-Devon.
I could remember every single time I cried. There weren't many. Once when my father died. Again when my mother remarried. And the third time—when Treasure got a girlfriend.
"Are you going to quit karate?"
I still remember his voice when he asked me that. Small and unsure. It cracked near the end, like something had already begun breaking inside him. His eyes were already glassy. Always so quick to cry, that one. I used to hate it. Thought he should've been tougher, with a life like his. I imagined people like him were hardened by default. I thought misfortune sculpted resilience like clay—sharp, dry, sun-hardened. But I was wrong. Life doesn't forge everyone the same way. Like my grandfather once said, "We aren't all made from the same dough." And if people are dough, then some need a slow oven, others high heat, and some crumble before they're even baked.
The day I saw him holding hands with her, some girl I'd never seen before with polished nails and a loud laugh, I felt something crack open in my chest. I went home, didn't say a word to anyone, just went straight to my room and let the weight crush me. I remember the way my arm folded under my face as I laid on my bed, biting down into it so no one would hear. I cried like something had been ripped out from under my ribs. And the shame that followed—that ugly, burning thing—was worse than the sadness itself. Because I didn't know why I was crying like that. Or at least, I told myself I didn't.
But the truth is, I know exactly how I got there. It started years ago, when I was seven, in the echoey walls of the karate center. That place smelled of sweat and vinyl mats, and the air always carried a faint whiff of antiseptic from the nearby medical room. One afternoon, they brought in a group of kids from the orphanage down the street. It was part of some program the sports center did every few months—let the kids try things out, gymnastics, swimming, whatever. Most of them came and went like the weather, but not Treasure.
His hair was a mess. Uneven, like someone had tried to trim it with dull scissors and gave up halfway. His gi was oversized, the sleeves swallowing his wrists. But when he moved, he moved like he belonged. The others laughed or fumbled or got distracted, but he took to karate like he was born for it. There was this strange intensity in his eyes, like he had something to prove and nowhere else to prove it.
At first, I didn't talk to him. I wasn't interested. My mom, though, was always trying to pull sainthood out of me. Be kind. Make friends. Include everyone. She believed goodness was a muscle you had to train, and she wasn't shy about making me practice. So I started talking to him. I thought I was doing him a favor. I didn't expect him to stick.
But he did. Like gum on your shoe. Like he saw something in me and decided it was worth keeping close. At first, I resented it. Then, I looked forward to it. Eventually, it just became part of my life. Seeing Treasure.
And it was always in that same space, that worn-out karate hall with its cracked mirrors and the smell of rubber mats. We saw each other every Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. I counted them like a schedule of tiny salvations. When training ended, he'd grab his bag, wave goodbye, and run off to that tired old teacher from the orphanage—the one with the soft voice and tired eyes. They'd walk off with two other kids who'd stuck around, and I'd stay behind, staring at the door a little longer than I needed to.
That was our world. A small one. Just four days a week, a couple of hours, surrounded by the sound of fists hitting pads and kids grunting through drills. But it was ours.
I remember this one day—he kept rubbing his eyes over and over with the heels of his palms, real rough. His bangs were getting in the way, strands falling into his lashes every time he blinked. It looked uncomfortable, and he'd wince a little when the hair got too close, like it stung. I kept watching until I finally asked, "Why don't you just cut your hair?"
I mean, mine was short. Clean. I never had to worry about anything falling into my eyes. He looked at me, squinting through the strands like he hadn't even considered it, then shrugged.
"I don't like anyone touching my hair."
"Why?"
"Because it hurts."
I didn't get it. Haircuts never hurt me. The barber we went to—Mr. Amin, this old guy with careful hands—never pulled or yanked. He had those soft scissors that made this satisfying snipping sound, like they were cutting through fabric. So I told Treasure, "My barber knows what he's doing. He never hurts me. Doesn't even nick my skin or anything."
Treasure shook his head. "Not the scissors," he said. "It hurts when someone grabs your hair too hard… like they used to at home."
And I didn't understand what that meant. What did grabbing hair have to do with anything? Nobody grabbed my hair. Nobody used it to make a point. At that age, I didn't know what kind of home taught a kid to flinch like that.
