Huso Sequeira

I watched the rain snake along the cobblestones of Calle de las Huertas, the city breathing under a grey sky. Madrid, Spain, had been my home for five years, yet some days it still felt like I hadn’t quite earned my place here. The streets hummed with life, but I moved through them like a ghost, unnoticed, blending into the rhythm of the city.

At 30, I thought I’d have a better sense of people by now. But even now, I sometimes struggle. She was beautiful, that much was true. Confident, with a sharp laugh that cut through the smoky air of the club. When she approached me, I thought it might be different. But it wasn’t.

Her words stuck to me like wet clothes. A careless comment about how she had always preferred men like me. Not me, but men like me. It didn’t take much life experience to understand what she meant. Skin deep, that’s where her interest ended.

I can’t blame her entirely. People gravitate toward what they know, what excites them. But I’ve learned to look for something more—a curiosity, a hunger for understanding. Not just hands reaching, but eyes that want to see.

I stood there under the rain, letting it wash the night’s weight off me. I thought of Angola, Africa, of the struggle it took to stand where I am now. The fear of being sent back, the long nights working in the club to carve out a space for myself. None of that mattered to her. Maybe she didn’t know how to ask, or maybe she didn’t care.

I think I already know how this ends. And I’m tired of endings that leave me emptier than before. This city has enough faces passing by. I want one that stops, really stops, to look at me.

And if that never comes, so be it. I’ve learned that I can stand on my own.