Every Gay Man's Canon Event: Part One
It was a January night during my final semester of grad school in Boston. The kind of night where the world outside feels frozen in time, and all you can do is sink into your bed and let the memories thaw. I felt guilty for not going to the gym, but I decided to wrap myself in a cocoon of procrastination instead. I scrolled through my Spotify playlist graveyard and hit shuffle on if i’m listening to this i’m sobbing in bed.
Then it happened. Dreaming of You by Cigarettes After Sex started playing, and the singer’s voice hit me like a train. Suddenly, my room wasn’t my room anymore.
I was back in the past, in a thousand scattered memories. An ice hockey puck caught my eye from its spot on the windowsill, forgotten like so much else. As the lyrics swirled around me—“And I couldn’t let go, I was dreaming of you”—I felt something inside me crack open.
The opening chords of Each Time You Fall in Love followed, the electric guitar unraveling memories I’d long since buried. Before I knew it, I was clutching my chest, gasping for air on the floor, and sobbing uncontrollably.
And there he was again—his piercing green eyes, that damn smile, and the weight of every unspoken feeling we’d ever shared.
It was November of my sophomore year—my first real year on campus, thanks to the pandemic stealing my freshman one. A chilly night just days before Thanksgiving, and we snuck into our school's ice hockey arena. Owen, my first true guy friend, handed me a puck he’d stolen.
“For you,” he said with a child-like grin that could light up all of Fenway Park.
I took it from him, our fingers brushing for a moment. It was nothing. And yet, it was everything—a fleeting gesture that lingered in the air like smoke from a fire I hadn’t realized he’d lit.
That moment, so simple and quiet, had somehow embedded itself into my chest like a splinter. A fragment of the past that had long since blurred at the edges—until now. And as I lay there years later, overwhelmed by the surge of it all, thoughts of him felt as vivid and raw as if it had happened yesterday.
I remember it all too well.
Owen wasn’t just anyone. He was 5’9” of pure contradiction: Irish good looks with a crooked smile that made you forget he was wearing Yankees merch in the middle of Boston (a sin in its own right). His curly brown hair always seemed artfully tousled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed looking that perfect, and his inquisitive gaze had a way of making you feel seen and scrutinized all at once.
He came from a somewhat atypical New England family—his mom a high-powered attorney and his dad a blue-collar union tradesman, a dynamic that somehow made sense when you saw them together. They owned a luxury apartment in one of Seaport’s gleaming high-rise buildings, the kind with floor-to-ceiling windows and views that screamed, “old money, but make it modern.”
Owen himself was a product of privilege but didn’t wear it obnoxiously (most of the time). He’d gone to an all-boys Catholic prep school in the suburbs, where he mastered the art of being casually preppy and maddeningly self-assured. He had a Lululemon obsession that somehow worked with his biomedical engineering brain—equal parts gym bro and over-caffeinated lab rat. Neurodivergent in a way that was both endearing and frustrating, he could spend hours talking about electrical circuits but completely forget to blink his eyes.
And, of course, he was the unintentional center of a love triangle between me, Emily, and Kate—a triangle that dissolved when the girls moved on and I swore I had, too.
But here’s the thing about Owen: he made me feel safe.
When I met him, I was kinda out but still carrying years of baggage from high school. Back home, I twisted myself into a pretzel to fit in with my straight guy friends. I changed my mannerisms, my interests, even my voice—desperate for acceptance.
But with Owen, I didn’t have to try. He didn’t flinch at my jokes, didn’t mind when I rambled about the latest boy I swiped on Tinder, didn’t care that I didn’t know the first thing about sports. He made me feel safe in a way I never realized I needed.
We became inseparable. Late-night conversations turned into late-night workouts at the gym. Study sessions blurred into hours of swiping on Tinder for each other. He met my family and charmed them effortlessly.
But somewhere along the way, the space between us disappeared. Our hands lingered closer, our silences stretched longer, and every time I said I needed to leave, he’d beg me to stay. Our legs would brush against each other, and neither of us would pull away. His eyes would linger on mine just a second too long, and the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was electric.
Of course, our friends noticed before I did.
“Jay,” his roommate Rohan asked one night, “the sexual tension between you two is so thick I could cut it with scissors. What is going on with you and Owen? Are you guys fucking?”
I laughed it off. “We’re just friends,” I promised, even though my chest was tightening. My heart would race every time Owen smiled at me or ran from lecture to meet me for dinner.
Then came that night.