But I didn't press. Instead, I said something stupid like, "Well, I can cut it for you. I know how."
I didn't. I'd never cut anyone's hair. But something about him made me want to try. And somehow, for some reason I still can't explain, he agreed. We were just two eight-year-olds in the corner of the locker room, holding safety scissors and pure confidence. I remember the way he sat down on the bench, totally still, trusting me like I was someone worth trusting. No suspicion, no fear in his eyes—just this quiet acceptance.
And I fucked it up so bad.
The cut was uneven, jagged like torn cloth. I tried my best to fix it, but the more I tried, the worse it got. I think I made it worse on both sides just trying to match the first mistake. When his teacher saw him that evening, her face said everything before she even opened her mouth. And the next day, my mom was called into the orphanage. There was this whole long talk in a musty room that smelled like tea and paper files. My mom was furious. Said I was irresponsible. Grounded me for a week and told me never to touch a pair of scissors again unless I was planning to cut paper or my own fingernails.
But the thing is, Treasure didn't get mad at me. Not even once. The next time I saw him at class, he showed up with his uneven haircut and acted like nothing happened. He was still rubbing his eyes when his hair got in the way, still didn't let anyone near it.
But then his teacher pulled me aside after practice. She asked, "How did you get him to let you touch his hair?"
I told her I didn't really convince him. I just said I could do it. She nodded, thoughtful, and said, "Don't do it again, but maybe… try talking him into letting someone fix it."
I said, "That's easy. I can do that."
It wasn't. I tried and tried, made jokes, asked nicely, even tried a barter system at one point—one round of push-ups for every reason he gave me to keep his hair long. Nothing worked. Weeks passed. He still swatted hands away whenever someone got too close.
Then one day, out of nowhere, he said, "I'll cut it… but only if you come with me."
So I did. I sat in a chair beside him while the hairdresser worked. Watched the pieces fall to the floor like old feathers shedding off. And for the first time, he didn't flinch. He just kept glancing at me in the mirror to make sure I was still there.
That day felt like a win. Not just for him. For me too. Like I was finally someone who could be trusted to stay.
And after that day at the barbershop, something shifted. It was small, but I felt it. Like some invisible thread had been sewn between us, tight and firm. From that moment on, Treasure began to believe everything I said—as if my voice had been coated in some unspoken truth he could trust. It was like, because that one haircut didn't hurt, because someone held the scissors and didn't use them to punish or shame, I was no longer just Devon. I became safe.
Looking back now, twenty years later, it makes all the sense in the world. Crystal fucking clear. But also… it doesn't. It doesn't make sense the way love doesn't make sense, or gravity when you're falling and trying to catch your breath midair. But it feels like sense. The kind your bones remember.
And from then on, he stuck to me like Velcro—firm, dependable, sometimes irritating, always there. Two kids bound by routine and training schedules, glued together in every way that mattered. I can still see us in those old karate halls, running barefoot over the mats, high off adrenaline and sugar drinks after practice. By fourteen, I'd earned my purple belt. It felt like the crown jewel of my entire childhood. Treasure got his blue around the same time, and we were thriving, even with everything stacked against him.
Being at the orphanage meant he had rules, curfews, paperwork, and all sorts of unnecessary hurdles. We couldn't just hang out like normal kids. Every outing required a signed permission slip, a phone call, sometimes my mom doing a whole performance to get them to release him under her watch. It was frustrating. A whole damn ordeal. But it was worth it. Every single time he was allowed out, it was like winning a prize.
We shared a lot of firsts together. Some loud and obvious. Others quiet and invisible, the kind only we remembered.
I was there the first time he asked me something that felt… different.
We were in middle school, sitting on the grass behind the gym after school. The sun had already begun slipping behind the buildings, casting that soft gold glow that made everything feel slow and secret.
Treasure turned to me, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers, and asked, "Have you ever kissed anyone before?"
I blinked. "No. Have you?"
He shook his head. "No. But my classmates… they talk about kissing girls at the cinema. They say they made out. I don't get it. It sounds weird. Like, kinda gross. Don't you think?"
