It almost felt as if his grandmother was knitting him a sweater. Each new puncture through the yarn is promising, yet painful. Each crochet of that sleeve is simple, yet intricate. Each second he went without food was heavy, yet exciting. Anticipation. It's a funny word – self-torture in a way.  He’d harbord this image of a person—a thought, a moment, a word, a meal— in his mind. It was there waiting for him in all of its glory – sculpted to perfection, a sight to behold. Yet for whatever reason, he’d wait. The subtle bruise this timed delay left only made him want the satisfaction more. It was a drugged cycle, a pattern most don’t catch themselves falling into. Human beings love torture. But sometimes, the torture loves us a little bit more. 

        ⇼  ⇼  ⇼

4 a.m. is when Gavin’s daily unwind commences. Common events that take place during this time include: sawing through a stale loaf of bread left out by his roommate, Ethan, fishing for the last sips of either a blue or red gatorade, teasing polaroids with his fingertips remembering train rides and cathedrals, or pacing the floors counting the most prominent creaks leading up to the fridge. His stomach left nothing to the imagination. It made its presence clear, and never graceful. Gavin was usually informed of its needs with a gurgling eruption of what sounded like a million frog burps. He always found this amusing and snickered to himself. His fridge trays were stained and frosty. There was always a peculiar scent upon opening the fridge, but to Gavin, this scent brought only comfort. He decided to restrict his choices and limit himself to the freezer half of this fridge. A slight buzz from the light behind the ice trays became apparent. He began to itch, but internally. How does one itch their veins? His pupils moved rapidly shifting through the rows of expired bagel bites and frozen peas, ultimately landing on the third shelf.  Sweet row three. He caressed the carton of Rocky Road ice cream, sweet orange chicken, and veggie dumplings. The light from the freezer grew brighter. The slight buzz from the light behind the ice trays softened. Its pulse grew still, yet alive. He grew still, yet alive. His feet cupped one another, his fists let go, and his sweat froze. It’s so quiet up there. Up there, as in one's mind. The pink plush of the brain is soothing to one's footsteps when entering new voids of consciousness. A shell of Gavin’s existence stood in front of that sweet third shelf, stalling time while he was within himself.

The sensation of julting back into time feels horrifically supernatural. Though physically the shell of your body is still there, your essence no longer occupies the position you were just in. Your soul is now an actor in a reenactment of a critical time in your life. For Gavin, the sharpness of the sheet of ice frozen on the ice cream lid brought him back to a time not only major, but also traumatic. One might best explain this series of events by informing you that Gavin preferes the yellow Sour Patch Kids…. and no one prefers yellow Sour Patch Kids. He’s a weird kid. At friends houses, they’d offer him a blue or a red.

“Oh I don’t like those ones,” he’d decline, puncturing the plastic pocket with his fist, searching for his perfect yellow. They didn’t like what he liked, and that was okay. He wasn’t a fan of their preferences either. But they accepted each other's choices. Gavin held a yellow sour patch as he walked into his home that night. The door knob was chilled from the evening's settled frost drawing a parallel to the glacial sheet atop the Rocky Road that Gavin’s fingers ice skated across moments before. His parents sat together every night reading novels and cookbooks. His mom always searched for new chicken recipes recommended by the top restaurants in the area. To Gavin, they all tasted the same.  His palms ached, his brain pulsed with fright as he was about to disrupt this evening of literature and cuisine with a rather stark topic. Who he loves.

Sweat isn't always on the surface. Gavin was so aware of the sweat building under his skin. It felt as if kernels of popcorn were popping delicately under his chest. They all sat there for a moment. His parents on the far couch, Gavin on the love seat, taking in the last few moments which would fall under the umbrella of ‘how things had always been.’

“I wanted to tell you guys something.” Gavin offered into the silence.

“And what might that be?” His mother asked,  always so cheerful, her smile was constant. Both his parents looked so content in this moment. Why’d he have to shatter it?

“I don’t fall in love with girls,” his voice ached for a way out. 

His parents sat there analyzing this unexpected statement. His father didn’t find the right response.

“It’s the hair buddy. Grow it out, they like that better.”  The flirt had spoken.

“No, I mean I am not attracted to them. Like, I don’t find them appealing.” Gavin’s stare lingered on his father. His eyebrows fell, arched, and grew in width. He was no longer content.

“What like your gay?” His volume increased, and there was a slight mockery in this question. After he asked, his mother turned her head so fast Gavin saw a vein.

“I think so.” Gavin got quieter. His father's dominance in the conversation pushed him into a corner. This was no longer a Gavin driven discussion.

