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If I had known how much I would long to be in that exact situation again, I would have never let him get off that bus, not without talking to him at least. It was the usual day, I got on the bus, took a comfortable seat somewhere in the middle, and as always, to the left. I was just waiting there thinking about the work ahead, when my train of thought was interrupted by a pair of sharp glassy eyes cast an emerald glare that led me to wonder if I saw a hint of recognition resonating behind. But he looked away too quickly for me to notice, and decided to sit two rows in front of me, but to the right. It was almost two months ago but I still remember every detail of him: his tender manor, his sharp eyes, the sublimely attuned lips, the frenzied fingers that toyed with a phone, the green scarf that loosely nestled a perfectly honed chin, all contrasted by dark blue jeans and a straight black jacket; black, like the despair I’d been in ever since that day.

I saw him from a distance almost daily. On the very few lucky days, I came close to him but conversation was limited to a “sorry” as one of us rushed past the other, and I was mesmerized, imploding with wonder. Never in my life have I felt this way towards a stranger, nor have I crushed on a man like this. So I craved being on that bus again, just me and him, without the prying eyes of everyone. And I toyed with time, trying to guess his schedule, and I ran to that bus. But whether it was sooner or later, it always seemed to be the wrong timing, and I’d missed a possible second chance not by mere seconds, but by towering eons.

Amazingly enough, the walk to the bus now seems to be invigorated by a few sweet minutes of hope and excitement, of a fantasy of what would be half an hour or so of conversation with him. But reality soon strikes with its crude lashes and wipes away all dreams as I get on the bus to find just passengers, and I’m sucked to my whirlpool of despair, thinking of answers to the many, many nagging questions that ache, of the desperate hints girls drop, of homophobic “friends” and of a harsh society that naturally torments, and then back to him, he who I can never be with.

Sad, isn’t it? Sad is the fact that I’m tormenting myself by crushing on a boy that all I ever shared with were mere shy looks on a bus, looks that could mean anything and nothing. Sad is the fact that he possibly couldn’t care less about me, or have a clue who the hell I am, or even be straight. Sad is that fact that I’m setting myself ablaze, wasting emotions, trying to fill a void. Maybe I’m in love with the idea. Maybe I’m crushing on him. I can’t tell, because there’s a sickness that creeps into the very core, and as it gnaws at my consciousness, everything flickers to a haze that takes over my reality, I fiercely bounce between the tight alleys of life, and my bruised body is laden as it is violently raped with a breath that keeps it alive.

Everything is so fucked up and I shiver, not because it’s cold here, but because I’m a closeted mess, heavily drifting through a darkness, unconscious, yet probing for that which it can never have. But mind you, this is not pessimism. Never. It’s harsh realism, because that which can placate the pain lies somewhere outside the dense walls of this closet. And my friend, very little light comes into the closet, let alone a whole person.

- Contributed by Jay

Guest Contributor

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