I scratched the back of my head, unsure. "I mean… I don't know if it's gross. I guess it's normal? Some of the guys in my class already have girlfriends."
He went quiet for a moment, still playing with the grass. Then he asked, "Why don't you have one?"
I shrugged. "I'm not really thinking about that stuff yet. Doesn't feel important."
"Hmm." Another pause. "Are you nervous about your first kiss?"
"I haven't thought about it."
"I am."
I looked over at him. He wasn't joking. His brow was pinched slightly, like this had been bothering him for a while. There was something so earnest in the way he said it. I wanted to make it better.
"I think when the time comes, you'll be fine. You'll enjoy it. I mean, I don't know what it feels like either, but it probably won't be that bad."
He nodded, still chewing on the idea. Then, like he was proposing we build a treehouse or race our bikes, he said, "What if we shared our first kiss? So we wouldn't be nervous."
And I… I said yes.
It made sense. At the time, it really did. It wasn't a big deal. We were best friends. Who better to do it with? We'd get the nerves out of the way and laugh about it later. What could possibly go wrong?
Pity the fool.
He said, "I saw how they did it on TV. I think we just do that."
"Okay," I said. My voice was quiet. My chest wasn't.
He reached out and placed a hand on my cheek. His palm was warm, a little sweaty, and his fingers trembled slightly as they brushed along my jaw. And that was the moment I realized I was in way too deep. My stomach twisted, flipped, and folded all at once. I was so nervous I felt like I could throw up or pee or both.
No championship, no match, no belt exam had ever made me feel like that. This wasn't adrenaline. This was something else entirely. Something I didn't have the words for.
And then, before I could even think about pulling away or leaning in, his lips were on mine.
His eyes were closed.
Mine weren't.
I was too shocked to shut them. The kiss—if you could even call it that—was short at first, more of a peck than anything. But then Treasure leaned in again, and this time… he deepened it. A little longer. A little more pressure. I could feel his hand tighten gently on my cheek, feel the way his body stilled like he was afraid of ruining it if he moved too much.
And all I could think was—this is happening. This is real. This is Treasure. And this means something I'm not sure of yet.
After the kiss, he pulled back with this easy shrug, like we'd just finished a round of thumb wrestling. Then he said, "That wasn't that bad. I mean… yeah, I don't think I'll be nervous anymore. And you—I mean, I wasn't nervous now. Were you?"
I looked at him, dead in the eyes, and I lied straight through my teeth. "Nah. That was fine. Just how I imagined it."
He nodded like he believed me, leaned back on both elbows in the grass, and started watching the clouds like nothing had happened. That's what got me. The way he acted like we'd just ticked something off a checklist. Like it was a task, now complete, and we could move on.
But I couldn't.
The kiss clung to me for days after. Like a fingerprint smudged on glass—I kept seeing it, feeling it, trying to wipe it away and failing. It wasn't about the kiss itself, not entirely. It was about how I felt in it. How safe it was. How soft. How I didn't hate it. How I wanted, stupidly, to try again. Not because I wanted to kiss someone, but because I wanted him.
Only Treasure, on the other hand, must've taken that kiss as a green light. Confidence unlocked. Suddenly, he wasn't nervous about kissing anymore, so he figured he might as well get a girlfriend. Like that's all it took. His classmates were doing it. It was the trend, and he followed it. That's what I told myself.
Looking back now, it wasn't even a real relationship. I mean, sure, they held hands, maybe kissed behind the basketball court once or twice, shared snacks at recess. But at the time, it gutted me. And I didn't understand why it hurt so bad. I didn't even have the words for it. All I knew was that he started disappearing from my days.
He stopped picking up when I called. Missed training more often than not. Said the orphanage was tightening rules because he kept sneaking out past curfew. They threatened to move him somewhere else. Somewhere stricter. Somewhere worse. And I think… if he wasn't so afraid of being kicked out, of losing that tiny, rigid safety net, he would've kept sneaking out to see her.
There wasn't anything I could do. I tried. But when the door stays shut long enough, you stop knocking. So I started spending more time with my other classmates. My older brother was around a lot. He'd always been steady, like a worn-out lighthouse that never went dark. My little sister was still young then, and I didn't really have the bandwidth to deal with her, but I started noticing her more. Spending time at home meant seeing how funny she was, how clever. Turned out she was someone worth knowing.