“No no, you’re not gay. Boys named Gavin aren’t gay thats a mans name. A strong man, an old soul, not one Gavin is gay. And let me tell you, you’re not gonna be the first one.” His father sounded as if he thought Gavin’s words were able to be edited. As if he could rewrite Gavin’s mind, heart, and soul with a double click, delete. He knew that if he stood his ground, he as a son would be the next to go. But that didn’t change his next few words.

“Actually, I am gay. I always have been, and I always will be. I’m not telling you this to get your permission to be gay. I am telling you this so you know. This is a fact, not a joke, nor a discussion.” He finally exhaled. “I am gay.” He took his dominance back. Yet, it did not work in his favor.

His father didn’t yell. His mother was a pushover so she kept her eyes on the cookbooks and never spoke a word. Gavin watched as his father reached for Gavin’s keys. 

He then proceeded to walk towards him. He didn’t look Gavin in the eye. Just spoke. The human decency had just been revoked.

“ Leave our home. Do not stall, do not wander, get your belongings, and leave.”

 Gavin had never heard his father speak so bluntly. It was bone-chilling. He knew he couldn’t discuss the matter further. His decision was made. So Gavin did as he was told. Packed up his clothes, toothbrush, phone, and charger, and walked out the door. A door that was no longer his. After all, when his father said “our home”, he meant his and his wifes. Gavin was considered a visitor from that moment on. As he crossed his former front lawn, his whole body went very numb. A dizzy spell overwhelmed him and his stomach was repulsed. Rocky road exited his body by the means of vomit. The thought of no longer belonging somewhere must have physically affected him more than he expected it to. He learned to never binge again. 

 A vibration from beneath Gavin’s skin sharpened his alertness once more. It hummed in harmony with the fluorescent light at the back of the fridge. His eyes darted away from the Rocky Road and settled on his next flashback, brought to life by orange chicken. His voice was so assertive the night he came out. There was not an ounce of question in those three words. One might wonder, when did he know? He pondered on that very thought a lot himself. Was it his extensive Twilight fantasies sparked by Robert Pattinson? This could very well be a contributing factor, but no, this was not the moment he knew. It was that late night hunger craving. That flirtatious anticipation arose for a hearty snack. So he set off to Main Street. 

The buzz from behind a neon street sign is intoxicating; an elixir that upon drinking, heightens your desire to know if the store beneath it is open or closed. Dares you to know if the stranger behind the door will be ready to serve your needs, wishes, and wants. In this one particular evening's case, most said closed–likely because it was 1 a.m. But to notice patterns is a blessing. Most Chinese restaurants are open late. And lucky for Gavin, he was approaching one. “Jasmine Bistro,” the painted letters read. 

“We close in five, hurry if you want something!” a voice shouted from within the glass windows. Gavin was convinced. He picked up his pace and entered the establishment, greeted with an aroma of tea and soy sauce. Surprisingly complementary to one another. 

“What are you looking for?” asked the worker.

He was tall and sturdy. His eye bags were thick and his stubble was growing fast. Dark curls framed his temples and reached his prominent cheekbones. Gavin almost forgot where he stood. 

“Oh, um, do you guys have soup?” He pulled himself together, and managed to create that odd question.

“I just cleaned the pots, what else might you like?”

His name card read “Justin”.

“I didn’t really have anything in mind, do you maybe have a recommendation? Something easy for you?”

“I got some orange chicken.” Justin spoke softly, as if he had woken up moments before. Was that his morning voice or was it always that raspy?

“Alright I’ll take the orange chicken, please.” Gavin couldn’t help but laugh to himself.

Justin did as well.

Gavin sat himself down at a two person table. He observed the matching mint colored table and chairs and noticed a sriracha stain on the other seat. As Justin brought him his prized orange chicken, he noticed it as well.

“Were you gonna tell me about that?” he spoke flirtatiously.

“I was gonna take care of it myself. I always have wipes on hand.” Gavin immediately regretted this sentence. Who wants to be classified as a soccer mom when into somebody? Luckily, Justin didn’t comment on it. He just held his hand out, signaling for Gavin to pass one over.. Justin massaged the lemon scented wipe into the seat as Gavin poked at his meal. His hunger had faded slightly. He was now craving something else. He was concerned and aware of his attraction to Justin. Girls don’t have hands like that, or a stubble like his. He shouldn’t have wanted these things--desire to touch them. Yet he found himself wanting to. 

“Mind if I?” Justin was referring to the chair he had just cleaned. He wanted to sit down and have a chat with Gavin. He allowed it of course, but did not consent to the butterflies that arose seconds later. 

