Well, people say love is love, is it?
But that's not how it felt, basically not for me. Love was mine only in brief moments. Julian Blackwood, had just turned thirty, an age that was heavier than it sounded. Bright, fast-burning sparks that suddenly vanished as quickly as they came. I gave my heart too easily. Or maybe I gave it to the wrong men, the ones who held it like something fragile and disposable. He was always chasing something real. But real was far from imagined. After a while, the silence became easier than hope. Loneliness became a habit.
He was tired and heartbroken.
So one night, as the moon hung gracefully in the sky, as if it waited for him all this while, he walked outside while embracing the cold air of New York City, the pain and betrayal in his heart was too heavy to pour out to anyone, he held it in, he was broken in a way that no one else could see, standing in the middle of the road, he stared at the moon and whispered the kind of wish you're not supposed to say out loud:
"I wish I was never gay."
And a tear rolled down from his eyes down to his cheek before landing on the ground, well, he didn't mean it, not fully. But he said it, getting back to his apartment, and dozed off; he never knew the next day would turn into another life.
And when he woke up...
He was someone else.