Chapter 9: The Transfer Student

Caleb Stone's dorm room felt like a cage that first month at Riverside. The single window overlooked a parking lot, not the scenic quad he'd hoped for, and the cinderblock walls echoed every sigh. Boxes still sat half unpacked in the corner: trophies from high school football, faded photos with old teammates, a life that no longer fit.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at an open journal on his lap. The pages were filled with cramped handwriting—entries dating back two years, raw and unfiltered. Confessions he never sent. Regrets he carried alone.

Tonight's entry began the same way many did.

Saw him again. Closing the coffee shop. He looked... tired. Angry. Beautiful. God, I messed up so bad.

Caleb rubbed his eyes, the memory of Ethan's sharp words cutting fresh. "You should hate yourself for it." He did. Had for years.

High school felt like another lifetime. Golden boy. Quarterback. Homecoming king. His dad's proud handshakes after every game, the expectations heavy as the pads on his shoulders. "Stones don't quit. Stones are winners. Stones are men."

Men who dated cheerleaders. Men who didn't look too long at teammates in the locker room. Men who buried feelings so deep they almost convinced themselves they didn't exist.

Almost.

Ethan Rivers had been quiet back then. Smart, kind eyes, a smile that lit something in Caleb he didn't understand. Sophomore year, stolen glances in the halls. Junior year, excuses to talk: borrowed notes, group projects. Senior year, the pull became unbearable.

Then the party. Ethan's confession under the stars.

Caleb closed the journal, chest tight. He'd panicked. Peers watching. His friends' voices in his head. Dad's voice louder. So he lashed out. Cruel. Public. Safe.

The fallout was immediate. Guilt gnawed as rumors spread. Ethan disappeared over summer, off to college early. Caleb stayed, played one season at community college on a partial scholarship, but the joy was gone. Parties felt hollow. Dates with girls rang false.

Sophomore year, a teammate came out. The team fractured. Slurs in the locker room. Caleb stayed silent again. Coward.

That silence broke him.

He started therapy off campus, anonymous sessions paid with parttime construction work. "Internalized homophobia," the counselor called it. "Fear of losing identity." Caleb cried the first time he said it aloud: "I think I'm bisexual. Maybe gay."

Dad found the therapy receipts. Explosion. "No son of mine." Ultimatum: quit or lose support.

Caleb quit football. Transferred to Riverside for psychology—ironic, studying the mind while piecing his own together. Fresh start. No expectations.

Then day one: Ethan across the quad.

Caleb hadn't known. Seeing him—confident, surrounded by friends, thriving—gutted him. And ignited hope he had no right to feel.

He'd tried approaching. Apologies clumsy, timing worse. Ethan's walls were high, earned.

But Caleb couldn't stop orbiting. The coffee shop "accidental." The path after gym. Pathetic, maybe. But three years of regret demanded voice.

His phone buzzed. A text from his mom—the only family contact left.

Mom: Dad asks if you're "fixed" yet. Miss you.

Caleb typed back: Working on it. Miss you too.

He set the phone down, opening the journal again.

I was into him then. Terrified, but into him. Still am. He hates me. Deserved. But if there's any chance... I have to try. Slowly. Earn it.

A knock at the door startled him. His roommate, a quiet engineering major named Dev, poked his head in. "Gym? You said you wanted to go nights."

"Yeah." Caleb closed the journal, shoving it under his mattress. "Let's go."

The gym was campus central after hours. Weights clanging, treadmills humming. Caleb spotted Dev on bench presses, mind wandering to Ethan—did he work out here?

As if summoned, Ethan walked in. Hoodie, shorts, earbuds in. He scanned the room, froze when he saw Caleb.

Their eyes locked.

Ethan's jaw tightened. He turned sharply, claiming a treadmill far across the room.

Caleb's heart sank. But he didn't approach. Not tonight.

He lifted instead, channeling frustration into reps. Sweat poured, muscles burned.

Across the gym, Ethan ran hard, as if outrunning ghosts.

Two men, one space, worlds apart.

But closer than before.

Caleb whispered to himself between sets: "Patience."

The journal waited back in the room.

Tomorrow, another entry.

Another day to prove change was real.

Later that night, after Dev had crashed asleep with headphones on, Caleb pulled the journal out again under the dim desk lamp. The gym encounter replayed vividly: Ethan's guarded stance, the flash of hurt in his eyes before he turned away. It stung, but it was progress—no outright rejection this time. Just distance.

He wrote more, pen digging into the paper.

He saw me at the gym. Didn't bolt. That's something. God, he looked good—stronger, more sure of himself. Everything I threw away. I want to tell him about therapy, about losing football, about finally admitting who I am. But words mean nothing without actions. Have to show him. Be patient. Even if he never forgives me, he deserves to know the truth: I was into him. Always. Just too broken to say it.

Caleb paused, staring at the words. Admitting it on paper was easy now. Saying it to Ethan? Terrifying.

He thought of his mom's text, the fractured family back home. Riverside was supposed to be escape. Instead, it was confrontation. But maybe that was the point—healing couldn't happen in hiding.

Closing the journal, he lay back, staring at the ceiling. Dreams came fitful: alternate nights under stars where he pulled Ethan close instead of pushing away, lips meeting in forgiveness. Waking left him aching, longing for a chance he might never earn.

But he'd try.

One careful step at a time.