“I’ve never seen eyes like yours,” Justin said.

“So piercing. Green like limes.”

Gavin was at a loss for words, remembering moments before when Justin was reluctant to do more than scrape the bottom remnants of orange chicken from a cold wok. From then on, Gavin forever cherished his green gems. The conversation went as follows: Gavin thanked him for his kind words, they spoke of vacation spots and preferred weather, how Justin got this job, and what his aspirations were. The conversation then flipped to Gavin. Where he was from, what clubs he was in while in high school, and what his favorite color was.

“I’d say red, I like how aggressive and unapologetic it is. What about you?” Gavin asked.

“Green.” Justin replied with a smile.

Gavin looked away, nervously. His eyes landed on a clock on the far wall. It was 3 a.m. 

The pair had talked for two hours, just about their lives. No one had ever held a conversation that long with Gavin before. This was special. By the end of their talk, it was clear to Gavin who he was, and there was no resentment in his body to this fact.  They said their goodbyes. Justin had class the next morning and badly longed for the four hour rest ahead of him. Gavin’s dreams consisted of only Justin that night. Some day dreamed by himself, and some created  in an unconscious state. He never wanted to wake up. It took him two weeks to build up the courage to go back to the Jasmine Bistro, but Justin was no longer there. Gavin didn't know if Justin had gotten fired, quit, or something else. He just hoped that whatever the case, Justin was chasing after the dreams he had told him about that night. He already had such a deep care for that boy. Even if he was never to see him again. He walked over to the girl that was working that day. She seemed nice. She offered him a free fortune cookie with his order, but he declined. He just wanted to sit at that two person table with his new favorite food. 

 “I’ll take the orange chicken, please.”

There's always that one line in a memory that just shouts at you to stop reminiscing. That is where it is meant to end, the rest is bound to be forgotten. That memory holds a tight grip on Gavin’s heart. He was content with the origin story of when he knew. It was subtle and delicate. Just like Justin was. Though it was time to move forward. The last item in his freezer to spark a memory were the frozen dumplings, glistening with frost. Similar to the air that Wednesday evening. Gavin's nose was red and plump. The wind was so cold it felt as if his legs were paralyzed. He managed to get into the elevator. He stayed in an apartment so old it felt like a dollhouse. Paint chipping, lights flickering, but this was all the norm around there. The only nice thing about Gavin’s apartment complex was the subtle smell of dumpling that wafted from under Mrs. Zhao's door as he walked by. 

Mrs. Zhao was a kind, gentle old lady. She was short and plump, wide and soft. Her hair was the perfect shade of white. It was almost comical how identical the coloring was to her puppy, Birdie. Those two went everywhere together. Anytime Gavin saw them outside of the apartment, Birdie was in her arms helping her pick oranges from the grocery store, or leading Mrs. Zhao to trees to dispose of her unwanted. No matter what they were doing, they always had each other. Gavin wasn't a huge mushpot of love and affection, but these two really hit close to his heart. On the evening Gavin was brought back to as he gazed upon the frozen snack,  he had been channel surfing while Mrs. Zhao was preparing chicken dumplings with Birdie. She heard a knock on her door, followed by a thump. She opened it to find a package at her extraordinarily small feet. Instinctually, she picked it up, brought it to the counter, and opened it.

Only few in the ancient apartment complex knew that Mrs. Zhao had lost her son to suicide when he was only 14.  Mrs. Zhao would later recount that she was aware of his depression. She did everything she could between his medication, therapy appointments, and daily check-ins. But her mother’s love wasn’t enough to heal him. She found him two months after he was formally diagnosed on the bathroom floor, pill case in hand. His absence sent her down a deep spiral of despair and grief. Being a widow, an additional loss was just enough to push her over. Her good friend recommended getting a dog. Mrs. Zhao refused, stating that no pet would ever be able to replace her son. To which her friend responded,

“The goal is not to replace, the goal is to share the love you so badly wanted to give to your son with another living being in need of it.” Getting Birdie was the best thing Mrs. Zhao could have done. She still allows herself to grieve on a daily basis, but now her dear puppy lies in her lap. And so it had been for the past twelve years. All of this was of no importance to Gavin. In fact, he was not one of the few to know of Mrs. Zhao’s misfortunes. However, as fate would have it, the contents of the package --which, she would later discover was not addressed to her, but to her neighbor in 3B-- was identical to the kind of medication her son had been prescribed. After a long glance, she sealed the package and made sure there was no trace of entry. She walked over to 3B -- to Gavin’s apartment -- took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Gavin muted the TV when he heard this knock, looked through the peephole, and opened the door. Mrs. Zhao always gave him the warmest feeling when he saw her. She was oddly familiar to him, like a kind stranger you interact with once and never forget.

