Yeah, I’m moving to the UK. For college. I told everyone it’s because I wanted to explore, to get out of my comfort zone, to try something new. But the truth is a little messier. I fought with my parents. I felt stuck in a version of myself that never really fit. And maybe, deep down, I just wanted to forget him.
Luke.
The guy I was in love with. Maybe I still am. My pillow definitely knows how much I still cry over him. He took my virginity and then told me we were better off as friends. It wasn’t that simple, of course. It never is. But that’s where this story starts. It starts with him.
Everything Meant Nothing is a story about first love, first heartbreak, and all the things you don’t know how to let go of. The first three chapters take place during the summer before college; an arc I’m calling Summer After Him. That’s where it all begins.
Then we move. New city. New country. New dorm. New roommates. New distractions. New feelings I’m not ready for. But we’ll get there.
Right now, it’s still him.
Character Introduction
Troy
I’m Troy. I just turned nineteen. Gay, closeted, freshly heartbroken, and currently trying to pretend I’m fine. I like journaling, iced coffee, video-games and overthinking every single thing I’ve ever said. I grew up in a conservative town where I learned how to keep my voice down, hide my lock screen, and smile through questions I didn’t want to answer. This summer, I’m trying to figure out who I am without him. And without everything else I was supposed to be.
Luke
And then there’s Luke.
Twenty . Quarterback. Broad shoulders, ridiculous jawline, that cocky little smirk people fall for in movies. He was sweet, sometimes. And careful. And confusing. He said I was important to him. He kissed me like he meant it. And then he said it wasn’t love.
I wish I hated him.
But I don’t. Maybe I still love him deep down. Getting over him hasn’t been easy but I’m trying.
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Part 1: We Weren’t Even a Thing | Summer After Him
It’s past midnight. The kind of night that makes your thoughts louder.
I’m walking the neighborhood loop I’ve done a thousand times, hoodie up, phone buzzing in my pocket. I don’t check it. Probably my mom reminding me to pack some warm clothes, or maybe my best friend Cal sending another funny video that’s supposed to make me laugh. I’m not really in the mood. The sky is clear. No breeze. Not even the usual bark from the neighbor's dog. Just me, sneakers on pavement, and everything I haven’t said out loud.
I leave for the UK in two days.
Everyone thinks I’m going to explore, find myself, chase something new. I let them believe that. But the truth? It’s messier. I’m leaving because I need distance. From this town. From the version of me I never chose. From him.
Luke.
God, just thinking his name hurts.
He was the golden boy. Quarterback. Straight-passing. Tall, broad, tan, effortlessly hot in that all-American, varsity-jacket, movie-poster kind of way. He had that stupid perfect smile, that cocky little eyebrow raise when he joked. Everyone wanted him. I didn’t think I ever stood a chance.
But then he kissed me.
I still remember the first time. The locker room after gym. Everyone else had cleared out. He was half-dressed, sweaty from football, grinning at me like I was the punchline to some inside joke. I threw my towel at him and called him an asshole.
He caught it. Stepped closer.
His towel was slung over one shoulder, his torso bare. Defined in a way that made me forget how to breathe. Abs you could trace with your eyes. Veins on his arms. I was frozen.
Then he kissed me.
Hard. Fast. Desperate. Like he’d been holding it in for months. I gasped. He pressed me back against the lockers, fingers gripping my hips like I might disappear. It was messy. Hot. A little clumsy. But it felt real. Like something snapped loose.
We didn’t talk about it after. Just texted like normal that night. But from that day on, it kept happening.
Sneaking around. Kisses in dark corners. Late-night drives. Texts that started with "You up?" and ended with "Wish you were here."
There was the time behind the sports shed. It wasn’t romantic. It was rushed and reckless. He pulled me there after football practice, still high off adrenaline. Breathless. Hair damp.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he said.
And then his mouth was on mine. Tongue, teeth, his fingers sliding under my shirt. The gravel scraped my knees when I dropped for him. He swore under his breath when I opened my mouth for him.
He always kissed me. That’s what made it different.
I’ve been with guys before. Closeted ones. Straight-acting. The kind who say, "You can blow me, but I’m not gay," or "No kissing. That’s too personal."
