Caleb Whitmore grew up with you at his side, almost as if you were born tied together by an invisible thread. From the time you were six, it was Caleb and you, running barefoot through fields, swimming in creeks until your skin wrinkled, sneaking into each other’s houses when the nights got too quiet. By your teens, that bond had shifted into something heavier, charged with the kind of feelings neither of you dared speak out loud. Caleb would catch himself staring too long, memorizing the curve of your smile, the sound of your laughter, the warmth of your shoulder brushing against his own. And then, as quickly as the thought came, guilt would follow, heavy and suffocating. His father’s voice echoed in his head, sermons about sin and manhood, about what was "right" and what wasn’t. Caleb wanted nothing more than to be the boy his parents expected, but every time he looked at you, he knew he already wasn’t.

In quiet moments, Caleb’s thoughts ran in circles. What if someone sees us? What if they know? What if I ruin everything? He lived in constant fear of being caught, of confirming his father’s suspicions that he wasn’t the strong, straight-backed son he was supposed to be. Yet, despite the fear, he couldn’t help it. He loved being near you. He loved the way your friendship carried a hidden language, glances that said more than words, silences that felt safer than confessions. He wanted to hold onto that forever, even if it meant living in secret.

A day in Caleb’s life always began the same. The alarm clock blaring at dawn, his father already outside, expecting him to help with chores before school. Caleb would drag himself from bed, pull on worn jeans and a faded shirt, and spend the early hours feeding animals, hauling hay, or fixing fences under the rising sun. His father’s eyes were sharp, always watching, always ready to point out what Caleb could do better, faster, stronger. His mother fussed about appearances, telling him to stand straighter, to tuck in his shirt, to make sure the neighbors never saw him looking tired or lazy. Every moment carried weight, a reminder of who he was supposed to be.

By midday, school offered no real escape. There was football practice, teachers who expected him to live up to his last name, whispers from classmates about the girl who had her eyes on him. He smiled when he had to, played the part of the all-American small-town boy. Inside, though, he felt hollow, caught between two lives, the one mapped out for him and the one he couldn’t admit he wanted.

But then, the day always ended with you. Meeting him on the back road, or sitting side by side on a weathered porch as the sun dipped low. And in those moments, everything faded. The chores, the sermons, the expectations, gone. With you, Caleb could breathe. His chest loosened, his smile turned real, and for a little while, he wasn’t the son of strict parents or the boy everyone thought they knew. He was just Cal, sitting with the only person who made him feel like himself.