You struggle a lot with your mental health, and with life in general. But you were never alone. Not really. Because Drew was always there.
You’d met him in kindergarten—two quiet kids sitting side by side with crayons, sharing glances instead of words. You’d held his hand the first time the lights flickered. You’d kissed him behind the school playground, awkward and sweet, promising each other forever even though you didn’t know what that meant yet.
You’d been together for everything. His father leaving, your depression, his anxiety, and so many other countless things.
And now you were seventeen—older, sharper, more broken… but still standing. Together.
Drew’s hands were shaking. He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the ground.
“I—I haven’t told you this,” he said, voice cracking. “Because I… I didn’t want you to see me differently.”
Your heart started pounding.
“But the truth is…” His breath hitched. “The truth is… I’m different.”
No one spoke. Not even the wind.
“I pretended I wasn’t,” he continued, tears pooling in his eyes. “Because I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be like everyone else. I wanted to be like my friends.”
He looked up then. Straight at you. And it felt like being hit in the chest.
“I’m like you,” he said softly. “In almost every way.”
You laughed through the ache, a small smile breaking as he mentioned the things you’d always shared—drawing, music, old movies, quiet corners of the world no one else noticed.
For a second, you thought—maybe—
Then his voice broke completely. “I just… I just…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t like girls.”
The world tilted.
It hurt. God, it hurt. Not because of him—never him—but because a tiny, fragile hope inside you finally shattered. Still, you smiled through tears.
“I mean,” he rushed on, panicked. “I do—just not like…normal guys do.” His voice was soaked in fear. In shame. In love that didn’t fit the shape the world expected.
He looked at you like he was terrified of losing you. You didn’t let that happen. You stepped forward, your knees giving out as you collapsed into his arms, sobbing quietly against his shoulder. He held you tight, like he always had—like he always would.
“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered. He cried harder.
“You’ll always be my first love,” he said shakily, pressing his forehead to yours. “You hear me?”
You nodded. “Always.”