Note: this chapter contains some mention of mental ill health.

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The evening begins to draw to a close. Now, George is sprawled across the double bed he shares with Stephanie, using his arms as some form of cushioning behind his head. The more his mind sways towards the subject of his intense guilt, the worse that guilt becomes. Sometimes, the remorse he feels is so heart-wrenching, it is all that he can think about. This moment in time, is a perfect example of it. He abruptly whips his upper body away from the bed; sitting bolt upright. His arm reaches to grab the diary that accompanies him on the mattress. His fingers leaf through the tattered pages, until he finds his latest entry — one he wrote just a few hours ago.

Dear Diary,

What an evening I've had, with these mixed feelings again. I'm beginning to reach a point of despair, in not knowing what to do with myself, nor what to say. Living life this way is becoming so painful, that I can feel myself slipping slowly into a depression. There must be an end to this. In fact, I know how it needs to end, but I'm too much of a coward to do it.

I know I need to tell her — sooner, rather than later. I know I need to put a stop to this, but it terrifies me. If I break up with her, she will be suspicious of the reason why. Our 'relationship' has no flaws to it. At least, not one that she knows of.

Tears threaten to spill over his thick, dark Greek lashes as his eyes dart left to right; reading each letter of each word in deep focus. Overanalysing every sentence; critiquing how he'd feel if he was Steph reading it. Would she be angry about it? Would she be disappointed? Upset? Of course, it could only ever possibly be negative emotions — it isn't a common occurrence in one's life, to be rejected by somebody because one doesn't fit the bill for their lover's sexual or romantic preference.

I need to grow up and be the man my mother and father raised me to be. By hiding this much longer, I am not only letting myself down, but letting them down too. If only I knew for sure, that I'd be accepted for the way I am.

This week, I think I'll finally go for it. I can't continue on like this, it's killing me. I've not yet decided how I'll do it, although I think telling her face to face is the only suitable way. I need to have the guts to do it without cowering away for once in my life.

Until then, I must continue to live in this constant cycle of anguish ...

Yog x

Once he has glazed over the final words, he snaps the little book shut. He rests it against his thigh, before letting his head sink into his hand. The fingers brush upwards, taking the front strands of his hair with them; until his hand has reached too high up his head, and the small bundle of floof flops back down over his forehead. The droplets formed as a result of his overwhelming emotions finally fall down his cheeks, soaking into his shirt to form minuscule dark circles; a sad collection on his clothing which serves as a reminder to him, of the hurt he's putting himself through. Silently, he sobs to himself; the most difficult part of this, is that not a single other soul knows how much of a burden this is for him to bear. Not a single other soul is aware of his heartbreaking cries of fear; of the struggle to find peace of mind: and of the journey to self-acceptance.

It takes a while, for poor George to feel able enough to pull himself together; his emotions subside gradually, replaced with a numbness. The young man isn't prone to mental ill health — despite growing up with two sisters, and parents who believed they knew exactly what form his life would take, by the time he hit age three — his childhood was relatively unproblematic. Perhaps, the only grievance George faced as he aged was his birth name. George was born to an English mother, and a Greek father, meaning that he was blessed with a name fitting to his father's heritage. And so, on the 25th of June, 1963, he entered the world as Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou. The name was initially an issue for the young boy, but in good time he learned to pronounce it flawlessly.

His friends, however, were a different matter entirely. When he began as a new student at Bushey Meads School at the bright-eyed, impressionable young age of eleven, not a single student could wrap their heads around the name. For convenience, Georgios decided he would go by George. He had made his first friend at this new school, on his first day; when his teacher had asked a pupil to volunteer to look after George, the request was met with only one raised hand. A doe-eyed, bushy-browed boy — known by his peers for being the class clown — was eager to take on the role. George was led to a seat next to this unfamiliar face, greeted immediately in an enthusiastic manner.

"Hi, I'm Andrew. Andrew Ridgeley!" the boy had introduced himself. "What's your name? I already forgot."

"Georgios," George had responded, already under the impression that he'd be made fun of. "I'm Georgios Panayiotou."

"That's too difficult," Andrew had commented, leaning back in his chair; the front two legs hovering above the ground. "I'll call you Yog instead."

"Yog?" The sweet Greek-English boy quizzed with a raised eyebrow, not quite sure where such a nickname had been derived from.

"It sounds like the first part of your name," Andrew had explained; he then chose to elaborate further, "Yog-yos ... it sounds like the name you said. And if we're going to be friends, I need to be able to say your name. And after all, I give all my friends nicknames."

"You want to be my friend?" George, who was now affectionately nicknamed Yog, furrowed his brows in surprise; at the idea of having somebody so popular to his classmates, wanting to be associated with him.

