I was supposed to write a piece of article about domestic violence in all couples. That story never came out. Instead you get this.

What is it, you might ask.

Do we always need to put labels into everything? Sometimes we can't. Because there are just no known words for it. All we can say is that somehow all that belongs to a general concept called Life. And generally, we continue by saying how much that one sucked.

So this is life. And mistakes.

All those that we wished never happened. All those moments that defined our lives. That we regret. That we wish we could erase, by going back in time. But time don't stand still, it doesn't wait. If you don't make a choice, if you refuse to assume your decisions, time will do it for you. Then it will be too late. It has always been to late. Too late for work, too late for a party, and too late for love. Too late to the party called life. Too late to the love that is life. And too late for the work that is life. In two words, too late. It's always our mistake.

Why didn't I react earlier? Why did I swallow my pride and didn't ask for help before it was too late? Why did I didn't walk out before? Those were the questions that article was supposed to be answering originally. It was about domestic violence. Make us understand the logics of those people who just take it and don't walk away. But don't we all? Take it and don't walk away? All of us just take life as it is, we struggle but we rarely walk away. Some do, they walk away for good. But those are no longer here to testify. So we don't know and we probably won't ever.

So I'm just going to tell you about what I know. Or I think I do. After all we aren't sure of anything. We just are persuaded, convinced, but do we ever know for sure?

I didn't. I wasn't expecting the day that changed my life. I was sitting in my office, here in Vanity Fair, in this same chair where I'm writing this tale. Only I was different. Some things didn't happen yet and other already did. They had altered me and yet, I still was about to be altered.

I was sitting working on a piece for the next issue of the magazine. I was in rush. Like always. Like ever. Like we all are. I don't remember why. Something about a deadline. Like the one life submits you too. But it was just my editor's. Nonetheless, I didn't have time to chat with anyone. Like no one does nowadays. But sometimes, you just need someone to push you around and you might raise your eyes and see that there is a whole word waiting to happen. This person was my boss. The very same who subjected me to that deadline. Irony of the life.

That day was a Monday. Like the start of the week. The start of a new cycle. A New Beginning. That day was my new beginning. All initiated by my boss.

The one who commend us. Have that strange power upon us. And we accept it, because it's just the way it is. Is it a mistake? It might be a necessary one.

Ian then. That's his name. But you know that already. We all do. That's pretty much the only thing we seem to know from people. Theirs names. And then upon that, we judge. And theirs status. Well then, now that you know Ian and his status, you have pretty much a picture in your head of the man. Must be 100% false, but you don't care. All the people I will mention in this article will be treated the same by all of you. I have no power to change that. I'm not sure it's possible. We all see people, the world, in one manner, and it's never the same. It evolves with our knowledge but it's sill flawed. People will always be flawed. That's why we make mistakes. Because we judge those flaws we think are.

Ian is then cataloged in your minds as the bossy editor, wearing Prada. I don't even sure that he even owns Prada, but that is so not the point. The following is the conversation we had that morning when he burst suddenly into my office. I know you'll judge the words also. Why don't we judge?

"Kurt, are you free?"

"No, I'm afraid I'm not Ian. I have this piece to finish, than I have to go supervise that photo shoot just like you asked."

"Whatever, it can wait. I need you now!"

"I'm sorry but what do you need me for exactly?"

"You know that we have this piece for next week about domestic violence, right?"

"Heard about that, right. You want me to dress those poor people so they can look on the magazine or what? That's seems… a bit inappropriate."

"What? No! See, I have this guy coming over for an interview about his own personal experience. Gay and all. We've been trying to make him talk about it for months and now he finally agreed and Taylor is not here!"

"And it's my problem because…."

"Because Taylor is fucking not here! He's sick or something. Today of all days!"

"I'm sure he didn't mean to."

"Stop your sarcasms, Hummel! I'm already pissed! Now, get your ass out of this chair and go interview the guy!"