It was 3 AM, and I was gathering my things into my Trader Joe’s Twink Tote Bag from the floor of Owen’s room, trying to make my Irish exit after hours of yapping with him and Rohan. Owen stood up, stretching lazily, his shirt already off, revealing his lean frame. Without missing a beat, he wrapped a towel around his waist. “I’ll walk you out,” he said. “I’m going to shower anyway.”
This wasn’t unusual. He’d done it before, and I always brushed it off as nothing—because I had to. But tonight, something felt different.
The hallway was dimly lit, the kind of lighting that makes everything feel more intimate. As I headed toward the exit, Owen grabbed my arm and dragged me into a corner.
“What the fuck, Owen?” I whispered, my voice betraying the confusion—and something else—I didn’t want to name.
“Shh,” he said, glancing back toward the dorm. “I wanted to talk shit about Rohan, but I couldn’t do it with him right there.”
I nodded, pretending to listen, but how could I? He was standing so close that I could feel the heat of his skin radiating in the cold hallway air. His curls were damp, his towel dangerously loose around his hips. I could smell him—clean, warm, and maddeningly familiar.
Every animalistic instinct in me screamed to look down, to let my eyes wander, to do what I’d wanted to do for months: grab his waist and bring him closer to me, run my hands over his chest and rip our clothes off, press myself against him, feel his breath against my skin. I fought it. I fought him.
He started venting—something about Rohan being a pain in the ass over their group project—but his words were muffled under the roaring in my ears. The tension between us was suffocating, thick like smoke, every shift of his body sending a shiver through mine.
Every time he inched closer, the heat between us felt unbearable, like it might incinerate the carefully constructed boundary I had forced myself to keep. His green eyes locked on mine, lingering a little too long after each pause.
“Jay,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence that had fallen between us. His voice was softer now, almost hesitant.
“Yeah?” I whispered, my throat dry.
He opened his mouth as if to say something but then closed it. His eyes lingered on mine, and I could feel the weight of his gaze, pulling me closer, daring me to close the space between us.
The air between us felt like a live wire, crackling with energy. I held my breath, and for a fleeting moment, I thought—Is this it? Is this finally it?
But the moment passed. His lips didn’t move, and my resolve broke first. I looked away, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
“Don’t you literally have a 9 AM lecture?” I muttered, stepping back, desperate to break his spell. “I should go.”
His hand slipped from my arm, and the absence of his touch felt like a sharp, sudden cold. I turned away, forcing myself to walk toward the exit without looking back, even though every fiber of my being was screaming at me to stop.
I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked away, the silence between us so loud it was deafening.
That night, lying in bed, I let myself wonder—for the first time—if it wasn’t all in my head.
I tried distancing myself, convincing myself that space would make everything clearer. But the more I pulled away from Owen, the more tangled I became in my own confusion. It was like trying to escape a web, only to realize I’d spun it myself.
But when that didn’t work, I knew I had to take matters into my own hands.
My friends and I started grilling Owen, trying to figure out if he had a type, if he even liked girls—or if he was just really, really good at dodging questions. True to form, Owen gave his usual diplomatic answers, so perfectly neutral they made me want to scream.
Frustrated, I forced him to make a Tinder profile. My plan was simple: let him focus on his own dates so I could stop focusing on him. Maybe if he got a girlfriend, I would finally be able to move on, But somehow, he managed to turn the tables. Owen started swiping even more aggressively on my profile, matching with guys for me, chatting them up, and even asking them out on my behalf.
I went on those Tinder dates—the same dates that Owen himself had swiped on for me, as if I needed his approval just to meet someone. I’d sit across from these perfectly nice guys, trying to focus on their stories or their laugh, but my mind always wandered. They don’t have his smile, I’d think. Or the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. Or the subtle New England accent in his voice when he felt flustered every time I teased him. Every little thing became a comparison, and no one ever measured up.
And then, of course, he’d show up to those dates. He’d sit in the corner of the cafe with our friends, watching from a distance. Every time I’d tell him I liked the guy and wanted to see him again, Owen would scoff and say, “Ew, you can do so much better.”
I started to wonder: Was he being protective? Was this just Owen being Owen? Or... was he jealous?
Desperation was starting to set in, and I took it to the extreme. Over the span of six days, I hooked up with nine different guys, hoping to exorcise whatever feelings I had left for him. But by the end of it, I was just tired—physically, emotionally, and in every way that mattered. Nothing had changed. Nothing had worked.
Each hookup felt emptier than the last, a hollow ritual that left me desperately craving something more.
