Click. The door closes. The gritty scent of dried sweat lingered on his shirt, rough and raw, like a memory of the physical activity he had taken part in just minutes ago. Not that it had exhausted him, no. He's not one to get exhausted quickly. The broad shoulders and thick arms, full of muscle, are wrapped into the fresh blast of deodorant that‘s supposed to conceal the stench of his body odour. Lasting 48 hours - what a joke. He knows it's just a scam; what else. But he chooses to believe it anyway; for what reason, he doesn't know himself. But he doesn’t need to know; he’s got better things to do. Hitting the gym daily, of course. He loves the stench of sweating bodies in a closed room, just in a way that makes it hard to form a rational thought. Just like the cloud of deodorant around him.

He coughs. Then he looks up.

The cheap LED light of the locker room is doing its best to present the hard work he put into his own body in an overly positive way. Just how he likes it. He’s not ugly - the burly, young man with his signature, cocky smirk staring back at him in the dirty mirror. Dirty. Mould isn’t exactly dirt, more like a living organism. Not that he would care, he doesn’t have time to think about such trivial things anyway. He’s got better things to do.

The purple shirt in his hands is grinning back at him, almost screaming to be worn by him. Begging to be worn by him. To be stretched around his muscles and to fit him like a second skin. The brightly coloured piece of fabric looks almost pathetic in his big hands, yet he doesn't think about it. Clothes don’t have a mind to think nor a voice to speak. Certainly not to beg either. The cloth seems to glow in the cold LED light as its purpose is fulfilled, the material giving his body another layer of warmth.

Click. The door closes again. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know that he has entered the locker room. Who is he? - you may ask. What a weak question, not that neither he nor his reflection would've thought about that as he did turn to face his best friend. His best friend - that's who he was. Nothing more, just his best friend. Yes. He’d always been close with him, as kids and now as teens. Young adults, more likely. Not that it would matter. He stared at him, maybe a bit longer than he should. But how could he not?

He hates to admit it to himself, but he loves thinking about it. How it would feel to have the other’s arms wrapped around him. To have that sweet, sweet voice talk to him and have him float on cloud nine.

He shakes his head.

No, he can’t think about his best friend like that. It’s not right, not appropriate. But then again, when does he care about being appropriate? He never did, so why now? He doesn’t know; maybe he doesn’t want to know. It’s better if he doesn't know; it makes things easier. Less problems to worry about, less issues to deal with.

But then again, he thinks. For once, he thinks.

He’s always liked the soft demeanour of the other, of his best friend. He’s been observing him for a while now, silently, of course. He found himself to like a lot about the boy. He likes his soft hair. The scar that's decorating his temple. His physical appearance. His cologne. His handsome face. So handsome. His laugh, his jokes, his smile. His eyes, God, how he likes the grey storm raging on the green grass inside those eyes. His-, no. This can’t continue like this. Not at all.

His eyes dart to his reflection – why are his cheeks so pink? They’ve never been this colourful before, let alone pink. Something’s wrong, greatly wrong. But at the same time, it’s right. So right. At least it feels right to him. Just as right as he approaches him. They locked eyes; he could've sworn he saw himself on one of those grey clouds in the eyes of the other boy. He likes grey, he suddenly finds himself admitting to himself in his head. He always did, just never acknowledged it. Especially this shade of grey. It’s like fog on a lake, moonshine coating the water where the veil is casting its surroundings in a magical haze.

He didn’t even realise how long he was staring until his best friend turned his back on him. That strong, muscular back. He felt himself subconsciously moving closer to the other boy; he marvels at how the other one fits into his larger embrace. He can feel the body in his arms tensing up; of course - who would expect to be hugged from behind like that? But he doesn't care, not now. Now, his only thought is wasted on his feelings. For once. He never did that, but now? Now is different. He almost shudders from relief as his friend relaxes in his embrace. How nice. He’s never felt better, not at showing off his muscles, not at basketball either.

Never. But he likes it. He could do better things than standing here, but not now. No. Never again. Ever.

Time slips away like water through my cupped hands as I scramble to clean up and change,

—Only to realize that the moment I was chasing has already dissolved.

It lingers in fragments, half-forgotten words, the scent of rain on pavement, or the warmth of sunlight,

—That’s now just a memory on my skin.

It flows in strange currents, sometimes dragging slowly, like a lazy river, and other times rushing by in a flood, sweeping me off my feet,

—Before I can catch my breath.

I try to hold on to it, taking pictures, writing in journals, filling up calendars,

—Doing whatever I can to preserve the moments before they vanish.

Birthdays, sunsets, old conversations,

—They blur together into snapshots in my mind.

But even as time slips away, each moment is still a chance

—Brief, fleeting, mine to hold, if only for a little while.