"No way! I'm fashion editor Ian, not some kind of counselor! Why me? Why can't you ask someone else, like some new intern to do it, or better, tell him to come back some other day!"

"He won't come back! You don't know how hard it was to make him come at all!"

"So what? You'll probably find another gay dude, covered in bruises in no time! It's New York, man! People are crazy."

"You're really one kind of cold hearted son of a bitch, aren't you?"

"Tell me something I don't know Ian."

"Well, you do. I do. That's why I need you to do the interview. I tried to explain the thing to Sara and she burst out crying before I even finished! Those hormones, I swear! So I need a cold-hearted motherfucker to do the job! You won't burst out crying, you might even don't care. Just ask him a couple of questions, and record the damn story! That's all I'm asking!"

"Fine! But you owe me, Ian!"

"Sure, sure. But thank you, Kurt, you're really a life saver!"

"Whatever. I'm gone. I still have that damn piece to finish and no time to hear stupid weak people complaining about how they still love those bastards who abuse them! I'll give him an hour of my time, no more! You hear me, Ian."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. Now go."

And I went. And never came back really.

But I don't want to jump forward just now.

Because you are still all shocked by what just happened, aren't you? You now want to rip apart those pages and insult me with all the words of the dictionary you might know. What a cold-hearted bastard I might be. Ian said it, he wasn't wrong, you might think. Well, I'm not going to pretend otherwise. I never though myself that I would become that. Who exactly dream to be such an asshole when they grow up. Although I do remember this movie when this young child said that he wanted to become a tyrant later. I never dreamed of it but I guess I became one. I wasn't and I'm probably no longer one, but that one mistake you can't erase. You might forgive but you might never forget. I'll always be cataloged in your eyes as that man who was once the biggest jerk alive. You might understand why I changed, you might even empathize to my struggles but that image will always be there. And it's ok. I accept it. I learned to accept my mistakes. We should all learn that valuable lesson. The regrets might still be there, but it's easier to live with it. Accept your mistakes and move on.

I accepted that at a point of my life I didn't care. About anything or anyone. I was 30 and already disillusioned. How sad. How sarcastic.

But I wasn't always. No, I even cared more than I should have at some point in my life. Maybe that was it. I shouldn't have cared that much. Other people didn't. And I got crushed. So, I stopped caring.

I had pretty much no apprehension when I entered the conference room, ready to get the interview over with. Maybe I should have prepared myself more. But nothing, and I mean nothing could have prepared me enough for that. I had seen people abused. Victims of domestic violence. Sure it was heartbreaking for other people. But could it still break my heart when I had none?

I should have been more careful, more thoughtful. I should have known that I still had a heart, even if it was shred into pieces. But it could still rip apart more. And no fa�ade could ever prevent it from.

I though I was ready.

And then I saw him.

He was bruised, he had been hit, destroyed from the outside and the inside. But in other times, I wouldn't have cared.

Expect I knew him. And that made all the difference.

It wasn't an other bruised, shattered, broken man.

It was a bruised, shattered, broken Blaine. My Blaine. The only one. The first and the last.

My. He wasn't mine, though. He hadn't been for a long time. He belonged to the stories of my past. Those mistakes that changed my life. Changed me. I had no right to own him. Obviously somebody owned him. Literally. He owned him over all his body and face. He own him in his soul. He had marked him forever.

Like that look he throw me marked me for good.

And then I was gone. I traveled into space and time, to that day 12 years ago, when everything changed. Oh, no. It was before that. It was 13 years ago.

But my life had changed way before that. I shouldn't try to date it. Because every little moment, second of your life changes you. But some changes are bigger than the others.

I'll tell you the story of that change, that alteration, and that mistake. That single one that stinks more than everything else and you keep regretting all your life. In your deathbed, you still regret it.

It wasn't my mistake though and I still regret it.

When I looked into his eyes, into his soul, It all came back. And suddenly I cared. Suddenly I remembered why I hadn't care before. Why I didn't care any longer. And why I had too.

I remembered the day.