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Does he think I bullied him?

I didn’t bully him. I didn’t. I only touched him when I was allowed to touch him. During shinty matches, during rugby scrimmages. That’s not bullying. That’s just how the game is played. And I didn’t bother him outside of that. I didn’t talk to him much. I didn’t go out of my way to interact with him.

I just watched him and followed him. I made sure I knew where he was, what he was doing, and who he was with at all times. But that’s not bullying. That’s just interest. Interest I couldn’t afford to let him see. Because if he knew, if he ever finds out how much I think about him, how much space he takes up in my head, he would run.

No. He’s not going to know. He wouldn’t like it.

To be honest, though, I wanted him in ways I could barely admit to myself. But it’s undeniable now.

I’ve spent so many years hiding it. For years, I pretended to be something I’m not, even to myself. I dated girls because that’s what’s expected. I played the role of the straight son because being gay would be unacceptable. I’m still pretending with Claire, even though I know it’s fucked up. But I don’t see the point in breaking it off when she’s satisfied with so little.

But Cameron, with his warm eyes, nervous hands, and full lips, is the one person who could ruin everything, the only one who has the power to destroy me. And sweet, innocent Cameron is completely oblivious.

If he ever suspected that I was hard every time I touched him on the field, every time I slammed him into the mud or pressed my body against his during a scrum, he’d be gone. He’d go somewhere I couldn’t follow. I don’t even want to think about it because I won’t let it happen, and because I like to think positively. He’s not going anywhere.

He can’t find out that I followed him through the halls at St. Silas because I couldn’t stay away. He can’t know that when I watched him in the library, I was imagining what it would feel like to run my hands up the muscles of his back. He can’t know how badly I wanted to play with his hair or smell his neck. A painful ache in my chest erupts just remembering all the times I wanted him, still want him. But I have my fantasies. In my head, Cameron wants me too, begs for me, moans my name, opens every part of himself to me.

Fuck, Cam. You’re ruining me.

I take a breath and type Gwen’s response.

i’m really sorry to hear that. bullying can have such a lasting impact on a person’s psyche. not just for the victim but for the bully too. a lot of times people who bully others are dealing with their own pain or insecurity. it doesnt excuse it but it’s worth understanding

I read it over before I send it. It sounds like something a psychology major would say. It’s thoughtful, insightful, and nonjudgmental.

haha talking to you is like having a therapist. thanks for listening, Gwen. i dont usually talk about this stuff

anytime. i’m glad you feel comfortable opening up to me

Cameron, can i ask you a question?

yeah

are you talking to other girls on the app?

are you talking to other guys?

no just you

me too. just you

good

He’s exclusive to me… Well, exclusive to a girl who doesn’t exist. Gwen is only a construction of words, a carefully calibrated vulnerability I’ve woven together specifically to trap him. It’s working. Sitting still in this room, with Gwen’s words on my screen and Cameron’s confessions bleeding into my heart, I’m closer to him than I’ve ever been before. Even if it’s a lie, there’s a sense of satisfaction attached to the feeling.

But satisfaction suggests finality, an eventual fulfillment, and that at some stage, I will stop. I won’t let him go, so there is no stopping. I will always want him. Always, Cam.

I set the phone down and stand. My legs need to move. My body needs to move. I think about going to the gym. I walk to the window. The autumn light is fading fast, the sky bleeding from gold to gray. Students are moving across campus in their sartorial prep, carrying backpacks and coffee cups.

My phone shows three forty-seven.

Cameron has a neuroscience lecture at four on Tuesdays. I know his schedule and which routes he takes between buildings. I know everything about his routine, including which library table he prefers and that on cold days, he stops at the coffee cart in the quad before heading to the science building. He has no idea that I know any of this, that I could draw the exact shape of his days like a map. He moves through his world believing himself unseen, untracked, and free. But he’s not free. Cameron belongs to me in ways he doesn’t even realize. And that certainty takes root inside me like a fundamental truth.

I need to see him, to see his body moving through space. I need to track him through the territory I’ve claimed so he stays mine.

I change into running clothes, my fingers moving with purpose. I slip on a black hoodie, something no one will notice, and leave before I can talk myself into staying inside the quiet of my bedroom, comforting myself with fantasies of Cameron.

Outside, my muscles tighten in protest as I start running without warming up, but I don’t slow down. The quad opens beneath my feet and my mind spirals back to the moment when I taunted Cameron with my tongue and watched the panic blossom across his face before he bolted. I couldn’t help falling into our old aggressive dynamic because it was so familiar. But that moment is proof that he sees me, and that whatever he pretends, I affect him. I mean something to him.