“The bullying was getting so bad I couldn’t even bring myself to tell my father. I just tried to cover up the bruises the best I could, and act like nothing was wrong.”

I sit down on the cool stone ledge and begin removing the foil from the cold cafeteria hamburger. I sit alone, as I almost always do.

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I’ve always been an outcast – the queer boy with the ‘bitchy’ (as everyone liked to call it) attitude. I was always the boy who had crushes on impossible guys, straight males (outside of Glee Club – and even they took forever) were jocks and homophobic assholes, and girls were as close as real friends got – more relatable. You know, “being gay and all.” But even they wore on my nerves and occasionally betrayed me.

My home life was decent, but it wasn’t exactly spectacular. I lived with my dad and that was that. My mom died when I was eight, but I’d really rather not hash out all the details.

I had been bullied for as far back as I could remember. Other kids calling me ‘queer’ and ‘fag’ on the playground, and pathetic me, not even knowing what those words meant.

I asked my father the meaning of the words – I knew they couldn’t be nice – but the pained expression on his face told me not to expect an answer, and not to ask again. So I went to my room and booted up the old computer my mother left and figured out the meaning for myself.

I was 16 when I finally came out to my father, although I’d already received torment for years without even being fully out.

He embraced me with strong, warm, loving arms, and that was that.

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The taunting turned into cruel slander being spray painted across my locker, and the side of my Navigator. Slander turned into being repeatedly tossed into dumpsters and shoved into lockers. I couldn’t tell you how many concussions I received – and hid form my father – bruises I had to cover, bruises that sometimes covered my neck and face, calling for extremely imaginative fashion choices.

I got good at applying make-up, so that it looked natural – Heaven forbid I give myself an actual reason to be called “Lady Queer.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I was truly happy. When was the last time I actually smiled? Not just a fake mask meant to cover the pain?

What went wrong? What shattered the confidence I had spent years of reading Vogue and researching Gay Pride, and ways to hold your head high, to build up? What caused it to disappear so quickly…?

So many questions, not enough answers.

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I’m about to take my first bite, when some short kid with a curly mop of hair plops down beside me.

After a few strained moments of silence, I ask, “May I help you?” I don’t even turn to look at him. He’s probably just like the others and no way am I giving him the pleasure of eye contact.

“Uh, not really. Just saw you sitting alone, and thought I’d join. Is that alright?”

I steal a cautious side-ways glance at him, and what I see nearly takes my breath away.

This kid is cute. Dark, rich brown hair, the naturally curly locks breaking free from the amount of gel placed to impossibly tame them, and the most stunning shade of hazel eyes I have ever seen. Almost a caramel color.

I quickly snap my gaze away from him, the color rising to fill my cheeks. Staring at someone here to potentially beat you up? Smooth, Kurt. Real smooth. But he’s so pretty…. KURT!

“What do you really want?” I questioned, snapping myself from my internal monologue. I was beginning to get irritated with this obnoxious stranger. Not only was he sitting in my personal space bubble, but his ridiculously beautiful face was mere inches from mine and it was quite distracting. I couldn’t afford to be distracted. He’s dangerous, I have to remind myself.

“I already told you. You were sitting alone and I figured you might want a conversational partner. I’m Blaine by the way,” he told me, flashing a mega-watt smile that nearly knocked me breathless, his coffee scented breath washing over my face.

“Well, yes, I am sitting alone. But maybe I am on purpose,” I stated dryly. The sense of unease I felt when he first sat down is starting to wear off. I can’t tell if that’s good or not…

“Why would you sit alone? Don’t you have friends? It’s a pretty big school…,” he trailed off, looking at me expectantly.

I heaved a sigh. “I’m sitting alone because – because I’m gay, alright? You may now proceed to make crude jokes and beat the shit out of me. My name’s Kurt Hummel by the way, so you can tell the police who I am when my identifiable features have been beaten out of me later.

I expected immediate derogatory slurs, and maybe a slap, or hit. But instead I was met with silence.

I chanced a careful glance upward, only to meet the somewhat amused look on Blaine’s face.

“Hello Kurt Hummel. I’m Blaine Anderson. Former Dalton Academy Warbler, and 100% gay male. Nice to meet you.” And then he flashed that damned smile again.