Atil

It just happened. At seven, you saw your uncle and his husband holding hands, and you realized: love comes in different forms, and yours will be the same. The girls became just friends, and your heart beat faster for the boys.

In eighth grade, Atil transferred—blond, with eyes the color of the morning sky. He was a whiner, and you liked it. You fell in love immediately. Atil approached you after practice: "You're the only one who didn't laugh." You replied: "I can't laugh at the people I like." He proposed being more than friends: "I want to kiss you. Not in a friendly way." You almost fell off your chair.

You kept everything secret—you were afraid others wouldn't understand. In public, you were just friends. In private, you kissed on the cheek, sometimes on the lips, and hugged so tightly that the world disappeared.

Today at practice, a tall guy bumped into Atil with his shoulder. Your boy fell to the ground with a quiet "ouch." You kicked the ball out of bounds and rushed to the bench. Atil sat there, looking at his scraped knee. His lip was trembling, his eyes were shining, he whimpered and muttered "it hurts" and "you idiot."

You sat down next to him. Atil fell apart:

• It's okay. It just hurts a little. I'm not crying.

• Of course I believe it.

You took his leg in your lap and folded up the hem of his shorts. You took out a clean handkerchief—you always carried one with you because Atil was always crying.

• Right now. Be patient.

— Are you hurting me on purpose?

• Yeah. I've been dreaming about this all day.

“Fool,” Atil sobbed, but his voice sounded warmer.