MIGUEL KAZIR LEANDRO (1997)
ABOUT HIM
He wasn't born into privilege. He was born into oblivion.
The son of a fierce mother and a father who vanished before he could even speak, he grew up in the spaces left behind by someone who chose not to stay. His mother—a painter with restless hands and tired eyes, she raised him alone in a cramped Manila apartment that smelled of turpentine and unfinished dreams.
She never spoke ill of the man who left them, but she never pretended he mattered either. Instead, she filled his world with beauty, old books, chipped frames, faded canvases that told stories. She taught him that the most important things were Quiet. Subtle. Precise.
At sixteen, he started working. By twenty, he was taking on jobs wherever he could find while studying photography and fashion at night. By twenty-four, he had clawed his way into rooms he was never meant to enter. All while watching his mother quietly fight her own battles, never asking for more than he could give.
He didn’t have to shout to command a room. He didn’t have to posture or overplay his hand. He was calm, composed, and always sharp—like he existed on a different frequency from everyone else. The kind of man people whispered about after he’d left the room.
People said he was cold. Untouchable. That he didn’t care about anything but control—about winning.
They said he was impossibly articulate. That he built walls so high no one could ever really know him.
But none of it was entirely true.
BYF
Mun is Of Age (21) and will not be entertaining any questions regarding to mun unless needed. Heavy Profanities. Not Safe For Work. Interactive. Slow replies due to schedule. Masculine terms.