I sacrifice myself for my friend.

Álvaro and Diego met in their first year of high school, on a typical Tuesday when Álvaro forgot his pen and Diego, sitting at the next table, lent it to him with a timid smile and a wrist movement so expressive it seemed choreographed.

Álvaro, 22 years old, tall, slender, with no gesture that betrayed his orientation, had grown up navigating between two worlds: his own, where he had always been attracted to boys, and that of others, where he never felt pressured to justify it. One day, he simply said it and life went on as if nothing had happened. Nevertheless, in high school, few people knew he was gay. When he found out Diego was also gay, he felt a secret relief: finally, someone to talk to about certain things without filters, without fear of measuring every word.

Diego, a year younger in appearance although they were the same age, was the complete opposite: short, with constant nervousness in his hands, a voice that became fragile in serious moments, and a way of moving that always seemed to be telling a silent story. He had never had to "come out of the closet" because everyone assumed his truth even before he did himself. This external certainty accompanied him like a shadow: sometimes protective, sometimes suffocating.

Over time, their friendship became a kind of tacit pact. Álvaro found in Diego a mirror where he could freely discuss desires and fears he never confessed to others; Diego found in Álvaro a safe place where his effeminacy was not a reason for mockery or judgment. Between them, there was a complicity made of private laughter, midnight messages, and glances that could summarize entire conversations.

Despite having changed since those days, their friendship continued to be that refuge to which they always returned, like someone who returns home and finds that the walls smell the same as they did years ago.

For years, they were inseparable. But lately, Diego had started to drift away. Unanswered messages, plans canceled at the last minute, vague excuses that sounded rehearsed. Álvaro suspected that the reason had a name and a nickname: the Moor. He wasn't one, of course, but Álvaro called him that out of sheer mania, perhaps due to the image of mystery the man projected.

The "Moor" was a man who commanded attention just by standing: over 40, broad shoulders, a beard always on the verge of being unkempt, and a deep voice that seemed not to need to raise its tone to give orders. He dressed simply, but everything about him conveyed dominance; he had a way of looking that seemed to measure and classify people in seconds. Álvaro didn't trust him, and even less so in what his presence was doing to Diego.

Almost six months passed without news from Diego. Half a year in which Álvaro's messages went unanswered, until he himself stopped insisting. He had assumed he had lost him.

Until one night, at around 2:30 am, the phone vibrated. "Are you awake?" was al...