Mrs. Zhao cleared her throat.

“I believe this is yours. They left it on my doorstep, that's you right?” She pointed to the white label trying not to slip up her words.

“Yeah that's me.” Gavin quickly pulled the package out of Mrs. Zhao's hands. For a second the pair could hear the shake of the pills. Gavin's face turned pale.

“They’re vitiams” he spoke softly. As if he was ashamed.

She nodded, letting him know she believed him. They stood there for a moment, probably a few more than Gavin would have wanted, but he let her stall.

“Would you like to come over to my apartment tonight? I’m making dumplings and I could use a hand pinching them together.”

Gavin wondered if he should take up this offer, but then quickly remembered, all he had planned for that night was more channel surfing and microwavable veggies. After this realization Mrs. Zhao's offer started to sound really promising.

“Sure, I’d actually really like that,” he said.

Mrs. Zhao's face lit up, she hadn’t had company in quite some time. Not that Birdie wasn't always great fun to be around, it's just that her recent human interactions had been non-existent. Gavin closed the door behind him and followed Mrs. Zhao to her apartment. When he walked in he was greeted with warm light, cushioned floors, and the aroma of steamed dumplings. All three of these observations overloaded Gavin’s senses with comfort. He followed her to the kitchen island. Birdie ran around his ankles yapping, but not the annoying kind, it was almost pleasant and definitely adorable. She told him to wash his hands then taught him how to fill each dough circle with the chicken, parsley filling. He was a natural and proceeded to pinch each dumpling perfectly. Mrs. Zhao saw how good he was and let him finish the rest while she began to steam them. The steam would hit Gavin’s cheeks every now and then, filling him with ease and alleviation. It took around an hour to get them all ready to eat, but the time went by fast. He was so interested in Mrs. Zhao's life story. Gavin had always had a deep respect for the elderly. He knew how wise and complex they were. He hated when his peers underestimated them or spoke as if they were above them. People like Mrs. Zhao had extensive lives, full of both joy and sorrow. Mrs. Zhao told him about the restaurant she opened when she was just twenty four. It ended up closing a short five years later due to economic issues, but she saved up enough money to buy her apartment. She explained how she’d lived there  with her husband, who had since passed, and her son whom she told Gavin was “away”. He didn’t ask any further questions and began to plate the food.

They sat on her couch covered in throw blankets and dog fur. He began to talk about his passions, family, and hometown. He was comfortable enough to share how his family dis-owned him after he came out. Mrs. Zhao's response was nothing but supportive. 

“I am proud you were strong enough to believe in who you are. You must surround yourself with people who lift you up and love you. Don’t change for anyone, ever. Please don’t hesitate to come here if anything happens in your life that you feel the need to get off your chest. You are always welcome here.”

As she finished this short speech, Birdie hopped up on Gavin’s lap and stole a dumpling.

“Oh my goodness, Birdie!”

 Mrs. Zhao began to chuckle. It was the kindest laugh Gavin had ever heard. He joined in and pet Birdie on the head. As he left that night, he knew he would never be alone as long as Mrs. Zhao lived next to him. He wondered why they had never spoken before, why that night she felt the need to invite him over, and why she said those tender words. All he knew was he needed it that night. 

Yet again, Gavin’s pulse grew a little tighter, and he was awoken out of this daydream, greeted intensely by the bright white light from his freezer. Pins and needles krept up his arms as he regained control of his limbs, and reached his prickling hand towards the food on that sweet third shelf. 

From a fly on the wall point of view, it seemed as if Gavin was cooking for every resident on the floor. But no, it was just for him.

He sat himself down, alone at his dining table, the only light coming from the rusting, dim overhead chandelier. Gavin had prepared all three foods that night: the sweet orange chicken, the chewy veggie dumplings, and a scoop of rich Rocky Road ice cream. He sat there, content, digesting each memory both physically and mentally. Accepting his weaknesses and his abilities. And being grateful for each and every individual in those memories. For the first time in his life, Gavin didn’t feel empty.  He was full. Not whole, but full. His past no longer lingered in his mind. He had allowed himself to reminisce, through the pain and the comfort. His feet firmly planted in the present he found himself comfortable with being who he was, and wondering where he was bound to go. 

Gavin reached for his meds, poured two into the cup of his hand, and swallowed.