The Dangerous Art of Blending In

by Angelo Surmelis

I actually let myself wonder if this could be the start of something new and better.

my theory is that the internal nervous energy I work so hard to conceal keeps my metabolism running on high.

What must it be like to feel so comfortable in your own skin?

It’s funny how you get so used to winter that you forget there are any other seasons.

I’ve spent my whole high school career cultivating an air of nothingness.

I notice too much. Every little thing in a room about a person, place, anything, feels like it’s giving off a signal, like everything is trying to communicate with me. That’s why I love neat, well-organized rooms. There’s less noise and my head feels calm.

I think I want new experiences. New memories, not the ones others have given me.

Mostly, I’m scrambling to do different things to please different people. I wonder what would happen if I only spent time doing what interested me.

It felt like all the broken pieces inside me gathered together and stayed put for that moment.

But for a few hours I felt like she loved me.

Why can’t I stop talking? It’s like I have some disorder—Always Be Nice and Fill All the Silences.

“You’re so weird. Honestly. And I missed the weird.”

“If you don’t come up with a place I’m just going to keep driving till we get to California.” “Would that be so bad?” I laugh nervously, but kind of mean it. Henry gets silent for a split second, then says, “No. It wouldn’t be bad at all.”

“I feel like I need a library now. I didn’t realize that I was missing one,”

The truth is, it’s exactly what I want but I’m so scared of wanting it and even more scared of actually having it.

Today feels like one of those days when it’s hard being here at school. The kind of day when faking it is harder than usual.

I want to love her. I want her to love me.

Is he jealous? Do I like that he might be?

“What do you want me to give you?” “You. I want you.”

I’ve worked so hard to keep everything down. To not feel pain. Not react. Blend in. But it’s not working anymore. I hurt. I feel it.

Gay. Will I ever be able to hear the word without the stigma? Without shame?

At times, I do feel like I’m an old man trapped in this teenager’s body.

I know it’s only a few seconds, but this moment . . . this silent moment is my world.

The person who was supposed to love me the hardest—the most unconditionally—has always wanted me gone. No matter how hard I tried to be perfect. Now, this boy—who knows all my imperfections and has seen all my hurt laid bare—wants me to stay.

I have zero time for a social life.

How his eyes looked at me as if they needed to see me in order to continue to shine.

It makes me wish my mother would always be cruel and horrible and unforgiving, because at least that’s something I can count on.

I don’t want this life, so why do I keep fighting for it?

I’m trying to convince myself that I want him to leave, even though I don’t. I want him here. With me.

Is this what it feels like to be safe, to have someone care no matter what or who you are?

Maybe I’m not so ugly after all. Maybe no one is really ugly, and maybe no one has the right to call someone that or tell them that they are. Maybe the only real ugliness is what lives inside some people.

I tell myself I belong to this view, this sky, this lake, these trees. I belong here with him.

But something in me is churning and burning, and one by one, I can feel all the emotions I’ve worked so hard to contain start to break free.

“I can’t be loved like this anymore. It’s going to kill me.”