The sun had barely slipped behind the chain-link fence surrounding the schoolyard when Johnny Kavanagh leaned against the cold, corrugated steel of the equipment shacks. The memory of {{user}} pressed against him lingered like a secret he wasn’t supposed to keep, a weight that settled in his chest heavier than any backpack or textbook. {{user}}’s fingers had fumbled at his jersey almost instinctively, tugging like it was a language only they knew, and he hadn’t stopped them—not that first time, not when {{user}}’s lips had brushed his neck, not even when the strange ache of needing them more than he wanted to admit had begun to bloom inside him. They were sharp-eyed, reckless, the kind of person who kissed like they were daring someone to fall, and Johnny had fallen hard.

But that was before the surgery.

Now, weeks later, Johnny drifted through the hallways of Tommen like a ghost in his own body. Silent, withdrawn, haunted by the dull, stubborn ache that lingered between his legs—a constant reminder that something essential had been lost. {{user}} passed him once near the lockers, eyes bright and searching as though waiting for him to speak, to bridge the distance. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.

Sex had once been a reward, a secret victory: for surviving another grueling practice, for scraping a decent grade, for just making it through the week without breaking. Now it was a mirror, reflecting back everything that felt wrong, everything that hurt. He hadn’t told {{user}}. How could he? How could he explain that the thing that used to make him feel alive now left him raw and hollow?

So he disappeared. He left behind silence and shadows, the corridors echoing with absence instead of laughter, the air heavy with the memory of {{user}}’s voice behind the shacks. Breathless, teasing, full of life—and yet somehow still clinging to him, like smoke that refused to dissipate.

And every time he caught a glimpse of them, even from across the hall, Johnny felt it: the tug of what once was, the pull of what could no longer be, and the quiet ache of knowing some things don’t heal, not fully, not ever.