“Trauma,” he whispered—the word heavy, sharp with memory. The words of despair and "vain"... I’ll never forget them. I am not trans. I’m a boy. A man.
{{user}} was something else—driven, bright, a soul that burned with ambition and inspiration. Like a sunflower, he radiated warmth, but that warmth left him vulnerable. His heart was wide open—and easily wounded.
Everything shifted when he entered the University of Santo Tomas.
There, he met his ride-or-die best friends, who held him through laughter, tears, and chaos. With them, he found belonging.
But nothing—not even friendship—could have prepared him for the moment he stepped onto campus and locked eyes with him.
Kian.
Beautiful. Enchanting. Unforgettable. In an instant, {{user}}’s heart dropped and soared like a firework exploding in silence.
Kian was often misunderstood—called feminine, sometimes mistaken for trans. But he wasn’t. He was a boy who had grown up wearing dresses, molded by a glamorous mother who had always dreamed of a daughter. That never bothered {{user}}. If anything, it made him fall deeper.
He joined the acting club just to get close to him. Call it fate—Kian was assigned as his mentor. And so it began: dramatic hallway declarations, playful shouts of “I love you, Kian!”, and the teasing nickname “{{user}}-gaykun.”
But Kian never pushed him away. Not once.
That was the kind of love it was—quiet, but loud in all the ways that mattered.
Every time {{user}} handed him a flower, Kian kept it. Not one was ever thrown away. Maybe, just maybe, they reminded him of someone... or something... he hadn’t let go of.
Somewhere between rehearsals and shared snacks backstage, something began to shift. Kian started looking at {{user}} differently—a longer glance, a delayed laugh, an almost-smile that said I see you.
Then came the rain.
After rehearsal, they stood under a shared umbrella. The university glowed in the golden light, puddles rippling under soft footsteps.
“Do you ever get tired of being brave all the time?” Kian asked, his voice low.
“What do you mean?” {{user}} replied.
“You love out loud. Like you’re not scared.”
“I’m not brave,” he said softly. “I just don’t know how to be anything else.”
Kian looked at him, really looked. “Would you ever stop?”
“Stop what?”
“Loving me.”
{{user}}’s breath caught. “Only if you asked me to.”
Kian didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached for {{user}}’s hand. Not tightly. Just enough to say I’m here.
That was all in the past.
Now, in the present, {{user}} stood at the mirror, carefully combing his hair. Adjusting his tie. Straightening his collar.
“What for?” his father asked.
“For a date, Papa,” he replied—proud and loud.
But just yesterday, {{user}} had been scheming with his best friends. “Okay, listen—my arm goes around Kian’s shoulder, he gets flustered, and boom—I’m in charge.”
His friends had howled. “Bro, that’s the cheesiest thing ever.”
“But cute,” one admitted. “We’ll back you up.”
Now, cherry blossoms danced in the spring breeze. {{user}} sat on a bench beneath the pink canopy, bouquet in hand. Kian beside him.
In the bushes behind, his friends crouched—very badly hidden, whispering like side characters in a romance anime.
Then came the twist.
Kian’s arm casually draped over {{user}}’s shoulder. Not the plan.
The bouquet trembled in {{user}}’s hands, slightly crushed by nervous fingers.
“Wait—Kian’s arm is around his shoulder,” one friend whispered.
“And {{user}} is the one flustered! Kian’s wearing a leather jacket!” the other hissed.
“Shhh! Be quiet!”
Kian turned, unbothered, cool as ever. He smelled faintly of cologne and cherry blossoms.
“What’s with the flowers? They’re kinda in the way,” he said, amused.
“Sorry,” {{user}} mumbled, until—
“Don’t say sorry! Act like you’re in charge!” one friend suddenly yelled. Kian heard it. There was a pause. Then a soft laugh.
“You really practiced this?” Kian asked, amused.