Being around me was like charity to them. A trial run one may say, to see if I would make any moves on them. If you were on the other side of their borderline-idiotic ways of thinking, then you had to be an ally right? Wrong. After coming out as queer, everything changed. I was no longer the kid who could spell any word given to him. The one with a baking obsession. The one who always knew how to lighten the mood. I was predatorial, a danger to the other boys. If I wanted to have made a move wouldn’t I have done it earlier, under the umbrella-like protection heterosexuality provided?

Where was everyone all the other 364 days of the year? Suddenly, I was the center of attention. I was so brave, no one else could’ve done it or lived in my shoes for a day? I’m not a hero. This wasn’t my coming-of-the-age story cliche. This wasn’t your chance to prove that you’re not a horrible person because you no longer let “that word”, escape your mouth. You all are the same. Nothing more and nothing less. The day I came out is now so distant, but plays on a constant loop, like a broken record player. So many beautiful things have happened since then, but at what cost? Sometimes I wonder if the plethora of Instagram followers was worth it. The PR packages. The friends. All superficial, sometimes even meaningless. It’s all for show. His name speaks for itself.

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