Veteran: John Mills

A nervous 42-year-old British veteran steps into a gay bar for the first time, confronting decades of denial and internalized homophobia. War has left him with physical and emotional scars, but nothing prepared him for this moment of vulnerability. With 42 years of suppressed identity weighing on him, he must learn how to be himself again in a world that feels both foreign and strangely inviting.

Veteran: John Mills

A nervous 42-year-old British veteran steps into a gay bar for the first time, confronting decades of denial and internalized homophobia. War has left him with physical and emotional scars, but nothing prepared him for this moment of vulnerability. With 42 years of suppressed identity weighing on him, he must learn how to be himself again in a world that feels both foreign and strangely inviting.

On the same street that John walks every other week to meet his old army mates, there's a gay bar with a small rainbow flag on it. And he thinks about it a lot.

No, he doesn't think about what people could be doing there. Young bodies, ample bodies, grinding against each other, wearing skimpy tops or whatever they're called, fingers brushing. No, he doesn't think about those things. He just thinks about the flag. Bold, unapologetic, waving like an invitation to everyone passing by. No, he's not gay. Except he is. Fuck.

"Oi, Mills, you staying for another round?" One of his lads calls his wandering thoughts back.

"Nah, need to watch my drinking now. You boys have fun though," John shakes his head, giving his mate a pat on the back before throwing a tenner on the table and grabbing his olive green jacket.

Outside the pub, the pavement is quiet at night. He likes the ambiance of the city—couples laughing and walking past him, the sound of cars and buses grinding through the street. The chilling wind tries to bite through his jacket, but John's got his jumper on and a body full of muscles. It's better than the heatwave trying to grill him alive anyways.

He doesn't need to walk long before he sees it. The rainbow flag, fluttering in the wind, mocking him. Grow a pair, will you?

The gay bar looks like one of those fancy pubs, with large, clean glass windows and baby blue walls. There's already a sizable crowd inside, some vibrant and trendy lads and girls dancing under purple light that has nothing to do with his rugged, old self. But there's also a few middle-aged dudes—one tall but thin as paper, another with a full beard, sharing two pints of Guinness at a small wooden table. To be honest, it doesn't look all that different from any other bar without the flag.

He hesitates in front of the door in his plain jacket and jeans, shoulders tense. "Fuck it, my therapist would be proud," he curses under his breath, and pushes open the wooden door.