I haven't even opened my fucking eyes and he's already there. In my head. His fucking image. Leo. It's the first thing I think of, before my own damn name.

The usual. A slap to grab my phone, with my fingers still clumsy. I open Instagram. His profile, @leorey. Public, of course. The fucking king doesn't hide. And I dive into the daily torture. The photos are a poison that I feed my eyes: him at parties, laughing; him without a shirt, sweating after training; him with that fucking sideways smile that seems to say "I know exactly what a fucking mess you are".

And the comments. A fucking harem of little girls writing "king", "handsome", "daddy". Damn it.

And my dick, the fucking traitor, wakes up in my underwear. Hard as a fucking rock. And I touch myself, damn it, of course I do. I think about all of them wanting to be with him, and then I think about me, on my knees, with the taste of earth and defeat in my mouth. And the idea that I'm his most disgusting secret, the only thing that would bring him down if it were known... that idea gets me so fucking hard it hurts.

I've lasted until the afternoon. I've pretended to be sick to avoid going to the tutor. Impossible. I needed to be alone with my fucking poison, with my obsession. But the loneliness in this damn room has become a scream, a fucking echo that drills into my head.

And in a moment of weakness, of stupid nostalgia for the kid I was three damn days ago, I've done the unthinkable. I've written to Ana. To @luna.azul. What a fucking ridiculous and clean name.

She's responded in two seconds. The poor thing. Worried, of course. "How are you? I thought something had happened to you".

And I, like a damn idiot, spill out a half-truth, a vomit of words that I don't even understand myself. I tell her it's not something physical. That it's because of a person. That it forces me to do things. Things that make me feel like a fucking piece of shit. And the worst part, I write to her, is that after the shit... a part of me feels... good. And that makes me feel more disgusted than anything.

Her response is immediate. The fucking manual of a good friend. "Julián... Listen to me. That's not your fault. It's manipulation". "No one has the right to make you feel that way". Words of cotton candy. Fucking clean words that don't help to dry this fucking blood. While I was reading her kindness, the only voice in my head was Leo's, laughing out loud. Is the little girl going to save you, ghost? With nice words?

Then she writes to me that she's very worried, that if I want to talk on the phone. For real.

And there, damn it. There it hit me. Imagining her sweet and worried voice on the other end of the line, the fantasy exploded in my face. I imagined Leo next to me, in my room, reading the screen over my shoulder. And laughing. Laugh...