He Is Not Himself

Chapter Eleven. Maxim. The Lateness. The Yellow Hair. The First Step.

The Time We Agreed

We agreed to meet at four. In the park. By the central fountain.

I came an hour early.

I sat on a bench. Watched the passersby. The trees. The sky. The clock.

Every five minutes, I checked the time.

"Why did I agree to this?" I thought. "What am I doing? What will I say? I don't know anything. I've never done this before."

I wanted to get up and leave. Wanted to hide. Wanted to disappear.

But I stayed sitting.

Because if I ran now, I would run for the rest of my life.

I had already run once. The day I ran out of that hall.

I didn't want to run again.

The Lateness

Four fifteen passed. Maxim wasn't there.

I looked at my phone. No messages.

"Maybe he changed his mind," I thought. "Maybe he decided I'm not worth his time. Maybe he realized I'm just a scared boy from the provinces who doesn't even know what he wants."

I clenched my fists. I felt panic rising inside me.

I wanted to get up. Leave. Pretend I was never there.

But I stayed sitting.

Four twenty. Four thirty.

I stared at the park entrance. At the people coming and going. At every figure that appeared in the distance.

"Where are you?" I thought. "Why aren't you coming?"

I started to gather my things. Stood up. Adjusted my jacket. Took a step toward the exit.

And then I saw him.

The Yellow Hair

He was walking from the entrance. Fast. Looking around. Searching for me.

I recognized him. His build. His walk. His face.

But his hair was yellow. Bright yellow. Like a clown's. Like a punk's. Like anyone but the person I had been talking to for a month.

My heart dropped.

"What is this?" I thought. "Why did he do this? Why did he ruin himself?"

He had been handsome in his photos. Light hair, soft features, a warm smile. Now he looked… foreign. Wrong. Too bright. Too loud.

I felt disappointment. Hurt. Anger.

"I waited for you for a month," I thought. "I opened up to you. I trusted you. And you come like this?"

I couldn't walk up to him.

I turned and ran.

The Courtyard

I ran into a neighboring courtyard. Stopped by the wall. Breathing hard and fast.

"What am I doing?" I thought. "I'm running. Again. I always run."

I closed my eyes. Remembered that day. The hall. The candles. The rumba. How I pulled my hands away and ran out.

I had promised myself then: never again.

I had broken my promise again.

I looked at my hands. They were trembling.

"It's not his fault," I told myself. "You didn't tell him how you wanted him to look. You didn't give him a chance. You just got scared that he wasn't perfect. And are you perfect?"

I knew the answer.

No.

I was far from perfect. I was a scared, broken, insecure boy who was only learning to be himself.

"Go back," I told myself. "Go back and look at him. For real. Not at his hair. At him."

The Return

I walked back to the park. Slowly. Trying to calm my breathing.

He was standing by the fountain. Looking at the water. His shoulders were slumped.

He looked sad.

I walked up to him.

"Hi," I said.

He turned around. His eyes widened.

"You came!" he said. "I thought you left."

"I did leave," I answered honestly. "I got scared."

"Scared? Of me?"

"Of your hair," I said. "I didn't expect it. It's… bright."

He smiled. Sadly. Understandingly.

"I wanted to make an impression," he said. "Stupid, right?"

"Yes," I answered. "But I'm stupid too."

We both laughed. Nervously. Awkwardly. But honestly.

"Sorry for being late," he said. "I was nervous. Couldn't decide what to wear. Whether to dye my hair or not. Lost an hour and a half."

"Two," I corrected. "You were two hours late."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just… I wanted you to like me."

I looked at him. His face. His eyes. His smile.

"He's not handsome," I thought. "He's… strange. His hair is screaming. His jacket is ridiculous. But he's honest. And he waited for me. And he apologized."

"It's okay," I said.

The Walk

We walked through the park. Slowly. Talked.

About music. About life. About how he realized he was gay.

"I was fourteen," he said. "I fell in love with a classmate. I didn't know what to do. I cried at night. Thought I was sick. Thought I was broken."

"I thought that too," I said.

"And now?"

I paused.

"Now I think we're not sick. We're just different."

He smiled.

"We're not different," he said. "We're the same. There are just fewer of us. But we exist."

We walked past trees. Past benches. Past people who didn't look at us.

I felt the tension inside me slowly release.

"He's not perfect," I thought. "I'm not perfect either. But we're together. And that's what matters."

Trust

"I want to tell you something," he said.

We stopped by the pond.

"What?"

He turned to me. Looked into my eyes. His face was serious.

"I know I'm not handsome," he said. "I know my hair is stupid. I know I was late. I know you got scared. But I want you to know: I won't lie to you. I won't be afraid of you. I won't hide from you. I just want to be with you. If you'll let me."

My throat tightened.

I looked at him. His yellow hair. His ridiculous jacket. His serious face.

"He's not handsome," I thought. "But he speaks the truth. No one has ever done that."

"I'll let you," I said.

He smiled. That same smile — warm, a little sad, real.

We walked on. I felt his shoulder next to mine.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't want to run.

What Comes Next?

I didn't know that in a month, we would meet again. That he would show me his room. That his hands would be on my waist. That I would fall asleep in his arms.

That I would understand — I wasn't broken. I was just waiting.

But that came later.

For now — I walked through the park, next to a boy with yellow hair. He wasn't perfect. But he was honest. And that was enough.

For the first time in years, I wasn't running.

I was just walking.

Next to him.