The first crack

I was the quiet one—the kind of boy who didn’t need friends because I didn’t know what it meant to need anyone. Life was simple: family, school, routines. I wasn’t lonely, not really. I didn’t understand loneliness. I had my own little world where everything stayed calm, safe, and predictable.

Friends came and went, but I hardly noticed. I wasn’t thinking about what I didn’t have—I just lived the life I had.

But that life was about to change.

It began in the eighth standard, when my uncle came to stay with us. I was close to him—we laughed, talked, played, roamed around. He was funny, relaxed, and I felt free with him in a way I hadn’t felt with others. His presence felt like a breeze in a still room.

But one night, something happened that I didn’t understand at the time.

I remember waking up feeling different—my body responding in a way it never had before. I was hard. I didn’t know why. Later, I realized his hand had been touching me… there. I didn’t know if it was wrong or right. All I knew was that it felt good, and I didn’t want him to stop, even though I tried to.

Maybe he was just being frank, I told myself. Maybe it meant nothing.

It continued for a few weeks. I started to ignore it, pretending it didn’t happen, but deep down, I liked it. And then one night, I didn’t stop him. I let it happen.

Afterward, I went to the bathroom and masturbated for the first time. I felt pleasure like I’d never known. That was the beginning of a new kind of curiosity—a journey into something I didn’t fully understand.

I started watching porn. At first, I imagined myself with women, believing I was straight. But slowly, the fantasies changed. A man would seduce another man—and I realized, I wasn’t watching to be him. I was watching to be seduced.

That was the moment something clicked. I didn’t panic. I didn’t feel broken. But I started to wonder: Was I gay? Bi? Confused?

In school, things were still mostly normal—until they weren’t.

I had a benchmate who used to touch my thigh playfully. It made me feel good, made me feel seen. I thought it was our little secret, something unspoken but shared. One day, I touched him the same way.

And the next day, everything changed.

He looked at me with disgust. Then came the whispers, the laughter, the bullying. Not just by him—but others. My looks, my quietness, my presence—everything became a reason to mock. He never said it outright, but I could feel it: he knew. And now, he wanted to erase any memory of that shared moment by shaming me for it.

That shame sunk in deeper than I expected.

In eighth grade, I talked to people. I laughed, I participated. But by ninth, I was silent. As if the version of me that once existed had disappeared overnight. I avoided everyone. I stopped trusting. Even when I switched schools, hoping for a fresh start, the voice in my head stayed the same: You're disgusting. You're wrong. You're evil.

I carried that voice everywhere.

When summer vacation arrived, I felt like I couldn’t breathe anymore. My family planned a trip to Manali, and I welcomed it—not for the sights or the cold air, but for the hope that maybe, just maybe, something inside me would feel lighter.

I didn’t need adventure. I just needed escape...

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