“Knew it. Always figured he was one ofthose.”
“Disgusting. Ruining the sport.”
“They should both be benched before they infect the locker room.”
“Going to hell, both of them.”
“I’d make sure they never step on the ice again.”
“Gay men shouldn’t play manly sports.”
“Bet the whole team knew and just kept quiet.”
“Imagine being hit bythaton the ice. No thanks.”
And mixed between them—like whispers trying to break through the noise?—
“Proud of you.”
“Ignore the hate. Love is love.”
“You deserve better than their ignorance.”
The kindness is there, but it’s buried. Drowned out by the uglier noise that echoes louder because people like shouting when they can hide behind screens.
I stare at it all until the words blur together, until they stop feeling like sentences and start feeling like random letters strung together. Once, this would’ve gutted me. It used to, back when I thought every cruel thing written about me had to be true.
Now… I just feel tired.
Tired of being a headline. Tired of strangers withusernames instead of faces thinking they get to decide what kind of man I am.
If I’m feeling like this, then Todd has to be feeling worse. This is all new for him—the judgment that comes just for being yourself. As if who you love should matter to strangers who only exist behind usernames.
If it were only them, maybe it’d be easier to shrug off. But I’m pretty sure his dad didn’t react the way he’d hoped. He wouldn’t have left otherwise.
I lock the phone and let it fall beside me, screen down on the comforter. The ping of freezing rain fills the quiet, a hollow rhythm that matches the pulse behind my ribs.
The sound of my mom’s steps carry faintly down the hall, until she stops outside my closed door, the soft sound of her checking in without coming in. I imagine her pressing her palm to the wood that separates us, and I almost want to call out to her. But I don’t. She knows I need the space.
I close my eyes, press my palms against my eyes until I see stars, and whisper to the dark, “You don’t get to break me too, Todd.”
The words come out small and cracked, but they’re real.
Because maybe the world’s already decided what it thinks about us, but I’m not giving it the power to decide who I am. I just wish it didn’t cost mehimto remember that.
Days passlike slow breaths I can’t quite catch over the next week and a half of our break.
Christmas comes and goes. My mom still bakes cookies, still insists we open one present at a time, still laughs too loud at the movie marathon. Tom wears the same ridiculousSanta hat he’s had for years. It’s all exactly the same—except it’s not.
Because every quiet moment in between feels shaped around the space Todd left behind.
He doesn’t call. Doesn’t text. Not even a single “I’m okay.”
Every morning, I wake up half expecting to see his name on my screen. Every night, I check again before bed, telling myself not to but doing it anyway.
The photo’s still circulating, but the noise online has started to fade. People have moved on to the next scandal. That’s how it always goes.
But I haven’t moved on. I don’t think I know how.
