I was sixteen.
Still figuring out how to exist in my body.
The kind of boy who wasn’t awkward, but didn’t quite know how to take up space either.

It was after gym class.
The locker room was loud, full of sweat and laughter trying too hard.
I was changing my shirt when I felt it — that pause.
That weightless second where someone’s eyes land on you.

I turned my head.

He looked away first.

The only openly gay boy in our year.
Sharp jaw, tired eyes, always walking alone through the noise.
He didn’t say a word. Just dropped his gaze like he’d been caught stealing something.

I think he expected me to react.
To laugh.
To roll my eyes.
To do what other boys did when they thought they were being “looked at.”

But I didn’t.

I just… smiled.
Soft. Not smug. Not sarcastic. Just enough to say, “It’s fine.”

He blinked. Almost smiled back.
Then zipped up his hoodie and left.

That’s all.

No moment. No talk.
No secret exchanged between us.
Just the understanding that I wasn’t afraid of his gaze.
And he didn’t have to be ashamed of it.

I still think about that day.

Not because I felt wanted.
Not because I wanted back.

But because in that split second, I was seen.
Not admired. Not sexualized. Just… acknowledged.

And maybe that’s all some of us ever needed.