Michaels in Love (BoyXBoy) English

Chapter 23 - Season 1: Dreams and Reality

As I boarded the train to work, my phone buzzed. It was Mike.

"Hey, Baby," his warm voice greeted me. "Good news—the doctor says I might be discharged this afternoon. They're just waiting on one final test result."

"That's amazing," I replied, relief and happiness washing over me. "Who's with you right now?"

"Angeliza and my sisters are here," he said casually.

I sighed inwardly, suppressing an eye-roll. Liza, Liza, Liza. That woman could make me bristle just by existing. I shook my head, pushing the thought aside. There were more important things to focus on.

As I glanced at my LRT card, I felt a small wave of gratitude—it still had enough balance. No standing in long queues today. Sometimes, life threw you little mercies.

The train was unusually empty for the time of day, and I quickly found an empty seat. The exhaustion from earlier—walking around, mulling over Emil's cryptic visions, and dredging up old memories—seeped into my bones. I leaned my head back, letting the rhythmic clatter of the train lull me into a light, uneasy sleep.

And then, like a wave crashing against my subconscious, the dream came.

MICHAEL'S DREAM

"The world is ending! All you gays and lesbians will burn in hell!"

The voice rang out, loud and vicious, cutting through the vibrant energy of the Pride March in Malate. It came from a foreign protester, his voice a mix of rage and self-righteousness.

I walked faster, blending into the marchers, their cheers and laughter defiant against the hateful chants echoing behind us. They told me they were headed to Maria Orosa Street—my destination as well. The colors of the rainbow flags, the smiling faces, the unapologetic joy—it was a stark contrast to the venomous words hurled at us from the sidelines.

The protesters' placards screamed condemnation, their Bible verses underlined with judgment. My jaw tightened. Do they think homosexuality is the ultimate sin? As if they themselves are pure and without fault? Their hypocrisy was suffocating.

As I walked, my eyes caught sight of a woman standing with her young son. They both held placards, their messages just as hateful as the others. The boy, too young to understand, clutched his sign as if it were a toy. How much did they pay her for this? I thought bitterly, my heart sinking.

I looked away, only to feel something sticky underfoot. I glanced down—I had stepped on a piece of bubble gum. Before I could move, a man in a preacher's attire approached, his eyes brimming with misguided pity.

"My brother," he began, his voice dripping with condescension, "you still have time to repent. Come back to Jesus Christ. Be straight. Don't live your life as a homosexual."

I froze, his words cutting deeper than they should have. Then, anger welled up inside me.

"Brother," I said sharply, meeting his gaze. "Stop teaching and preaching if you can't practice what you preach. Faith isn't about judgment—it's about love, understanding, and humility. People like you don't weaken my faith in God. If anything, you make me believe in Him more, because my faith is rooted in His love, not your hate."

The man's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. I turned away, quickening my pace to catch up with the marchers ahead.

As the crowd moved forward, a sudden gust of wind swept through the street, scattering confetti and amplifying the hum of life around me. Amid the chaos, my eyes landed on a lone figure.