree, which had clearly been a beautiful tree once upon a time. 

   The sky was blue and starry, as if the sun were still lingering in the final shadow of the night.

   “When I saw you like that… terrified of that chap, I got frightened too,” I confessed. “I was scared he’d hurt you, you know? And when he… when he said that, I don't know, I just felt so angry with him. So angry at the way he treated you. You’re like a sister to me, Aly, you know that, don't you? That absolute bastard…”

   “Language.”

    “Sorry… I didn’t mean to make you cry, Aly. I only wanted to help and I ended up acting like a complete idiot… I’m sorry, alright?” I looked at her. “I’m truly sorry, Aly. I promise I’ll never do it again.”

   She remained still, gazing at the image on the ceiling. I didn’t know if I ought to have expressed myself differently.

   “Do I look like an extra to you?” she inquired, catching me off guard.

   “W-What do you mean?”

    “Do I look like an extra, David?” she repeated. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am not an extra. I’m the protagonist of my own bloody story, so stop treating me as if I’m some background character whose only job is to entertain your main-character complex.”

   “I…”

   “Shut up, David.”

   “But I…”

   “I said shut up.” She was still looking at the ceiling painting, but it felt as though Aly were staring straight into my soul. “If there were a mirror up there, you wouldn’t be seeing a protagonist and his extra. Neither would I. What I’d see are two protagonists from entirely different stories. So don’t you dare think about treating me like a bloody extra again, David. I don’t need you going around picking fights with people to defend me. Do I look like some little princess who needs a pasty prince like you to save her?” For the first time since I’d entered the room, she looked at me. “Christ, do you actually have shit inside that thick skull of yours? For fuck’s sake, do you have any idea how terrified I was watching you fight like an idiot?”

   Fuck, the shame began to take shape and leaked from my eyes…

   “I’m sorry…”

   “Don’t give me that, David. And stop crying. Next time, I swear I’ll punch you in the face myself. Come on, did you think I’d be pleased watching you scrap with some random bloke? I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it, but you saw what happened, didn’t you? Next time I have a problem, don’t get into a bloody fight—just get me out of there. Understand?”

   I already felt like a child getting a massive telling-off, but I felt even more childish when I realised I was hugging her, weeping like a toddler who didn’t know how to handle a lecture.

   Even if my intention had been to protect her, I suppose I’d got carried away. Massively so. Just as Aly had said, she was no little princess in need of a "pasty prince" to rescue her.

   I suppose in this story, it was the prince who needed saving.

   “Right, let’s not talk about it anymore,” she decided, returning the hug in a comforting way.

   “I’m sorry, Aly… It won’t happen again.”