ADRIAN
Adrian adjusted the straps of his backpack with purpose. No designer labels today—just him in plain clothes. Just Adrian, not "Elio," the wealthiest son in the entertainment industry.
Today marked one of the rare occasions when he could be himself, free from the weight of others' expectations. No classes, no image to uphold—just a day for himself.
He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. The expensive suits were gone; in their place, a sharp button-down shirt and jeans. Comfortable, warm, and completely ordinary—exactly how he wanted to blend in. Here, nobody knew his identity, and no one treated him differently.
This was his third time attending the program dedicated to empowering the less privileged. It was more than charity; it was about inspiring self-worth and self-empowerment. Today's event was particularly significant—a celebration for individuals with physical challenges.
If my parents knew I was doing this, they'd disapprove. They'd rather write a check than allow me to be present, which is something I simply can't accept.
They love me, but their perspectives often clash with mine. They don't realize that sometimes people need more than financial support—they crave genuine presence and care. Sometimes, just being there makes all the difference.
So, I keep this to myself. Not that they'd notice. They're so wrapped up in each other that I often fade into the background.
People assume wealth means a lack of love, but my parents have disproved that notion. They have a deep connection. I yearn for that kind of realness—something that truly belongs to me.
My best friend likes to tease, saying, "If you're waiting for your prince charming to sweep you off your feet, you'll be waiting for centuries." Charming, isn't it? It's his way of nudging me toward realism, but I still believe in soulmates. They exist—you just have to seek them out.
Ugh, there I go, thinking too much again.
His eyes darted to the clock: 2:15 PM.
Time's already slipping away.
The house was silent—too silent.
Not surprising, really.
It's the perfect time to leave—no questions, no explanations. Just the way I like it.
________________________________________
The cool afternoon breeze brushed against Adrian's face as he stepped out of his car, slipping the keys into his pocket. From inside the hall, laughter and chatter carried on the wind. He stood at the entrance, hesitating.
I never thought I'd come this far.
He had been here three times already, but today, something felt different. Looking at the gathering, the decorations, and the warmth in the air, a small smile tugged at his lips.
How did I even get here?
His mind drifted back to where it all started—the day he first discovered the program.
________________________________________
Four weeks ago, during one of his usual café meetups with his best friend, Rick, everything changed.
Rick had stepped away to the restroom, leaving Adrian alone at their table. Absentmindedly, he scrolled through his phone, eyes skimming yet another headline about his family's latest business move. The Elio name dominates the financial world, yet here I am, sipping overpriced coffee like an ordinary person.
He might have missed it entirely if not for the soft rustling of paper nearby.
A little boy, no older than seven or eight, stood by the counter, clutching a crumpled magazine. His clothes were slightly oversized, his shoes scuffed at the edges. He hesitated before stretching the magazine toward a waitress—a woman with the same deep-set eyes and gentle features. Probably his mother.
Adrian watched, intrigued. The woman's tired expression softened as she accepted the magazine, brushing a hand over the boy's hair before glancing at the pages.
Curiosity tugged at Adrian's chest.
Something about the scene—the quiet exchange, the boy's hopeful eyes—made him shift in his seat. He leaned forward slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of what had been so important to the kid.
Then, for just a second, the woman turned, and he saw the bold title on the cover:
Rebuilding Lives: The Power of Community Support
The words stuck with him. When they were about to leave, he excused himself, walked up to the waitress, and asked for the magazine.
"What's that?" Rick had asked when Adrian returned.
He showed him the magazine. Rick simply nodded, unsurprised. He knew Adrian's stance on helping people—always supportive, even when he didn't fully understand.
The article was about self-empowerment, about how people—no matter their status—could make a difference. At the bottom, there was a small note about a volunteer program.
That moment had changed everything.
Curiosity led him to sign up. Hesitation had almost made him back out. But now, standing at the entrance of this event, seeing the joy on the faces of those inside, he knew he had made the right decision.
________________________________________
A voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Adrian! Adrian! You have to come!"
He turned just in time to see a little girl waving at him from across the hall. She was beaming, her bright eyes filled with excitement. Balancing on her prosthetic leg, she stretched out her small hands toward him.
"Come on, Adrian! You're late!"
"Rossie, Rossie!" Adrian called out, laughing. "Be careful not to fall!"
A chuckle escaped his lips as he hurried inside.
This. This is why I come here.
The moment Adrian stepped inside, the air shifted—laughter, music, and the scent of warm pastries filled the space. The walls were decorated with bright hand-painted banners, some a little messy, but full of love. Volunteers rushed about, setting up tables, adjusting decorations, and making sure every guest felt welcome.
"You're late!" she accused, pointing a tiny finger at him.
"Three minutes late. You're keeping track now?" he teased, ruffling her hair.
"Of course! You promised to help me with my art booth today. Come on, we have work to do!"
Chuckling, he let himself be dragged toward her small table, where colored markers and blank canvases were laid out. Kids of all ages, some in wheelchairs, others with crutches or prosthetics, gathered around, waiting for him.
"Alright, what's the plan, boss?" he asked.
Rosie grinned. "You're gonna paint!"
He blinked. "Me? Rosie, I don't think you understand—I can't even draw a straight line."
The group burst into giggles, and Rosie rolled her eyes. "You don't have to be good at it. You just have to try. That's what this place is about, right?"
Something about her words settled in his chest—a quiet reminder of why he kept coming back.
________________________________________
TO BE CONTINUED...
________________________________________