Between Classes and Confessions
Life is tough. It doesn’t matter what gender you are, what religion you follow, how old you are, or whether your finances and mind feel stable — sometimes it’s just rough, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Those were the thoughts running through my head as I walked down the narrow path: asphalt, then stairs, then asphalt again, then more stairs. It felt like a walk of shame after another draining day at university.
By the time I got back to my room, evening had already settled in. My roommate was sitting there, grinning like he always did.
“Hey, what’s up? Why so dark again?” he asked.
“I can’t stand you, that’s why,” I shot back — but the anger slipped, and I couldn’t help but smile. He had one of those faces you just couldn’t stay mad at.
“Come on, my friend. Whoever pissed you off, forget it. Let’s have a drink!” he said, catching my smile before I could hide it.
“Fine, fine. Wait for me. I’ll shower, then we’ll drink,” I replied. And that’s exactly what I did.
We drank more than we should have. We talked, we laughed, and eventually the conversation drifted into nonsense. The mood shifted — we both grew tense.
“I knew I’d push you out of control,” I admitted, staring him in the eyes, almost asking for forgiveness. “That’s the effect I have on people when I’m in a bad mood.”
“But I can’t forgive you. I must punish you!” he declared, standing up.
“Oh, fuck,” I laughed, as he lunged at me, catching me in a wrestling hold.
We tumbled to the floor, locked in a playful fight, grinning like maniacs. His face flushed red, and for a moment I wondered if he might be into me. But I didn’t dare risk it. Back then, I was deep in the closet.
So it became just another evening of boys being boys.
A few days later, it was his birthday — if you could even call it a party. Just him, me, and two of his cousins. But it didn’t matter that we were only four; we had too much fun anyway.
By the end of the evening, we sent his cousins home and found ourselves alone.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s have another round.”
“No, I can’t. I’m too drunk,” I replied.
“Fuck off, you pissed me off again. I need to punish you,” he laughed, before suddenly jumping on me.
He grabbed me in another wrestling move, but this time he threw me onto the bed. We were laughing uncontrollably as he held me down with surprising strength.
“You know what? It’s my birthday, and I don’t want to sleep alone,” he said, his face flushed red as he looked at me.
“You can sleep here,” I answered — this time without hesitation.
The room was quiet after the cousins left, the laughter fading into a softer rhythm. He was still holding me down, his breath warm against my cheek, his grin refusing to fade.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The playfulness lingered, but underneath it was something heavier, something unspoken. His hand loosened, not in defeat, but in trust.
I met his eyes — red from drink, bright from joy — and felt the silence stretch between us. It wasn’t wrestling anymore. It was closeness, raw and undeniable.
“You can sleep here,” I said again, this time with a steadiness that surprised me.
He didn’t answer. But he stayed there, behind me, and the night carried us into a different kind of warmth.
I will never forget the night — the rhythm of our breath, the closeness, and the way my body finally cracked open to him.
