"My Love and I Are All About "Him""

It took me many years to admit that the protagonists in those moments that made my heart skip a beat were always of the same gender. At the age of seventeen, I hid in the back row of the classroom, pretending to answer questions, but out of the corner of my eye I was chasing the boy who always wore a white shirt - the back of his neck exposed when he bent down to pick up a pen was warmed by the sun; at the age of twenty, in the university library, my senior held the overturned bookshelf for me and pointed at me. The temperature of the tip brushing against my wrist made my hands holding the book sweat. At the age of twenty-four, I stayed up late and worked overtime at the workplace. My senior pushed the hot coffee in front of me, smiled and rubbed my hair and said, "Don't hold it hard." I stared at the white edges of his sleeves and forgot to respond. I am used to hiding these heartbeats in the dark: my please-pleaser personality makes me always use treats and help to cover up my excessive care, and my fear of being seen through makes me retreat hastily from the edge of every temptation. Those "I seem to like you" that came to my lips eventually turned into "Thank you" and "Trouble"; those similar tender moments were secretly recorded in my diary, but I never dared to write the other person's name. I have chased many "white shirt backs", and I have also fled in embarrassment after being approached countless times. I thought I would be trapped in the cycle of "dare not say" for the rest of my life. Until one day when I dug out my old diary in a rental house and saw the handwriting blurred by tears at the footer, I suddenly realized: What I feared was never rejection, but the fear of facing the self who had been avoiding my sincerity. This is my ten years - about secret heartbeats, clumsy temptations, and finally learning the courage to be honest with myself. Concept: Taking "my" life trajectory from adolescence to adulthood as a clue. It took me many years to dare to admit that in those moments that made my heart skip a beat, the protagonist was always of the same sex. At the age of seventeen, I hid in the back row of the classroom, pretending to answer questions, but out of the corner of my eye I was chasing the boy who always wore a white shirt - the back of his neck exposed when he bent down to pick up a pen was warmed by the sun; at the age of twenty, in the university library, my senior held the overturned bookshelf for me and pointed at me. The temperature of the tip brushing against my wrist made my hands holding the book sweat. At the age of twenty-four, I stayed up late and worked overtime at the workplace. My senior pushed the hot coffee in front of me, smiled and rubbed my hair and said, "Don't hold it hard." I stared at the white edges of his sleeves and forgot to respond. I am used to hiding these heartbeats in the dark: my please-pleaser personality makes me always use treats and help to cover up my excessive care, and my fear of being seen through makes me retreat hastily from the edge of every temptation. Those "I seem to like you" that came to my lips eventually turned into "Thank you" and "Trouble"; those similar tender moments were secretly recorded in my diary, but I never dared to write the other person's name. I have chased many "white shirt backs", and I have also fled in embarrassment after being approached countless times. I thought I would be trapped in the cycle of "dare not say" for the rest of my life. Until one day when I dug out my old diary in a rental house and saw the handwriting blurred by tears at the footer, I suddenly realized: What I feared was never rejection, but the fear of facing the self who had been avoiding my sincerity. This is my ten years - about secret heartbeats, clumsy temptations, and finally learning the courage to be honest with myself. By recording the same-sex love (or excitement, ambiguity, or regret) encountered at different stages, it shows the growth of minority groups in self-awareness, emotional expression, and realistic dilemmas. The final point is that "love has nothing to do with gender, and every heartbeat is a process of self-redemption and integrity." It does not deliberately magnify the suffering of identity labels, nor avoid the cowardice and regret in emotions, but restores a true, delicate and pyrotechnic growth history.