I’d stare at the ceiling afterward, feeling raw and ridiculous, wondering why none of it ever worked. Why couldn't I just move on like any rational person would. Why I couldn’t stop seeing his green eyes in the faces of strangers.
No matter what I did, it always came back to Owen.
In a last-ditch effort to shake whatever this was, I started pulling away from him entirely. I distanced myself, started being rude, teasing him, making fun of him for no reason. Poor Owen was so confused. He’d look at me with those sorrowful green eyes, head tilted like a puppy, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. But even that didn’t work.
So I took the rude, hurtful comments up a notch.
Everything came to a head at a Halloween party. I’d been on edge all week, caught in the tangled mess of my feelings for Owen—confusion, frustration, and the gnawing ache of unspoken emotions. I was drowning in the weight of it all, desperately trying to distract myself with anything that could dull the edges of the pain - chemistry problem sets, alcohol, sex. But nothing worked.
And then there he was, standing across the room, dressed as some half-assed baseball player, casually holding a beer like he didn’t have a care in the world. He laughed with our friends, his smile crinkling in that way that used to feel like home but now felt like a dagger.
He looked at me... perfect. Effortless. Untouched by any of the chaos tearing me apart inside.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
The words slipped out before I could stop them—a snarky, cutting comment aimed squarely at him. Something petty, something mean, something I barely even remember now. But it was enough. Enough to light the fuse that had been burning between us for months.
Owen stood up, his face flushed—not with embarrassment, but with anger. Real, unfiltered anger. “Jay, you say your biggest fear is ending up like your dad,” he shouted, his voice slicing through the laughter and chatter, cutting the room in half. “But you’re even worse than him.”
The room went silent. Everyone froze, their eyes darting between us like they were watching a car crash in slow motion.
I stood there, stunned, as his words hit me like a punch to the gut. Tears started streaming down my face before I even realized I was crying. Honestly, I think a part of me actually died that day.
“Just go fuck yourself, I’m done with you.” Owen stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving me standing there, exposed and shattered. The world around me felt blurry, distorted, like I wasn’t really there anymore.
Owen was always sweet, soft-spoken, and shy—the kind of person who had the patience of the earth, someone who never seemed to lose his temper no matter what. But seeing him in unfiltered anger for the first time that night felt like the ground shifting beneath me. It frightened me, cutting through me in a way I hadn’t expected, and for a fleeting moment, I felt like a child again, frozen as my dad yelled at me for something I’d done wrong.
Our friends swarmed me, their questions piling on top of each other: “What’s going on?” “Why is Owen so mad?” “Why have you been acting so weird all week?”
I wasn’t okay. I couldn’t even form a coherent sentence. I broke down, telling them everything— my confusion, the tension that had been building between us, my exhaustion from trying to suppress everything.
Kate put a hand on my shoulder, her voice steady. “You need to talk to him,” she said. “Your friendship is stronger than this. But whatever you’re doing—running from your feelings, lashing out—it’s only making it worse.”
She was right.
I grabbed my jacket and ran out of the brownstone, the cold autumn air biting at my face, sobering me up instantly from the jello shots I’d downed earlier.
I ran down Baystate Road and stood outside our building, wondering if I had the strength to do what I never do – apologize.
I stood there, shivering, and called Owen. My hands shook as the phone rang, and I half-expected him to let it go to voicemail. But he answered. He didn’t say anything.
“Owen,” I begged, “please come down. Can we talk?”
The line went dead. My heart dropped, and I sat down on the bench outside, tears streaming down my face. For the first time, I thought I might have lost him for good.
But then, a few minutes later, he walked out the door, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He sat beside me in silence, the space between us filled with the kind of tension that feels unbearable and inescapable all at once.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “For everything. For the things I said, the way I acted. I had feelings for you, Owen. For a long time. But I don’t anymore. I swear. I just... I want us to go back to being friends. Like before.”
The words felt hollow, even to me. I wasn’t sure if I was lying to him or myself.
We sat there, our breaths frosting in the cold air, the weight of my confession hanging between us. It felt like an eternity before he finally spoke.
“I know,” he said simply.
I turned to him, confused.
“You have a twinkle in your eyes,” he continued, his voice soft. “I knew you had feelings for me. And I knew when you didn’t anymore, because that twinkle was gone.”
What kind of straight man says something like that to another man at 2 AM on a bench?
Owen forgave me that night. We agreed to move on, to leave it behind us. But as I looked at him, I realized that moving on would never be as simple as I wanted it to be.
A homoerotic friendship with your straight best friend is every gay man’s canon event, and Owen was mine.
And trust me, this is only part one of the Owenlore.
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