Quiet Storm

The hallway reeks of gym socks and cheap Axe,

the kind they spray like armor,

thinking it makes them invincible.

Lockers slam like gunshots,

their voices ripple like aftershocks.

I walk small,

head low,

shoulders tight,

but the word gay beats inside me—

a drum I can’t silence anymore.

I know their words by heart.

Faggot.

Homo.

Why do you talk like that?

They don’t say them to me—

not yet—

but I see it in their eyes,

the way they scan me like a puzzle

that doesn’t fit.

I’ve spent years folding myself into corners,

shrinking to avoid their knives.

But tonight,

for the first time,

I want to stand tall.

In my room,

I shut the door and let the dark in.

My phone glows like a secret,

a lifeline pulling me closer to myself.

I scroll through stories of kids like me,

kids who said it,

kids who didn’t,

kids who didn’t get the chance.

Trevor Project whispers,

“You’re not alone.”

HRC says,

“You are worthy.”

And I wonder—

if they can do it,

why can’t I?

Troye Sivan’s voice fills my ears,

soft as moonlight,

sharp as truth.

He sings about blooming,

and for the first time,

I feel it.

This storm in my chest,

all these years of silence—

they’ve been seeds

waiting to crack open.

In math class,

he sits two rows over,

his hair falling into his eyes

like he doesn’t care.

Freckles scatter across his face

like stars,

and his laugh—

God, his laugh—

it’s the kind of sound

you want to wrap yourself in,

the kind that feels like hope.

I don’t even know if he likes boys.

I don’t know if he’ll laugh in my face,

turn me into their next joke.

But I’m going to tell him anyway.

Because I’m tired of hiding.

I’m tired of the knots in my chest,

of swallowing the word gay

like it’s poison

when it’s not.

It’s who I am.

And tomorrow,

I’m going to say it.

Let them call me names.

Let them whisper in the halls.

Let them point and laugh.

I’ve heard it all before,

but this time,

I won’t flinch.

I won’t fold myself smaller

to make them feel bigger.

I’ll walk through those halls

like I belong there,

because I do.

I always have.

The world outside feels like it’s closing in—

laws tightening,

people shouting,

trying to erase us.

But they can’t erase me.

I’m here.

I’m real.

I’m thirteen, and I’m gay,

and I’m not going anywhere.

The storm inside me rises,

a quiet hum turning into thunder.

I picture it breaking open—

not anger,

not fear,

but light.

Light flooding the hallways,

filling the corners where I used to hide.

And when I see him tomorrow,

when I say the words that have lived inside me

for so long,

I won’t care if he stays or runs,

if he smiles or laughs.

Because for the first time,

I’ll be free.

One day, the world will hear us.

One day, they’ll know we never stopped blooming.

But tomorrow,

it starts with me.