You’d think opening a college acceptance from UCLA email would be terrifying, but honestly, after everything Luca and I had survived, it just felt… peaceful.
I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, laptop in front of me, biting into the same lip I always chewed when nervous. The email glowed on the screen like it knew something I didn’t. I clicked it anyway. Then blinked. Then reread the words.
“Holy crap,” I whispered.
I didn’t scream. Didn’t jump. Just stared at it like it might disappear if I looked away. Admitted. I got in.
Before I could even process it, my phone buzzed. Luca.
I answered on the second ring. “You too?”
“Me too,” he breathed. “UCLA. Same program.”
We sat there for a second, breathing into the silence like it was a miracle. Then I laughed. It came out half-hysterical. “We’re really doing this?”
“I guess we are,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
Later that day, we met up at his place. The door was already open, like he’d been waiting. I stepped into his room and saw him sitting on the floor surrounded by empty boxes, a pen stuck behind his ear like he was actually organized or something.
He looked up. “So… want to help me pack my entire childhood into a couple cardboard cubes?”
I dropped my bag by the door. “Depends. Is there pizza involved?”
“I’ll consider it,” he said, patting the floor beside him.
“That’s negotiable,” he said, and patted the floor beside him.
I dropped my bag and sat cross-legged across from him. For a while we just sorted things in silence—shirts, old books, random stuff that didn’t feel like him anymore. Then I finally asked, “So... you really turned down Yale?”
Luca didn’t answer. He just handed me an envelope.
I opened it carefully. A formal letter. His name, their crest, the words “declined admission” printed cleanly on the page.
“I thought your dad was paying for Yale.”
“He was,” Luca said, voice flat. “Until he found out why I wasn’t dating girls.”
I looked up, throat tight. “Luca—”
“He said if I was going to ‘make choices,’ then I could pay for them too.”
I didn’t know what to say. The room suddenly felt smaller.
“I didn’t choose being gay,” he added quietly. “But I’m choosing this.”
“UCLA?”
“You. The program. The future I actually want. I’ll figure out the loans.”
“You shouldn’t have to do that alone.”
He met my eyes. “I’m not.”
I didn’t say anything else. Just reached across the box and squeezed his hand. It wasn’t a promise or a fix—it was just us. Solid. Shared.
“Okay,” I said. “Then let’s pack the hell out of this room and get out of here.”
He grinned. “You’re driving.”
“Fine,” I smirked. “But I’m choosing the playlist.”
“Deal. As long as it’s not sad indie boys crying about their feelings.”
“No promises.”
We started folding his clothes into boxes—badly. Luca rolled everything into these lumpy logs while I tried to fold like a normal human being.
“I can’t believe we’re going to college together,” I said, grinning. “What are the odds?”
“About as good as me getting tackled in front of the whole school and still managing to kiss you like a rom-com finale.”
“True,” I said. “That was legendary.”
He smirked. “I had to win somehow.”
We kept packing, occasionally throwing socks at each other and getting distracted by old photos and terrible high school memorabilia. At one point, Luca held up a framed photo of him and Jace from their freshman year.
“Do you want to keep that?” I asked, trying to sound neutral.
He stared at it a second longer, then placed it in the “leave behind” pile. “I want new memories.”
That answer felt bigger than it sounded.
When we got to the drawer of old notes and letters, I hesitated. “You ever regret it? Any of it?”
“Regret what?” he asked.
“Hurting me. Ghosting me. All the things that happened before this.”
Luca looked down at his hands. “Every day. But if that’s what it took to figure out who I really was… maybe it was the price.”
I exhaled slowly. “I still wish you didn’t push me away so much.”
“I know,” he said softly. “I wish I’d been brave sooner.”
He reached for my hand then, threading his fingers through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. We stayed like that for a second—knees brushing, boxes half-packed, childhood fading into the future we were building.
“You know,” I said, “we’re basically the most dramatic queer couple in school history.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “And probably the most public.”
“And most banned from football dads’ poker night.”
He laughed, head tipping back. “Worth it.”
I looked around his room—half full, half empty—and felt something settle in my chest. Not fear. Not nerves. Just the kind of calm that comes when you stop pretending.
He stood and offered me a roll of packing tape. “So. You ready?”
“For college?”
“For us,” he said.
I smiled. “I’ve been ready.”