17 again.

9

"Tell this guy how you feel
The one you can't stop dreaming about
Just have a good time and experiment for a while
How will you know if you never find out?"

Cole

The truth hurts sometimes. A lot. Like a hot barbed wire was curling itself tightly in the cramped space of my chest. Mr. Green just looked on like he had no idea his words hurt that much.

When I didn't answer he continued speaking, like my world wasn't falling apart again. "I see I was correct." He folded his hands across his chest, smirking smugly when I didn't try and deny it. Why bother? He'd already caught me off-guard, anything else I'd say would sound pathetically weak. "You know it's okay-"

I got up, slamming my palms down on top of his desk, my chair flying backwards as I did. "Don't. Don't you dare say that! It's not okay, it'll never be okay. I can't love him."

"How do you know that?" He asked calmly, not responding to my rage, which only served to fuel my anger. How could he be so calm right now?

Again, I didn't have an answer for his questions, just raw unadulterated teenage angst. "I just do. It'll ruin everything if I do." I can't loose him.

"If you tell him you love him-" I flinched, still the words hurt. "-or if you tell him your gay?"

I knew Fin wouldn't care if I was gay, he was the one making me write about possible homosexuality in the Great Gatsby afterall, but he was smart, to smart, he'd realise my feelings soon enough. "Both, he wouldn't care if I was gay but he'd figure the rest out to quickly."

"Is there anyone else you care about that would react badly?"

My mother wouldn't care, she prided her self on being scientific about these kind of things. If I told her I was gay she'd list of a bunch of sciency sounding theories explaining exactly why. I knew I had her support. My dad would flip, but he was never in my life enough for me to care in the first place. Benji would just ask me what being gay meant then get distracted by a butterfly immediately.

"No one else, really."

"Then what's stopping you from telling them?"

Again I had no answer.

"Look, your obviously still to uncomfortable with it yourself to let anyone else know so I'm going to have you try something new." He handed me a piece of paper with what looked like an address and phone number, scribbled on to it. "There's a Straight-Queer Alliance meeting at the townhall this Saturday, it'll be good for you to know about other people like you. No one will mention seeing you there till you're ready."

🎵🎸🎵

Like the coward I was I cancelled my plans with Fin, using some bullshit excuse about family trouble. I ended up sprawled out on my bed, staring at the post it note currently taped to my closet door and my guitar in the corner, wishing I'd never written that song.

I wish I never realised I loved him.

I could remember the day clearly, Fin was sprawled out on his bed with me next to him and dozens of empty pizza boxes scattered on the floor haphazardly. I'd stayed the night since those were the first days of the arguing that would lead to my parents divorce. I hadn't thought much of them then.

We'd fallen silent after about five minutes of laughing, about what I wasn't sure, and were catching our breaths when Fin suddenly spoke.

"Why haven't you written me a song?" He blurted out.

Now, most normal people don't go about writing songs for the people they knew but I prided myself on being atypical. It started out silly with a song about butterflies for my mother and quickly spiralled out of control.

I don't remember how I'd responded at the time but soon enough, once I'd found myself back home and snuck in through my bedroom window, I had my guitar tucked under my chin with my fingers flitting above the strings.

The emotions started coming in slowly at first but soon enough it was like someone had broken a dam in me. The words and notes rushed out unhindered, I almost felt like I was drowning in them, the lyrics tugging me along in their current. I forgot to breathe at times, too engrossed in finding the perfect lyric or chord to care.

After what felt like a few minutes, although my clock at the time told me it'd been more than just a few hours, my song was done. The heat of the moment passed and once I read through it, eyes skimming quickly over my tattered notepad, I realised that nothing in my song was remotely platonic.

Looking back, I'm sure I'd been in love with him for much longer but that was just the moment were I couldn't lie to myself again, the moment were I couldn't come up with anymore excuses.

My songs never lied.