Nate Part 2

And you know what my father did? Nothing. Vinicius just ignored my first act of vandalism. He didn’t care about the troubled little boy he brought into the world, who was once again trying to get his attention in the wrong way. So, I started tagging everything, even the walls at home. Every time I came back from boarding school, I was worse, until I started breaking things when I hit boiling point. Freaking out with rage wasn’t just an option anymore—it became a necessity. And now it’s almost uncontrollable. I try, which is why I prefer throwing paint on everything, but sometimes that’s not enough. I end up breaking everything, making the outside look like the mess that’s inside me, and then bury myself in the sands of regret. And that’s the messed-up, vicious cycle of my disorder.
I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist since I was twelve. And from the very first session, they suspected Borderline Personality Disorder. They define my disorder as a way of being, of seeing life. It’s not an illness. It’s a condition. There’s no cure for the wreck that is my mind.
There were clear symptoms that led my doctor to that diagnosis. Hypersensitivity, explosive anger, triggers related to abandonment, and an exaggerated fear of being left behind. I’m just a messed-up guy who’s terrified that the people I love will abandon me. And when I think they will, I might act fast and push them away first, to avoid the pain.
"Don’t stay!" I whisper, ignoring my thoughts to focus back on the girl I’ve been going crazy over. I keep moving forward, pushing the rusted iron gate open with my free hand. The hinges creak as I force it open. "Welcome to my world, Little Sun!"
The darkness and musty smell are replaced by the scent of cigarettes and weed. The horrible sound of silence, only broken by the noise of our footsteps, is slowly drowned out by a Racionais rap song. The tall, wide walls are covered in all kinds of tags and graffiti, with broken stained-glass windows at the top letting fragments of light illuminate the space.
A pink spot stands out from everything around us: Isabela, in a short, flared dress that makes her look like Barbie. Her eager eyes devour every detail of the place, with her sharp gaze missing nothing as Ian comes into view, puffing on a joint, smiling at me slowly, like a sloth.
"What’s up, bro!" he greets, walking past Isabela and giving me a high-five that echoes through the space as our hands clap together.
"Hey, man! You good?" I ask as he offers me the joint. I take a deep hit, pinching my nose to hold the smoke in, hoping the weed kicks in a little faster. I see Isabela watching me, her hands crossed in front of her, judgment clear in her brown eyes. "Damn! Thanks, I needed that!"
I hear her scoff.
She already knows I smoke weed. I’ve told her about almost every angle of my life, and I’ve even smoked in the locker room while waiting for her to finish her shower after class. And no, I’ve never seen her naked. I turn my back until she’s dried off and dressed. I’ve never kissed her. Hell, I can’t even touch her without sending her into a panic. The most trust Isabela has is walking around holding hands, whether it’s at school, at her grandma’s house, or going somewhere to eat.
Another tricky thing is that I can only hang out with her outside of school on Wednesdays, which is when Isa sleeps over at Hellen’s. And, man, her grandma is really cool, and she doesn’t even seem as old as grandmas usually are. She lets Isabela go out with me, stuffs me with food, and even invited me to sleep over with Isa. She seems a little crazy in the head, to be honest—inviting me to stay the night and offering us the same bed, knowing her granddaughter is a fifteen-year-old virgin, and I’m a teenage boy with raging hormones who can’t even look at Isa without getting... you know. Still, I always notice how much Little Sun cares for her grandma. Which is the complete opposite of how she talks about her mom and stepdad.
And it’s not like I’m some stalker or some kind of creep, but I’m trying to figure out Isabela’s family. I’ve searched the internet, but only her mom has social media. Isabela only has WhatsApp. On her mom Diana’s Instagram, it’s like they’re a picture-perfect family, with matching outfits at parties, big smiles. They look like your typical “margarine commercial” family. But something’s seriously wrong with all of it.

Why does Isabela shower at school? Why does she have to sneak out with me, with her grandma covering for her? I've driven past her house, and I’ve watched her mother a few times when she came to pick Isabela up from school—always looking impatient or checking her daughter's makeup, roughly pulling her by the arm or using a harsh tone of voice.
I've found Isa hurt a few times, and my girl is terrible at lying. She says the dog hurt her, or she fell in the shower, and a million other excuses. She always gets mad when I ask too many questions, sometimes yelling at me to stay out of her life or saying she’ll never talk to me again. But every time she does that, she comes back minutes later, starting a conversation as if nothing happened.
When she freaks out and turns her back on me because of these questions, I feel an overwhelming sense of despair. It’s uncontrollable, a crazy fear. I instinctively go after her, but the moment I see her turn around because she regrets her outburst, I freeze and pretend I wasn’t following her.
"So this is the famous Isabela?" Ian asks, waving at her with his hand still stained with traces of white paint. He doesn’t get too close to her, his eyes red from the weed, a lazy smile on his lips.
I’ve told all my friends not to touch Isabela. And it’s not just because of her trauma! It’s because she’s *my* girl. Okay, I know Isabela has no idea she’s mine, but I haven’t slept with or kissed any other girl since we became friends. I have hope that she’ll trust me, that she’ll realize how much I want her, and that one day she’ll like me enough to see me as something more than just the friend she turns to.
So, if any of my guys even lays a finger on her, I’ll beat the crap out of them. Everyone’s been warned already. I’ve also banned them from offering her drinks or drugs. I didn’t even want Isabela to come here in the first place. I only brought her because she kept nagging me about seeing my secret hideout, even threatening to ghost me if I didn’t show it to her. And I’m so addicted to our friendship, to hearing her voice every night before I fall asleep, that if I go without talking to Isa, I think I’d lose it completely.
Marcel slides down a broken ledge in the huge hall, rolling his skateboard across it and pulling off a trick, trying to show off to Isabela.
"And you must be the famous who?" she jokes, her usual sarcasm showing through.
"Ian."
"Oh, so you’re the guy who helped Nate set up this place," she murmurs, looking at the walls above our heads, inspecting them with curious eyes.
This is the *Toca*, a kind of “den for me and my vandal friends.” At least, that’s what my Little Sun called it when I told her almost everything that happened, and how my dad ended up giving me this place.
What I told Isabela was that every time I lived through a nightmare returning to the cold walls of my purgatory, I came back home with another demon to add to the collection that already haunted my mind. And I blamed my father.
It was always his fault.
No one protected me.
There was no one to turn to for help.