CHAPTER 1: Why Are You Hard?
ANDREW’S POV Last year—August 10, 2026
One thing to love about Wednesdays?
Wash day.
No uniforms. No ironed white polos. No dark navy slacks and polished black shoes and the whole suffocating performance of looking like a San Ignacio boy. I could sweat through a shirt as much as I want.
I was heading to the gym to skip physics. The court at the end of the second building, the one with the good lighting and the hoop that doesn’t tilt, was mine before 7 AM.
It feels like freedom.
For your imagination, I’m that guy.
You know the one. The typical varsity guy from your high school days. The kind of guy that causes a literal illumination in women’s eyes. The one they cheer for during intramurals. The one that makes their boyfriends feel insecure and obviously ends up idolizing me.
I’m the ace player of our team.
Andrew Torres.
I was just dribbling, focusing on my rhythm, when I saw a girl crying near the bleachers. She sat down, her head buried in her hands, looking completely broken.
Suddenly, a guy rushed toward her.
“Jessica!” he shouted.
At first, I thought they were lovers. But the tension was different. It was—familial.
Siblings.
“I can’t let you sell the house!” Jessica snapped, wiping her tears with a shaky hand.
“God, Jess...” her brother argued, his voice cracking. “The house is keeping us from moving on from Mom and Dad’s death. We have to let it go. We have no choice. We aren’t financially capable of finishing college if we keep it.”
I kept my eyes on the hoop, but I was listening.
I had no idea these two were about to play a massive role in my life. I didn’t know that fate had already picked up the pen.
“Fuck! Can you fucking stop playing?!”
I froze for a split second.
He was talking to me.
I heard him, sure, but I didn’t stop. No one tells me when to stop on my court. I pivoted, stepping back to aim for a three-points shot.
I leaped.
But as I was about to reach the peak of my jump, a hard shove slammed into my back.
My balance vanished. I didn’t land on my feet. The ball hit the floor first, and my foot caught the rolling ball as it bounced back in my direction.
CRACKED
Then...
There was blood.
My head throbbed. My vision began to blur into a mess of gray and red. The pain in my legs and my head was unlike anything I’d ever felt.
“ASHTON!!! What did you do?! Why did you push him?!”
Jessica’s voice sounded like it was underwater. She was furious, shaking him.
Before the world went black, I saw him.
He was standing over me, his face a mask of guilt and panic.
I wouldn’t forget that face.
And I definitely wouldn’t forget the name.
Ashton.
PRESENT DAY February 1, 2027
“I heard Ashton’s still recovering.”
“Yeah, but he’s got amnesia from the fire...and the fall.”
The murmurs hit me the second I walked into class. I sat at the front, leaning back, trying to filter out the noise. That’s when I saw my best friend, Jeff.
“Good morning, BRO!” he shouted, throwing our signature 7th-grade fist-bump. He was the captain of the basketball team—full of energy, as always.
“Whatever. He’s still a fucking faggot, though. Lol.”
That was Jason. The class bully. A walking personification of anger issues and toxic masculinity. I was about to turn around and tell him to shut his mouth, but then...
I saw him.
Ashton was passing by, heading to the room next to ours, depending heavily on crutches. Every movement looked like a struggle.
I looked into his eyes.
They were empty. Cold. Dull. Weak.
What does he remember? I wondered. Does he remember the fire? Does he remember... us?
Today was the GAD (Gender and Development) seminar at the gymnasium, where most of the students gathered.
The speaker, Ms. Genevieve, was incredibly composed. She introduced herself as a lesbian and spoke about her “coming out” story. Her girlfriend was there with her, and the way they looked at each other...
You could tell it was real.
“Sexual orientation is not a choice or a preference,” she began, her voice commanding the room. She’s giving a girl boss vibe.
“It’s determined by specific brain structure differences that form during prenatal development—before you’re even born. Neuroscience research shows that the hypothalamus, specifically a region called INAH3, differs in size between heterosexual and homosexual men.”
The room went quiet. Even the jocks stopped scrolling on their phones.
“These structural differences are established while you are still a fetus. Brain imaging reveals that gay men’s brains show structural similarities to heterosexual women’s brains in certain regions, while lesbian women’s brains show patterns similar to heterosexual or straight men.”
I looked around. Most people were actually listening. They were trying to understand. Especially in our modern time where discrimination and stereotypes still exist.
Except for Jason and his “army of foot-looking jocks,” they were too busy eyeing Ms. Genevieve’s body to hear a single word she said.
“Hey man, Drew,” Jason whispered loudly, leaning toward me. “You haven’t noticed? She’s looking at you. You’re making her straight, man. Factory reset. I knew it! They can shut their ‘homo’ stuff once they get the right dck.”
Jason was the most unbelievable piece of shit to ever exist.
I ignored him, focusing back on Ms. Genevieve as she dropped the final truth:
“Your sexual orientation is influenced by prenatal hormone exposure during critical developmental windows. This is where testosterone organizes the neural circuits that determine who you are attracted to. This process happens months before birth...”
“It is your neurological blueprint.”
“Twin studies show that if one identical twin is gay, the other has a 50% chance of also being gay. This demonstrates that both genetic and prenatal environmental factors contribute to development.”
Ms. Genevieve’s voice was steady, but my mind was drifting.