Luke wasn’t like that.
He kissed me. He held me. He fell asleep with my head on his chest. He’d wrap his arms around me and talk about his games, his stats, the scouts who were watching. I pretended to care. Nodded at all the right moments. But really, I was just watching the way his hair curled around his ear, the dip of his collarbone, the way his lashes flickered when he got excited.
Sometimes he’d cup my face with both hands and say, “You’re too pretty when you’re mad.”
He made me feel seen. Important. Like maybe I wasn’t some secret he regretted.
And then came graduation.
We were sitting on the bleachers afterward. The field was half-empty. Everyone off taking photos, hugging relatives. We sat shoulder to shoulder. He was in his gown, still wearing his medal from the game two weeks before. I leaned in and asked him, “So what now? Do we keep this going? Do we… try for real?”
He didn’t look at me. Just stared out at the field.
“It’s not like we’re actually dating,” he said.
Just like that. As if none of it had meant anything.
I remember my throat going dry. My hands cold. But I nodded. Smiled like it didn’t gut me. Gave him a bro-hug like everyone else. Then walked to my car and cried until my ribs hurt.
I gave him everything.
And technically… we weren’t even a thing... not according to him.
Now I’m walking past the same streetlight where he first kissed me in public. It wasn’t even really a kiss. More like a nudge, quick and careful, when no one was watching. But it meant everything to me.
My phone buzzes again. Probably Mom. She’s been on edge. Keeps reminding me to pack extra socks, allergy meds, sweaters for the UK chill. She didn’t want me to go.
“You’re too sensitive, Troy,” she said.
“I just don’t want you to feel alone.”
I told her I needed this. That I couldn’t keep living in this town, stuck in a version of myself that never felt real. I needed space, not just from her, but from everything. The expectations. The pressure to be someone I’m not. The constant pretending.
The memory of Luke.
There weren’t many photos of us together. A few, maybe but never the kind that looked like more. He always found a way to hide his face, tug the blanket over his head, or turn away at the last second. “Make sure my face isn’t visible,” he’d mumble, half-laughing, curled up next to me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
But my phone was still full of him. Luke shirtless in the mirror, flexing for no one but me. Luke lying back on my bed, one arm thrown behind his head, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world. Silly ones, too... pouty lips, messy hair, middle fingers. He was in so many frames. Just never with me.
He never wanted a photo that made it real. Not the kind that said this is us. But in quiet moments, he'd press his forehead to mine and whisper, “I think about you too much.”
And I’d hold on to that like proof. Because whatever it was, it was never nothing.
Even if he said it was.
I reach my driveway. Porch light still on. The plants I was supposed to water this morning are drooping. My room upstairs is a mess... clothes everywhere, half-folded, half-forgotten. My suitcase is open on the floor, barely touched. I’d promised my mom I’d pack today. She’s been hovering all week, gently reminding me to bring extra layers, to label my chargers, to not forget the voltage adapter. And behind all of it, that quiet sadness in her voice, like she thinks I’m not ready for this. Like she’s worried I won’t come back the same.
She’s probably right.
I sit on the front step, journal resting on my knee, flipping past old pages I wish I hadn’t written. Words I’d poured out on nights I was trying to make sense of him. Of how good it felt. Of how much it hurt.
I take a breath. Open to a fresh page.
And I write:
I loved him. Not just because he was beautiful, though God, he was. That lazy smile. Those hands. The way he filled a room without trying. But that’s not what got me.
It was how he paid attention.
How he remembered I always put salt on sweet popcorn. How he noticed when my voice cracked, even over text. How he’d send me memes at 2AM if he thought I was overthinking again. It was how he made space for me, even in silence. Like I mattered.
He kissed me when no one was looking. Held me like he didn’t care if the world found out. Said things that made me believe maybe, one day, we wouldn’t have to hide.
But we were never really something. Not officially. Not out loud.
And now I have to unlove someone who was never mine.
Author’s Note:
The first arc, Summer After Him is me leaning more into storyline and emotion, though yes, there will be steamy scenes. I promise. Think of it as a slow burn with heart.
The next two chapters are already available on my Patreon if you want to support what I do.
Thank you for reading <3
