Disclaimer: This is just a theory. This is only going to be a couple of chapters, or until my brain bleeds out over it.

Let me know?!


One small moment is all it takes. Swift or slow movement, compression leaving a bruise and taking a long – or short – time to fix, dependant on how well you heal. Who you are makes a difference; what you are remains the same. Like a panel of glass that's hit the wrong way by the elbow of a fallen teenager, or the right way by a burglar – or both, there are spidery cracks, tiny and yet so devastating that one little push can send you overboard. They are ripples that appear across the surface; let the breeze in, the water out, your heart shatter.

Yet you smile, or offer the semblance of one, because nobody else is allowed to see you break. Breaking is something you need to do in peace, alone, in the corner or under your sheets – somewhere you know, somewhere you feel trapped... ironically, somewhere you feel totally safe.

You duck your head through the hallways, avoiding looking where you're going because avoiding him is so easy; avoiding the look of hatred or pity you know is going to be there. You turn the corner past that, both literally and metaphorically past him and it's too hard to make it easy again, too easy to make it far too hard. You don't look where you're going, because it's just so much easier to hope the crash-landing that is languishing somewhere in your near future isn't as painful as the last time you took that path.

Father. Brother. Lover. Father, brother, lover. Fatherbrotherlover. Him.

They all blend into one until you can barely lift your head to look up at your lecturer, barely take in the words that are being said to you by your roommates. You keep your head down and everything fades into background noise, falling away as you study, cook, drink, sleep, laugh, cry.

Until everything changes.

And it changes because nothing can afford to stay the same for eternity, and if it could, there would be no story here, nothing interesting would have happened then. There wasn't a story, to be honest with you, oh no. There was an existence. Without joy, without fear and without love. It was nothing to record, and nothing to be proud of.

Until him.