𝗦𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝗥𝗮𝘁 | 𝗠. 𝗥𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗮[UNDER EDITING]

➪𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗢𝗻𝗲

ONE YEAR LATER

(Y/N)

***

It's a nice sunny day in Santa Cecilia, and I walk around while eating an apple I had stolen a few moments ago. I spot a familiar hairless dog sunbathing on the side wall next to a trashcan.

"Hello Dante! How is the most adorable dog in the world doing?" I coo, kneeling to his level. Dante barks a few times before jumping on me and licking my face.

I laugh. "Alright! Alright! Get off!"

I watch amusement as the dog bolts off, chasing a bird.

Shaking my head with a soft laugh, I see Miguel shining a musician's shoes while talking to him.

I thought he wasn't allowed in the plaza?

Now curious, I climb onto the rooftop of a house and jump into the tree that was nearby, silently hoping they won't spot me. With a sigh of relief that they haven't, I start to listen into the conversation.

I immediately know what he is telling the man. I'm very familiar with the story, considering he told it to me on our very first day of meeting. 

He's telling the story of his music-hating family. To me, it never gets old. Every time he would tell it I would listen ever so closely, hanging on to every single word and detail Miguel utters out of his mouth. Don't know why I love the story so much.

As I eavesdrop, I catch myself staring more and more at Miguel, admiring all of the features on his face. It comes to the point where I don't even listen to the story anymore.

I have always been quite fond of Miguel. At first, I was denying and lying to myself about it, telling myself that it was just a phase and it would go away quickly. But it never did. The feelings are still here. As I stare, a dust of red starts to appear on my face. I shake my head, taking me out of my flustered trance. Then the voice of the musician starts speaking. 

"Ay-ay-ay, muchacho. I asked for a shoe shine, not your life story." He sasses.

"O-oh yeah, sorry." He fiddles with his brushes while the older man strums his guitar a few times. "I just can't really talk about any of this at home, so. . ."

The musician stops strumming his guitar and says, "Look, if I were you, I'd march right up to my family and say. . .' Hey! I'm a musician! Deal with it.'."

Nobody cares about your opinion!

Miguel chuckles dryly. "I could never say that."

"You are a musician, no?"

"I-I don't know. I mean, I only really play for myself. And my friend (Y/N).

I perk up as he mentions me, feeling an odd swell of pride in my chest that he took the time to say something about me.

Stupid feelings.

"Ah! Did de la Cruz become the world's best musician by hiding his sweet sweet skills?" The older man asks. "No! He walked out onto that plaza, and he played out loud. Mira, Mira, they're setting up for tonight! The music competition for Día de Muertos. You wanna be like your hero? You should sign up!"

There is a bit of a quiver in the young boy's voice. "Uh-uh, my family would freak!"

"Look, if you're too scared then, well, have fun making shoes." Miguel is downcast at that comment. "Come on, what did de la Cruz always say?"