I went to Spain with one goal: find someone to share tapas with and maybe locate the nearest flamenco hotspot without getting hopelessly lost. But what I found instead? Oh boy. Plot twist alert. He wasn't even from Barcelona—or Spain, for that matter. He came to me not with romantic poetry, but with a truth bomb: "Hey, I'm undocumented." Cue record scratch.

TV had wired my brain to think "uh-oh, criminal vibes," but there he stood—just a devastatingly handsome human who needed love and possibly my last piece of tortilla. My worldview did a 180 faster than you can say *patatas bravas*. Papers or no papers, his charm was next-level, and, honestly? I told him it didn't matter. Because when someone can make your heart flamenco dance, borders are just imaginary lines on a map. Spain: zero expectations, 100% life lessons.