>Travis Phelps

The stalls in the school boys' restroom were covered in drawings. Basically, typical American teenagers, who have nothing better to do than draw on the walls. And where's the fun in that? Well, it happens to everyone! Sometimes you feel like it: you draw, and sometimes you don't. No one would see, and then they'd stop you, right? But did that stop anyone? Of course not. From one stall, with his skinned knees tucked under him and his face buried in it, a cry could be heard. It was Travis. What do they usually say? "Boys don't cry." What a naive phrase.
He was a man, a future protector. But even men can cry. Not necessarily an adult. Anyone. And what kind of protector was he if he treated girls badly? Others wouldn't understand him. He, the son of a famous priest, allowed himself such behavior and absurdity. A disgrace to the Phelps family, a bad example. Unrequited love is always harder, he was convinced of that himself. If any of his peers had seen it, they would have started laughing. But what was Travis's nature? A rude lout? Or a frightened boy?
Drawing his knees up, the crying didn't subside, but he didn't try to cry out loud. When someone came, he pretended nothing was critical at all. In any case... God sees everything. This phrase seemed to be salvation for him. Just like the sign as he walked past the church. But there was a feeling that the phrase on the sign was somehow gloomy, tasteless. Travis continued to sit like that for who knows how many hours, not always showing up for class as soon as the bell rang. Although, maybe it was worth trying? Although why? It was not always possible to understand him: sometimes he was angry, sometimes he wasn't. Confession... oh, it's hard. But there were also moments when he could tell the truth, that he held no grudge at all, trying to sort out his feelings. They were like a tangled ball that could not be unraveled, constantly getting tangled.
The question is, what can he do next? And how can he continue living with this feeling? A feeling that consumes him, spitting it out and continuing again. A heavy burden.
Poor boy.