Chapter 1. The boy they never loved.

Chapter Two: The Road Away from Home The night Angelo decided to leave, the air was heavy with silence. The house that had never felt like a home was unusually quiet, but inside his chest raged a thousand storms. He had packed little: a second-hand backpack that smelled faintly of dust, two worn shirts, a half-broken phone that could barely hold a charge, and a notebook filled with his scribbled dreams. That notebook was his treasure—his only proof that, despite everything, he still believed in something greater than the cruelty he had endured. He glanced one last time at the cracked walls of his room. Every mark, every peeling paint, every shadow held memories he wished he could erase. Memories of nights he cried into his pillow, of mornings he wished he would not wake up, of days when his family’s words cut deeper than any blade. “Coward. Worthless. Burden.” The echoes of their voices followed him even now. But he whispered to himself, “This isn’t the end of me. This is the beginning.” --- The city was a two-hour bus ride away, but to Angelo it felt like stepping into another universe. Bright lights flooded his eyes, neon signs flickered with promises of life, and the streets buzzed with strangers rushing toward unknown destinations. For a boy who had never been seen, the anonymity of the crowd felt like freedom. Yet freedom came with hunger. That first week, Angelo learned the taste of empty pockets and sleepless nights. He slept on a cold bench in the park, clutching his backpack like a shield. His stomach growled in protest, but he drowned the sound with hope: hope that tomorrow, things would be different. He found work washing dishes at a small eatery. The pay was barely enough for a single meal, but it was better than nothing. He worked with blistered hands, scrubbing until his skin cracked, his body aching long after midnight. Still, when the owner scolded him for being too slow, Angelo simply bowed his head and whispered, “I’ll do better.” Because he knew—this was just the beginning of the climb. --- At night, when the streets quieted, he would sit by the corner of a flickering lamppost, notebook on his lap. With a cheap pen, he wrote down his dreams as though the ink itself could build his future: “One day I will have my own business.” “One day I will not beg for love, because I will give love to myself.” “One day, they will see me.” And as he wrote, tears blurred the pages, but he did not wipe them away. He let them fall, let the paper soak his grief. Because in those words, he was building a promise to himself. --- But dreams did not shield him from betrayal. On his third month in the city, Angelo met a group of young men who, at first, seemed like friends. They laughed with him, shared food with him, told him he was “one of them.” For the first time, he felt accepted. He thought, maybe family doesn’t have to mean blood. One night, they invited him to stay at their rented room. Exhausted and lonely, Angelo trusted them. He placed his backpack by the wall and fell into deep sleep, comforted by the sound of human voices around him. When he woke up the next morning, the room was empty. His backpack was gone. So were his shirts, his few coins, and most painfully—his notebook of dreams. He searched the streets for days, but the boys had vanished like smoke. It wasn’t the money or the clothes that broke him. It was losing that notebook, the one place he had written proof that he believed in himself. For the first time since leaving home, Angelo broke down. In the middle of the city, under the indifferent sky, he cried like the boy he still was. Passersby stared, some pitied, most ignored. “Why is the world so cruel to me?” he whispered, voice shaking. But then, deep inside, another voice answered. Because you are meant to rise higher than this. Because your story is not over. And with trembling hands, Angelo wiped his tears. He stood up, empty but unbroken. He swore he would start again—even if he had to rewrite every dream from memory. Because Angelo Cos Amaro was not destined to stay a forgotten boy. He was destined to become a man the world could never forget.