Then everything shifted.
My mom decided to remarry.
Some guy I didn't like. My siblings didn't like him either. We didn't say much about it, but we all felt the same quiet discomfort. He came with two kids of his own—a boy and a girl—and my mom tried to repackage it like some upgrade. "You'll have a third brother and a second sister now," she said. Like siblings were collector's items. It didn't land. Not with me, not with any of us.
And with the marriage came relocation. New house. New school. New rules. I'd have to drop karate. Drop my routines. Drop everything.
And most of all—drop Treasure.
Although, by then, he'd already dropped me.
Still, that didn't make it easier.
We packed up the house into cardboard boxes that never quite closed right. On my last day in town, I walked to the orphanage to see him. He met me at the gate, standing there like he didn't know what to say, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
The first thing he asked was, "Are you going to quit karate?"
I said, "No. I'll keep training somewhere else."
That's when his face crumpled. His mouth quivered, his brows pulled together, and tears gathered before I could even understand what was happening.
He cried.
And I didn't know what to do with that.
Why was he crying?
He was the one who drifted away. Who left me behind without a word. Who let silence fill the spaces we used to talk through. I wanted to scream at him. Shake him. Ask why he stopped choosing me. But I didn't say any of it. I just reached out, patted his back like an awkward stranger, and mumbled, "I have to go. My mom's waiting in the car."
Then I turned around and walked away.
And I didn't see Treasure again for the next two years.
The new town was shitty. I didn't like it.
Riverfort felt like the kind of place real estate developers built out of boredom—some long stretch of flat land turned into a model neighborhood overnight. My stepfather was one of the first buyers, proud of his investment in what he called "the next big area." It was a quiet, hollow place at first, rows of sterile houses that looked like they'd been copied and pasted onto the dirt. The streets were paved but empty. The air smelled like plaster and new paint. The silence echoed.
The house was decent, I'll admit that. Big enough. Clean. Unlived in. But there was nothing around it. Not for months. Just a single grocery store, a single school, one gas station with flickering lights, and a bakery that closed by four. Eventually, they started building a mall, and the minute the first cinema screen lit up, people called it a city.
The only thing that didn't feel like a compromise was the sports center. It was new, cold from air conditioning that actually worked, and so clean the floor tiles looked polished every hour. Nothing had time to fall apart yet. No scuff marks, no busted equipment, no mold creeping into the corners. The moment the unfinished buildings stopped looking like skeletons and started looking like stores and cafés, Riverfort began to pretend it had always been here.
I tried to settle in. I tried to pull myself out of what I left behind and find something else to hold on to. I made friends. Enough of them. People to eat lunch with, message about assignments, laugh with during gym. But it never got deep. It never got real. I couldn't tell them what I really wanted to talk about.
Because what filled my mind most days wasn't school or homework or some show we all pretended to like—it was the question that had been burning in my chest since the day I left. That kiss.
Had it meant something? Had it meant anything?
And was I—was I gay now?
Or had I always been and just never realized? Was Treasure my first? My beginning? Or just a coincidence on the path toward something I didn't know how to name yet?
I didn't have answers. All I had was this feeling in my stomach that wouldn't go away.
Especially during swimming practice.
There was this guy—he looked like he'd walked straight out of a dream. Tall, sleek, strong in a way that wasn't aggressive. His body moved through the water like it belonged there, like the pool was made for him. His hair was always damp, clinging to his forehead, and his skin had that kind of glow the sun gives to people who don't even try. And when he smiled—which was rare—it felt like a secret.
I couldn't look away.
I was captivated.
That was puberty for me. A wave crashing over before I learned how to brace for it. I didn't even know what I was feeling, only that I was feeling something, and it was loud.
But no matter how many beautiful boys I saw, how many moments I paused too long in the locker room, I kept circling back to Treasure. His laugh, the way he rubbed his eyes when his hair got in the way, the warmth of his palm on my cheek, the kiss we never talked about again.
I wanted to ask him. I wanted to know what it meant to him.
But I never did. And that silence just kept growing.