Pages I Never Wrote: An LGBTQ+ University Romance (BoyxBoy)

I

All my life I wanted to be seen as normal. My parents used to remind me every morning before leaving for school. Don't let them notice. Don't be a burden to the other students. Don't ask the teacher for help too much. Just act normal. Be normal. And now I'm holding a piece of paper that says exactly the opposite. I'm not 'normal'. I need help.

I really don't like needing help.

My eyes move from the paper to the queue I've been stuck in for about two hours. No movement. The girl at the front is losing her patience, tapping her fingers ferociously on the door frame of Room SL48. I can't blame her, the guy before her has been inside the office for about twenty minutes now, and I can't begin to understand what on earth he's doing in there. We are supposed to just hand in our forms and leave. Maybe he's trying to flirt with our very blond student advisor.

I return to my paper and triple check the details. Since I didn't even write them down – because I'm useless – at least I want to make sure they're correct.

At the top, under the SOAS logo with the pretty tree and the University of London stamp, there's my name in capital letters. Luke Abington. Check.

A few lines below, the reason why I'm queuing at the school's Disability Office. My own 'Special Learning Difference', as they like to call it here: dyspraxia. It honestly sounds so stupid, like a Harry Potter spell with the power to put a scary look on everyone's face when you mention having it.

At the bottom of the page, my 'Assessment of Needs': help to type or handwrite essays; extended deadlines.

My parents filled out the form for me when I went back home for the winter break. They tried to sound encouraging, as if it wasn't a big deal. I couldn't tell if they are becoming more accepting or are past disappointment now.

The person in front of me shifts and for a moment I think the queue is actually moving, but it's a false alarm. The yellowish light coming from the ceiling makes it look like the sun is already setting. Around us, dozens of students are rushing back and forth through the corridor, all looking very busy. And I'm stuck here. Nice way to spend my first day back from the holidays when I still have so much reading to do. I guess it's time to check my form again.

It takes another forty minutes for me to reach the head of the queue. When I finally step inside the office, there is already a huge pile of documents on the advisor's desk. I silently place my form on top of an identical one and wait for her to say something.

"You will be assigned a personal tutor or consultant within four weeks." She sounds like a recording. She scribbles on some paper and doesn't even look at me. Wow.

Wondering if that's all and why I couldn't just submit my form online, I take a look at the rest of the office.

It's basically a big classroom packed with similar desks, papers, folders and tired members of staff. The table to my right is displaying a shiny plate reading, 'Helen Rowan, Tutors Coordinator' beside a box collecting 'volunteers application forms'. At the other end of the room there's another entrance, and outside another long queue like the one I've just left.

A guy is coming from that direction. He's wearing dark Vans sneakers, skinny gray trousers, and a red and black plaid shirt. He has a leather jacket and a leather backpack on his shoulders, a piercing on his right ear, and gelled black hair. A shadow of a stubble stands out on his fair-skinned face.

He stops right next to me and places his form among the volunteers applications. My hand springs to my head as I feel an inexplicable urge to flatten my overgrown, messy brown curls. He turns toward me, our eyes meet for a moment.

"Have a nice day," says my student advisor abruptly, shifting my attention back to her. She has raised her blond head from her desk to give me a scolding gaze for not having left yet.