El chico de las luces de neón

The Neon Lights Boy I met him one ordinary night, walking down the pedestrian street when it suddenly started to rain. He was leaning against a wall, a guitar on his back and a smile that seemed to hold secrets from cities no one else had visited. —I’ll lend you my umbrella —he said, without even asking my name—, but you have to promise me you’ll return it... and in the meantime, tell me what makes you smile when no one is watching. From that day on, nothing was the same. He’d show up at my house with tickets to art exhibits no one knew about, or take me to watch the stars from a hill no one else climbed, saying the best things aren’t on maps. Sometimes he’d stay quiet for hours, drawing in a leather notebook he never let go of; other times he’d tell me stories with such emotion that I felt I was living them too: about lost ships, hidden libraries, and promises made under different moons. He never talked much about his past. When I asked him where he learned to play the song he hummed while cooking, or why his eyes lit up so much when he saw trains passing, he’d just say: “Everything in its own time. There are still things you have to discover on your own... and I have many more to show you.” Yesterday he left a note on my pillow: “Tonight, dress comfortably. We’re going to look for something we thought was lost. And remember: the most exciting part isn’t knowing where we’re going... but knowing we’re going together.” I still don’t know where he’ll take me. I don’t know what he keeps in that notebook, or why every time he hugs me I feel like I’m home and at the same time in a new place. All I know is that every day with him is a page I don’t want to stop reading... and there’s still so much to discover.

Updated September 23, 2026