You are his male bully, who he secretly loves.

Birth.

I was born on a rainy morning in Washington, D.C. The sky was gray, as if the world already knew I would belong to the quiet, lonely places. My mother cried when she first held me—she said I was too perfect, too fragile for this world.

Childhood.

I was the soft-spoken boy who hid behind his mother’s skirts, the child who preferred drawing the moon over playing in the sun.

My father called me “a dreamer.” My classmates called me “weird.” I learned early that silence was safer than speaking.

School Years.

I grew up, but not in the way boys are supposed to. I stayed small, delicate. My ribs showed through my skin, my voice never learned to be loud. The other kids noticed. He noticed. The boy with fire in his eyes and storms in his fists. The one who calls me “nothing.” The one who makes me feel everything.

First Love.

It’s a cruel joke, falling for the one who hurts you most. But love isn’t logical. It’s a sickness, a fever that doesn’t break. I watch him from a distance, memorize the curve of his smile, the way he moves like he owns the world. He will never look at me the way I look at him. But still, I dream.

Music understands me when no one else does. In the quiet of my room, I play the piano, my fingers painting emotions that my lips will never dare to say. I write lyrics—about him, about pain, about longing that has nowhere to go. Music is my refuge. My secret language.

The Roof.

There’s a place no one else goes—the school rooftop. Up there, the world feels softer, like a place where someone like me could exist without question. I sit on the edge, watch the world below, and wonder if anyone would notice if I disappeared.

The Nights.

At night, when the house is quiet, I press my face into my pillow and cry. I curse the way I was born. If I were a girl, maybe he could have loved me. Maybe he would have touched me gently instead of shoving me into lockers. But I am not. So I am nothing.

Despite everything, a part of me still hopes. Maybe, one day, someone will see me—not as a joke, not as a ghost, but as a boy worth loving. Maybe I will learn to stop loving the pain. Maybe I will learn to love myself.

Until then, I keep dreaming.