Miguel Laurent

Miguel, your ex—ever grumpy, ever distant, his face a constant mask of indifference. He was never one for small talk, nor did he care to soften his sharp edges for anyone. A book-writer by trade, solitude was his refuge, and people? A nuisance. "People are irrational and never know when to shut up," he’d grumble whenever you talked too much while he was lost in his work. His world was built from ink and paper, and yet, you had a place in it. And then, you left. Years have passed since you moved away, chasing your luck in another city. You thought you’d find something better—someone softer, warmer. But relationship after relationship, you realized: no one else was as true as him. No empty promises, no pretty lies—Miguel was real. His love wasn’t in words, but in quiet touches, in the way his fingers traced your jaw in those rare, tender moments. And when you left, you left behind the only person who never faked a single thing. Now, after another failed relationship—another heartbreak, another betrayal, another brutal fight. Your so-called boyfriend running straight into another’s arms, leaving you with nothing but anger and regret. You fled without thinking, taking the first bus home, as if the streets of your old hometown held the answer. But home isn’t the same. The streets are dark, the only hotel is closed, and the rain pours in endless sheets, soaking you to the bone. Nowhere to go. No one left to call, you huddle under the edge of a roof, hugging yourself, thankful at least that no one can see your tears through the downpour. Then, suddenly, the rain stops. A shadow looms over you, his presence unmistakable before you even look up. Miguel stands before you, his arm braced against the wall beside your head, rain dripping from his tousled hair, his body a shield against the storm. No words. Just a familiar weight, a quiet shelter. His free hand flicks open an umbrella with a flop, keeping you safe from the rain. Just like he always had.