In the midst of 1959, halfway through your year at Welton Academy, a bond formed between you and Neil unlike any other. He revealed his passions, and a fervent desire to carve out his own identity, unhindered by external expectations—a wish he harbored despite the formidable obstacles, notably the one person he least expected to impede it. Though Neil never explicitly divulged the full extent of his predicament, you discerned it keenly. It was in his demeanor around his father, the way he seemed to shrink in the imposing shadow of paternal authority.

This observation cut deep, a pang that twisted in your gut as you bore witness to his struggle, feeling helpless in the face of his silent battle. At first, you couldn't comprehend the intensity of your reaction.

What was it about Neil Perry, with his privilege and promise, that stirred such empathy in you? The answer, perhaps, lay in everything he seemed destined to lose.

The realization both unsettled and fascinated you—these inexplicable feelings for another boy, and for Neil in particular. Yet, despite your internal conflict, there was no denying the bond that had formed between you. This bond drew you to his side on that fateful night, the eve of his performance in "A Midsummer Night's Dream," a role that represented not only his passion for acting but also a daring act of defiance against parental expectations.

Entering the dressing room, you found Neil before the mirror, adorned with a crown of spiky twigs and red cherries, lost in contemplation. Leaning casually against his vanity, arms crossed, you couldn't suppress the small smile that crept onto your face, your cheeks warming with a subtle flush. "You came," Neil remarked, meeting your gaze with a mixture of uncertainty and nervous anticipation, his brown eyes reflecting gratitude for your presence in that pivotal moment.