Scott
Iwas thirteen years old when I first realized that something about me didn’t line up with the world everyone else seemed to understand so easily.
It wasn’t sudden.
There was no lightning strike. No moment where everything shifted into place.
It was quieter than that. A feeling that settled into my chest and stayed there.
At first, I didn’t question it. I didn’t even know how to. It was just there. A subtle awareness that the way I noticed other boys, the way my eyes lingered a second too long, wasn’t the same way my friends did.
Back then, everything was comparison.
I watched them closely, studied them without meaning to. The way they talked about girls like it was second nature. The way they elbowed each other, grinning like idiots when someone’s crush walked by. The way it all seemed so easy for them.
I learned quickly how to follow along.
I laughed when they laughed. Nodded when they nudged me, and played my part like I’d been handed a script and told not to mess it up.
And I didn’t.I got good at it.
Too good.
No one ever questioned me. Not once. I blended in so well that even I almost believed it. Almost convinced myself that whatever felt different inside me would eventually fade, that one day everything would click into place the way it was supposed to.
But it never did.
The first time it felt real was when I was fifteen.
His name was Brian.
He sat two seats ahead of me in biology, always tapping his pencil against his notebook when he was thinking. It was a small thing. Insignificant, really. But I noticed it every time.
I noticed everything about him.
The way he leaned back in his chair when he laughed. The way his voice dropped when he answered a question. The way my stomach twisted into something tight and unfamiliar whenever he turned around.
It wasn’t just noticing.
It was wanting.
And that terrified me. Because wanting meant something. It meant this wasn’t going away. So, I did what I’d already trained myself to do and buried it. Pushed it down so deep I almost convinced myself it wasn’t there at all.
Dating girls made that easier. It gave me something to point to. Something to prove—to everyone else and to myself.
And it wasn’t like I didn’t care about them. I did. I liked their laughter, the way conversations flowed easily, and the comfort of being around them. But there was always something missing. Something I couldn’t name back then, no matter how hard I tried.
I went to prom with Melanie Williams. She looked beautiful that night. Everyone told her so, and they were right. I remember standing beside her for pictures, my arm draped over her shoulders, smiling like I was supposed to. Like this was exactly where I belonged.
At the end of the night, she kissed me.
Soft. Expectant.
I kissed her back, waiting for something.
A spark.
A pull.
Anything.
But there was only the quiet, sinking realization that I was still pretending.
I told myself it would change. That I just hadn’t met the right person yet. That everything I felt, or didn’t feel, was temporary. That if I waited long enough, I’d wake up one day and everything would make sense.
That I’d be normal.
College was where that lie finally started to crack. It didn’t happen dramatically or all at once.
I met people who didn’t hesitate when they said the word gay. People who spoke about love openly, without fear, without shame. People who existed in a way I had never allowed myself to.
At first, I stayed on the outside of it watching the same way I always had. But this time, something inside me didn’t want to just observe. It wanted in.
It happened during my sophomore year at a party. It was too loud and too crowded. The kind of place I usually avoided, but somehow ended up at anyway.
I don’t even remember his name. What I remember is the moment.
Standing too close.
The shift in the air.
The way everything else faded into the background.
And then, I kissed him.
It wasn’t hesitant or forced. It wasn’t something I had to think about or convince myself to do. And for the first time in my life, something felt right.
Not just right. It was everything.
Like something inside me finally exhaled after years of holding its breath. Like I’d been standing outside in the cold my whole life and suddenly stepped into warmth.
I didn’t question it. Didn’t analyze it or try to explain it away. Because I couldn’t. Because I didn’t want to.
After that, I stopped pretending. Not completely. Not in every part of my life.
But enough to let myself feel things I’d spent years denying. Enough to understand that this wasn’t something I could change.
But I never told my parents. That part stayed locked away. Not because I didn’t love them. God, I loved them more than anything. That was the problem.
I knew exactly who they thought I was. The son they’d always imagined.
The one who would grow up, meet a nice woman, and settle down in a house not too far from theirs.
The one who would give them grandchildren, who would carry on the life they’d quietly built for me long before I even understood it.
I saw it in the way my mom talked about the future. In the way my dad would casually mention things like “when you’ve got a family of your own someday.”
It was never a question. It was a certainty. And I didn’t know how to take that away from them.
I didn’t know how to look at the people who’d given me everything and tell them that the life they imagined for me was never going to happen.
That I wasn’t that version of their son. That I never had been.
Every time I thought about telling them, my body reacted before my mind could catch up.
My throat would tighten. My chest would feel too small, and my thoughts would spiral into places I couldn’t control.
What if they didn’t understand?
What if they looked at me differently?
What if their love, something I’d always believed was unconditional, suddenly came with terms I couldn’t meet?
So I waited. And waited. And waited. Until waiting didn’t feel like protection anymore.
It felt like lying.
And then I met Harrison.
It wasn’t supposed to be anything. At least, that’s what I told myself at the beginning. That whatever this was, whatever he was, would pass. That it would be like everything else.
Temporary. Manageable. Safe.
But Harrison wasn’t temporary.
He wasn’t something I could compartmentalize or push aside.
He was steady and grounding. Real in a way that made everything else feel distant and hollow by comparison.
The night I told him I loved him changed something in me. Not just because I meant it. But because I couldn’t imagine going back to a version of my life where I didn’t say it out loud.
Where I didn’t claim it.
Where I didn’t live it.
And suddenly, hiding didn’t feel like an option anymore.
Which is how I ended up here. Sitting in my car, parked across the street from my parents’ house.
The engine is off.
The world is quiet.
But inside my chest, everything feels too loud.
The house looks exactly the same. White siding. Navy shutters. The wraparound porch with the same wooden rocking chairs that have been there for as long as I can remember.
Nothing has changed.
And maybe that’s what makes this harder. Because I know that after today, everything will.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel.
I don’t move.
Not yet.
Because stepping out of this car means there’s no going back. It means saying the words I’ve avoided for years. It means risking everything I’ve always been too afraid to lose.
But then I think of Harrison. The way he looks at me. The way he says my name like it matters.
Like I matter.
And just like that, I’m not here anymore.
I’m back at the beginning.