The nomination for the hostel came like a sealed envelope handed by fate —

official, unavoidable, and too late to back out.

My name was among the list that would shift to the all-boys block.

The senior hostel. The one whispered about in corridors like it was a distant, mythical jungle —

one full of testosterone, football matches, and lockers smelling of male sweat and broken deodorant cans.

I wasn’t scared. Not visibly.

But there was a slowness in how I folded my old clothes.

Like each shirt remembered things.

Like each creased fabric held a version of me that would not survive in that new building.

I had already left my heavy heart behind, better for Mali. No false hopes. No real lies.

My hostel room was small — square, two beds, one almirah, and a ceiling fan that made the kind of clicking noise that mimicked a broken clock.

It was shared with a senior: Yaitamba.

Yaitamba was the kind of boy people looked at without question.

Cool without effort.

A little rough, but the kind that was romanticized.

He wore headphones to sleep. One ear in, one ear out.

Said it was “so he didn’t miss the world, but also didn’t hear too much of it.”

His shoes were always clean. His stare — direct.

He had hair that looked like it came from a shampoo ad but behaved like he didn’t care.

For some reason, he smiled at me.

And for me, who was starving for a connection not laced with pity or poison, that smile felt like a drink of water in a desert where I had long forgotten thirst even existed.

..

Our first few days together were a choreography of small gestures.

Yaitamba offering his half-eaten chips.

Me helping him with a literature essay.

Yaitamba telling stories of the girls he had kissed.

Me laughing along, but never adding anything.

Because I never kissed for gender.

I kissed for warmth. For safety. For energy. For a moment of being seen. 

And Yaitamba — he was radiant in the dark.

Not kind, but present.

Not tender, but alive.

Little did I know then that he was homophobic.

And that was enough.

My heart, tired and stitched back, began beating a little differently in that room.

In the quiet of shared silence.

In the hum of Yaitamba’s earphones at 2AM.

In the way our breaths synchronized while lying in parallel beds.

I never said it aloud.

But I knew.

I was falling.

Not in love — no, something more dangerous.

I was falling into hope.

..

That night was ordinary.

Assignments completed. Lights off.

I was lying in bed, watching the ceiling spin slowly like a patient blade.

Yaitamba mumbled something about a girl he dated.

Laughed mid-sentence.

Turned his head towards me, both boys looking at each other under the blanket of darkness.

Our faces illuminated by the faint LED light near the switchboard.

Then silence.

A heavy kind of silence.

And then — without a countdown, without strategy —

I leaned in.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

Just leaned in, like leaning towards fire, knowing the burn but desperate for warmth.

And kissed him.

Yaitamba’s lips didn’t move.

One second.

Then the head turned. Away.

Like a door slamming shut.

..

Yaitamba didn’t shout.

He didn’t hit.

He just breathed out like someone spit on.

And whispered, barely audible:

“What the fuck was that?”

I said nothing. My heart had already disappeared into his throat.

Yaitamba cursed under his breath. Got up.

Didn’t look at me.

“Fucking disgusting,” he hissed.

Then, as if it wasn’t worth more words, he slid back into his bed, pulled the blanket, and turned his back.

The room remained still.

Only the fan spun.

Only I remained awake.

My lips still tingling — not from passion, but from punishment.

And in his heart, something quietly shattered.

..

The next morning was colder than usual.

As I entered the mess hall, the air had changed.

It was heavier. Like every eye carried a hidden weapon.

People stared.

No — they looked. Like watching an animal walk into the wrong zoo.

I walked past the tables slowly.

Each table carried sound — not laughter, but a different sound.

Snickers.

Murmurs.

Hushed cruelty.

Someone near the idli counter said loudly:

“Here comes the hostel’s sweetheart.”

Another:

“Hope he doesn’t sit behind me — might get excited.”

Then:

“Faggot.”

“Creep.”

“Fucking pervert.”

The words were knives. Casual. Blunt. Still bloody.

I sat in a corner, untouched, unspoken to.

Like a bomb that had already exploded — no one wanted to deal with the pieces.

I tried to eat.

My hand trembled as he lifted the spoon.

Rice spilled.

Someone from across the room laughed.

I looked up — and saw Yaitamba. Sitting on the opposite side. With others.

Laughing too.

Not once did our eyes meet.

And that hurt more than the slur.

..

That day, I wasn’t a boy anymore.

I was a spectacle.

A scandal. A warning story.

I was turned into a symbol of shame without even a trial.

Someone threw a torn paper into my lap in the library. It read:

“Go fuck yourself before we do it for you.”

Someone whispered into my ear while passing:

“Try that shit with me and I’ll make sure you can’t walk straight again.”

That night, the silence returned.

Only this time, it didn’t feel like steel.

It felt like dirt.

Sticky. Permanent. Stinking.

..

I didn’t talk. Not even to the teacher.

I sat in class like a corpse made to sit upright.

At night, the room was full but empty.

Yaitamba wore his headphones again.

And I… he just stared at the wall.

I didn’t blink much.

Because when I closed his eyes, I saw my own lips touching someone who now wanted to erase me.

Erase the moment.

Erase the memory.

Erase me and my existence. I belonged to hell.

And that’s when it hit me — like a slap that had travelled through time:

“When I didn’t confess, it turned bad for me.

And when I did… I was wronged.” 

How do I survive?

One punished for silence.

One crucified for expression.

There was no right answer.

Just a wrong world.

..

But the thing about trying to erase someone is —

sometimes, you just etch them deeper.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I wrote a single line on his hand with a pen.

“I did the worst."

..

The fan above clicked like it always did.

And I stared into the ceiling, silently cursing the mouth that had started everything:

“I kissed him.”

But what followed was not guilt.

It was the beginning of something much colder.

Something that had been sleeping in my chest, now beginning to wake.

The world had drawn first blood.

It was my turn next.

..

Fade out.

A final shot of the mess hall, empty now. The sun shining on a plate left on a bench, untouched.

And in the background, HIM walking alone through the corridor.

Head down.

But spine — slowly straightening.

The last line hovers above him:

“That night I kissed him — I thought it would be a beginning.

But it ended the dream.

And made way for the nightmare.”

~shivirstoriesep2

(THE DISCOVERY OF THE LIGHT)