"Only if you want," Andrew had giggled. The innocence of his words radiated warmth; especially since he had not yet hit puberty, and his voice had not yet broken. "We can have lunch time together if you want to. And we can sit next to each other in Maths, too."

The invitation excited George; his nerves surrounding his first day at school had near-enough diminished by that point — they were replaced by a joyfulness that emanated from his smile, and a glint in his thickly-bespectacled eyes. The childlike purity he used to have vastly contradicts the character that George has now become. Even twelve years later, George is still the best of friends with Andrew — yet even he is unaware of the secret his lifelong pal has been hiding. Whenever the pair have been out to the clubs and the discotheques, Andrew has always found no trouble in gathering an abundance of female attention. In fact, both Andrew and George have seen no issue in it; but of course, George dismisses every advance that any woman makes on him. One reason being, that he is already in a relationship — the other, naturally, being that he is simply not interested in females; let alone the one he shares his bed with.

He glances over to the clock. The red glow of the digital numbers pierces through his woozy, fatigued eyes; they firmly shut as a natural reflex to the sudden brightness they've been exposed to. Having forgotten what time he previously read, he opens his eyes once again; re-checking. It's 23:02, meaning that giving in to sleep is high on the list of priorities remaining for the night. George hoists his body up from off the bed; abandoning his comfort in favour of maintaining his personal hygiene. He approaches his bathroom, pulling the string of the light switch before he enters. The whirring of the extractor fan seems negligibly quiet in comparison to the aching continuation of those same guilty thoughts; they're like an endless, excruciating rhythm that repeat over and over in his brain.

His hand — adorned on the back with dark chocolate hair — reaches for his toothbrush and toothpaste. As he squeezes some of the tube's contents out onto the bristles, he can't help but look at his reflection. The toothbrush is quickly popped into his mouth; his eyes hold no expression as he mindlessly cleans his teeth, while engaging in an intense stare-off with himself. A couple of minutes later, he spits into the sink, running the tap to clear the froth that has pooled together at the plug hole. He carelessly slides his arm across his mouth to rid any remaining residue, before returning to his room. Here, he arrives at his bed; allowing himself to, quite-literally, fall onto it. The impact causes his body to ricochet slightly, but he takes this in good humour by chuckling, despite how low he feels in mood. With fresh breath, and his sexual hormones calmed, he turns down the light; enveloping the entire room in darkness. George shuffles around, in an attempt to make himself comfortable, before he closes his eyes to try to get some rest.

This proves too much of a challenge, such with his mind working overtime. All of the energy he has is concentrated on the same thing as it has been all day; it's slowly eating away at him, tonight in particular. His breathing intensifies, acting as a physical reminder of the amount of stress he is placing on himself by merely existing. The only thing that interrupts this, is the sound of the telephone ringing from the hallway.

"It's gone eleven. Who the fuck—?" He cuts his own speech off, taking a moment to think. He then remembers, that he told Steph to call the landline if she should have any issues while she's out. He rushes down the stairs to answer the call. "Hey — I hope the evening is going well for you. If you need me to come and pick you up, I can come right now." He hesitates momentarily; an unexpected adrenaline rush brings him to blurt out the confession that has been keeping him awake. "But look, before you answer me, I need to be honest with you about something. It's really not something I wanted to have to tell you, but I feel so wrong for each and every day that goes by, that you don't know about it. And I'm sorry I'm having to tell you over the phone, but I'm too much of a coward to dare say it to your face. And that's just typical George, and I'm sorry." He inhales, preparing himself for the huge life change that's about to take place following his next words. "Listen. You mean the world to me ... you really do. You're a wonderful person, and I really appreciate everything you've done for me the last couple of years. But I need to be truthful, and it's now or never. It really breaks my heart to tell you this, my darling ... but you need to know. I'm not the man you thought I was. Our relationship has been based on a huge mistruth. And I'm so, so sorry. More sorry than you could ever realise. And I know nothing will ever fix the damage I've done. But you need to know that we should no longer be together, because I'm ... " He halts, feeling his heart palpitate agonisingly; he has never uttered these words out loud prior to this moment. "I'm ... a gay man."

Total silence leaves a horrible, unsettling feeling on the other side of the phone line. In shame, George shuts his eyes; as if making some feeble attempt to block out any uneasy consequence that may arise from what he has just divulged. A disgusting sickness has invaded his stomach and his chest; he feels as though he could pass out purely from the amount of shaking his limbs and torso are experiencing.

He dares to speak once more. "Please, Steph. Say something. Anything." He waits impatiently, the sweat from his fidgety palms transferring onto the phone he holds to his ear.

Finally, George receives some form of response. Although, he feels the colour drain from his previously-blushed cheeks and sun-kissed face when he hears a male voice.

"That took some guts to admit. But I'm so sorry. I think I got the wrong number."

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Chapter two! Was that what you were expecting? Hope you're still enjoying the story! xx