“The brain differences aren’t about intelligence. They are about specific neural pathways—biological, just like being right- or left-handed. Conversion therapy doesn’t work because you cannot rewire prenatal brain organization through behavioral intervention.”
“It is an attempt to change a fundamental architecture established before conscious memory.”
The lecture made sense, but as the clock ticked toward the two-hour mark, the class grew restless.
My eyes, however, never moved.
I kept staring at Ashton from a distance. He sat there, small and fragile, accompanied only by Jessica.
No one in this school knows about us. Only Jessica. She’s the reason our forbidden story even started.
I waited for the bell, looking for any chance to talk to him. But I wasn’t fast enough.
Jason and his friends got to him first.
I froze.
Ashton wasn’t just scared. He was shaking. He looked devastated, like his entire world was collapsing right there in the hallway.
“Get off my brother!” Jessica’s voice sliced through the air.
I started walking toward them, ready to demand what the hell was going on, but Jason just smirked and took off.
“Ash? Are you alright?” I asked, reaching out.
Jessica caught my eye. She gave me a sharp, silent look.
Stay back. Let him be.
I headed to the bathroom to splash some water on my face, but the door was already occupied.
Jeff was there.
He was at the sink, washing his hands aggressively. Scrubbing like he was trying to take the skin off. He looked terrified.
“Bro, is everything fine?”
He turned to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red, like he’d been crying or hadn’t slept in days.
“Drew...” He was catching his breath, his chest heaving. “I have something to tell you. About last year. About the accident.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
“What is it, Jeff? You know you can trust me.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling him tremble.
“I just keep bottling every damn thing,” he whispered. “About the...”
He paused. The air in the room felt heavy. Suffocating.
“Nothing.”
He pulled away. His face went blank.
I stood there, watching him walk out. He was the one who witnessed the fire. He was the one who saw it all happen and called for help.
But as I looked at my own reflection in the mirror, I realized the truth:
I will never know exactly what is happening or what exactly happened.
I guess no one could.
Flashback: August 17, 2026 (One week after the gym incident)
“Drew, I told your adviser you will be excused from all of your classes this week. That guy, Ashton... I will sue him and his family. No one will ever do that to you again.”
My mom’s voice was sharp as we got into the car. I had just been discharged from the hospital.
I was just as furious as she was.
I missed a bunch of practice and preparation because of him. It was a good thing Jeff managed to handle the team; we might still make it to the finals, but the bench was the last place I wanted to be.
Then, I remembered the conversation I’d overheard in the gym.
Selling the house. No parents.
“Mom, don’t bother suing them,” I muttered. “I’ll handle this.”
“No! This could happen again,” she snapped. “I will not tolerate this evil thing he did to you.”
There was no arguing with her.
We went straight to the Disciplinary Office on the ground floor of the main building, the one that always smelled like floor wax and old wood and consequences. My mother was a storm, or should I say an eye of a hurricane, demanding Ashton’s immediate expulsion. The door opened, and there they were: Ashton and Jessica.
SLAP.
The sound echoed in the small room. A red mark bloomed across Ashton’s face.
“Ma!” I shouted, startled. Even the disciplinarian looked shocked.
“I want this fool expelled immediately!” my mother hissed.
“Mrs. Torres, we’re really sorry!” Jessica suddenly dropped to her knees, sobbing. “Please don’t expel my brother. Andrew, please... we’re so sorry...”
The room went dead silent.
It was pathetic and heartbreaking all at once.
Ashton stood there, head down, looking at his sister on the floor.
He didn’t even say sorry.
What an arrogant son of a bitch.
Mr. Valdez, the disciplinarian, tried to explain their situation, the accident, the loss of their parents, and the financial ruin. I looked at Ashton, then at my mother.
I didn’t want to be the reason a guy who already lost everything lost his education, too.
“Mom, let it slide,” I said quietly. “It was just a mild concussion.”
My mother was eventually convinced after a serious discussion and left. Jessica hurried to the restroom to clean herself up. Finally, the hallway was clear. The hallway outside Room 14-B was empty. Most of the Grade 12 students had already filed out toward the covered walk that connected to the canteen. The afternoon heat was the specific kind that only Makati in August could produce, thick, humid, inescapable, pressing through the louvered windows like it had somewhere to be.
It was just me.
And him.
I wasn’t about to be “chill” about what he did.
I grabbed his collar, my knuckles white, and slammed him down onto the goddamned floor. I pinned him, my blood boiling.
PUNCH. “Say...” PUNCH. “Sorry...” PUNCH. “You idiot!”
I was breathing hard, my left knee pressed firmly against him to keep him down.
But then —
I felt something.
Something that shouldn’t grow bigger and harder there.
His dck was reacting. Physically.
I froze. A wave of weird confusion washing over me.
“THE FUCK? Why are you hard?”
My voice sounded strange, even to my own ears.
Ashton didn’t look ashamed.
Instead, he smiled.
A bloody, ridiculous smirk. He spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor and pushed me off with a sudden burst of strength.
He stood up, wiping his mouth, his eyes boring into mine.
“I’m sorry. You happy?”
I stood there, speechless. My brain short-circuiting.
“Fuck you!” was all I could manage to yell at his retreating back.
