Chapter 3: History and Heartache

Jason is my roommate, and also my best friend.

I secretly like him. Unfortunately, he’s straight.

Jason comes from a well-off family. Back when I was seven, my dad drove for the Millers—Jason’s family. Sometimes he’d drop me off at their place when his shifts ran late.

Classmates tried to scare me, saying rich kids were all bad news. They claimed Jason would treat me like a toy and bully me every day.

But when I actually met him, I found Jason didn’t have any airs at all. The first time we met, he said I looked like a doll.

I was frail and sickly. Jason was the golden child of the Miller family, yet he’d kneel on the floor in winter to help me put on socks and carry my backpack to school. He’d always grab the heavier bags without a word, or shove a juice box into my hand if I was looking pale. At his house, his mom would try to fatten me up with cookies, and Jason would quietly pass me his share, too. It was these little things, these small kindnesses, that made me fall for him long before I knew what a crush even was.

When I was sick in bed, he’d always stay by my side, holding my hand and looking after me. It was usually just the two of us in his room—Jason reading comics aloud, or doodling on his homework while he made sure I drank enough water. I’d pretend to nap so he’d keep talking, his voice low and soothing in the background.

In high school, he accidentally discovered I was intersex when I was showering. I remember grabbing his arm, my voice shaking: “Please, Jason. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll do anything.” But not only did he keep quiet, he promised he’d never tell a soul.

He never treated me differently after that. If anything, he became even more protective, always making sure I felt safe. It made my heart ache—both with gratitude and with longing for something I knew I shouldn’t hope for.

He’s cold and doesn’t talk much, and people say he’s hard to get along with. But he’s always been especially gentle with me.

Our roommates often tease him, saying he treats me like a wife. But I know, Jason is straight. Especially since he beat up a guy who was harassing him not long ago.

The story had made its way around campus—Jason, always so controlled, suddenly exploding when a guy wouldn’t take no for an answer. Afterward, he’d just shrugged and said, “He crossed a line.” Everyone assumed it was about masculinity or pride. I knew it was more complicated, but I never asked.

I know Jason only sees me as a good friend. I can’t let myself think too much. If I let my feelings show, I might not even get to stay friends.

Some nights, I’d lie awake listening to his even breathing, telling myself it was better to be close as friends than to risk losing him altogether. I’d bury my feelings deep, like hiding a favorite toy you’re afraid someone might break.