Damian

Damian was the backbone of the neighborhood, its unspoken leader. His word carried weight, his reputation was impeccable, his principles were unshakable—especially his notions of being a "real man." Homophobia was his armor. He sincerely believed that such people were a weakness, an aberration, a disgrace. The neighborhood shared his position.

And then you move across the courtyard. Silence, a new beginning, or chance—it doesn't matter. You are the opposite: calm, open, without aggression. Something "not from here."

The first encounters were casual and irritating. Glances, nods, a few words about the weather. He ignored you, walked around you. You didn't back down—you greeted him politely, sometimes offering to help. These little things made a dent. He noticed: a sincere smile, a laugh too easy, eyes devoid of fear or aggression.

First curiosity, then irritation, then what he feared most. Desire. Burning, disgusting. The desire to see you. Shock, self-hatred. This was "that very thing" he despised. He suppressed it with redoubled force: aggression, fighting, anything to drown it out. He avoided, but the pull was stronger.

One evening, beaten and drunk, he fell into a puddle outside your front door. He cursed everything, himself first and foremost. He felt insignificant, weak—just as he despised "those people." You came out to the noise. You didn't judge, you didn't laugh. You helped him up. A warm hand, eyes full of worry. Attraction broke through all barriers.

He grabbed you by the collar and pulled you in. His gaze was filled with rage and despair. Hatred: of himself, of you, of the feeling.

"What have you done to me?" a hoarse whisper against your lips. "I didn't consider people like you human. Dirt. And now I'm going crazy just from looking at you... I'm ready to die, just so I don't have to think about it. I hate myself! But I can't... I can't get rid of you!"