Read Me Like a Book

If you looked round the rooms, you wouldn't think there was anything missing. But it's like one of those Spot the difference cartoons in a puzzle book. The changes are so subtle, yet glaringly obvious once you've seen them. A photo missing here, a cup there. A heart a bit more broken than it was before.

It's all very well going round with two fingers stuck up at the world, but what happens when the world turns round and sticks them back up at you? The world's a lot bigger than I am.

Then she leans forward, and before I have time to say or think another word, she's kissing me. And I'm kissing her, too. It starts almost in slow motion. Her lips, soft on mine, light little kisses, tiptoeing. Then she opens her mouth slightly, kissing me with more force. I keep thinking about how perfectly our mouths fit together. Her lips are so gentle, her tongue drawing me in. I'm losing myself in her.

It's official, then. Everyone knew I was gay before I did.

Love doesn't discriminate and nor should the law. Not in this country, not in this world, not in this lifetime.

Perhaps nothing is as simple as it looks. Perhaps everything has another layer, a hidden room that only reveals itself when you accidentally stumble across the secret door. Or perhaps I'm talking bollocks and it's time to go to bed.

For a second, I see into the future: she's old and grey, she has senile dementia and can't remember my name. The thought pretty much breaks my heart in two.

The worst part was the fear - looking down at the rushing water that seemed miles away. But once you were on that branch, there was no going back.

Wasn't my hair shorter than when they last saw me?

There's something in the back of my mind when I wake up. Just out of reach. Like when you get a bit of food stuck between your teeth, right at the back of your mouth.

On the way out, I hug Mum, holding her close. 'Thank you,' I whisper. 'For dinner - and for everything.' Mum smiles and strokes my cheek. 'There's nothing to thank me for.

The queers could almost pass for the same species as the straights.

Her hair is tucked behind her ears, a few stray strands lazily brushing her cheek. I suddenly have the strongest sensation of wanting to reach out and curl them in place behind her ear.

Miss Murray is leaning on the door. "Ash, come on. It's time to go." Her hand is so tight on the handle, her knuckles are pale. She's looking at the floor. "Miss Murray?" "What?" She doesn't move. I stare at her face but she doesn't return the look. "I love you." The air in the room has frozen, every atom suspended. Then her tense body slackens. Her hand loosens its grip on the door and she turns her head slowly towards me. She meets my gaze for a moment. Her eyes have dark rings under them. Her forehead is creased with worry. Her cheeks are pale. I want to make it all OK. I want to make her happy. I desperately want to touch her face. "I know," she says quietly.