It was one week after our first day of freshman class. I was slowly digesting the realities called college as I sat on front row.
Our Literature professor entered, acknowledging the students on the back row who went to class one week after school opening.
As we all looked back to see who they are, my eyes were suddenly glued to this young man wearing a red t-shirt and faded denim jeans. His hair is short enough to be considered military-issued short, but long enough to look good on him. His face reminded me of the cute guy I saw in a movie back in high school, The Craft.
I didn’t know why but I felt heavy all of a sudden. I began breathing loadsful of air to fill the titanium lungs. My heart seemed to be wailing to get out of my chest.
The professor was beginning her discussion about the different types of literature, but I would glance to his way every once in a while. Who was he? And why was I feeling heavy, and sweaty?
How I asked for his name that day was all a blur now. All I could remember now is that the guy in red was adamant in telling me this:
“I hate gays. I used to punch them back in high school.”
To which I answered back:
“I came here to make friends, not to go home black and blue.”
His name is Mike.