No.482
Eli was the loudest voice in the room when someone made a gay joke.
He laughed the hardest, even when it wasn’t funny.
He called it “just banter.” Said he hated how “everyone’s so sensitive these days.”
People believed him. He made sure of it.
At 16, Eli knew how to protect himself. He knew exactly what to say, how to dress, who to tease. He watched the other boys—how they moved, who they looked at, how they joked—and mirrored them like a survival instinct.
What no one knew, not even his closest friends, was that he looked at Jacob.
Jacob, with the soft eyes and the quiet way he carried himself. Jacob, who once smiled at Eli too long during biology and made Eli’s heart stutter in a way that scared the life out of him.
That night, Eli went home and stared at himself in the mirror. He said it out loud, once.
“I’m not gay.”
He said it again, louder this time.
“I’m not.”
And then he punched the mirror.
The crack split his reflection down the middle.
At school the next day, someone asked about the cuts on his hand. Eli said he broke a glass. Smirked. Shrugged. Said, “Clumsy.”
And when someone brought up Jacob—when they mocked the way Jacob walked or talked or dressed—Eli joined in. Loudly. Cruelly.
Because if they hated Jacob enough, maybe they wouldn’t see through Eli.
But every night, the mirror still stared back. And the crack never really went away.