The deserter

A survey of a significant number of college students on the issue of sexual attraction reveals that substantial changes in interest, partners, and sexual identity are common between late adolescence and early twenties, but also between the early and late twenties.

Oh, I'm not saying that I belong to it. It's not that at all. I just remembered the article. We are here to understand and follow the evolution of this story as it goes.

So don't rush or jump to conclusions.

I have always been slender, delicate, graceful, picky, and above all, very keen on details. My father always found my appearance far too fragile, supple, and flexible for a man. Despite my mother's numerous interventions in my favor so that he could leave me alone and stop judging my appearance. He still stubbornly persists, especially in dragging me almost by force to his boxing lessons and workouts.

I and physical activities that require a lot of energy don't work together. I only jog, not an intense sport, and I hate being sweaty. I'm not too fond of fatigue and long hours of bodybuilding and stuff like that.

I like my body as it is soft without any pearl of fat. But I'll tell you later how I keep my body healthy and the way it is.

Unlike me, my father is a fan of intense physical activity, he cares a lot about these details, and my mother has become the same. She feels an obligation to stay in shape. However, she denies it's not because of my father; she does those workouts, but deep down inside, I know it's because of him.

With my mother, I don't want to force myself to do things that do not appeal to me. Something she doesn't apply to her person. I admired her convictions and courage in supporting my father—a man who only thinks of his image.

I always thought he was a selfish person. He always wants to pressure everyone to give in to his whims and needs while he forgets that you have your own needs, too.

He always forgets to swing your feelings and needs. As I tell you, I admire my mother's courage but believe me, if you want, it's frankly not a gift to have my father as a husband and that for more than twenty years, let's say that he is a lucky guy.

When I was younger, I willingly participated in my father's physical program because it was an opportunity for me to spend time with him; since he was always on the go, and I revered him so much.

Built like a rock, my father is a tall, muscular man, a German with blue-green eyes, jaws as strong as a diamond, and as impressive as himself. It's not easy to get out of this man's wake.

He runs an airline company that he has kept afloat since he took over the helm of the company from his father. My father is the spitting image of my grandfather, who has always been hard on me.

He tells when he sees fit and to anyone who wants to listen that when the time comes, he doesn't want the fruit of his father's hard work before him to end up in my hands. Because apparently, I don't have the shoulders and the build of someone who will be able to carry it out like his father before him and him, in turn, to add my father.

Isn't that offensive and hateful?

Since when should capacity be calculated to our appearance? I don't care since I never wanted this company, either. It was never my dream, I had to give up things to help my mother better, but I never said I intended to follow in their footsteps.

I don't look like them at all. I'm not built like them. They look like warlords, while I'm a mix of Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly, and Sophia Loren.

Oh, that is my dad's description of me. He often says he can't understand why, but every time he looks at me, it's the picture of those women I send back to him.

Once, he told me, "do you realize that you are ten times prettier and more feminine than your mother, who was born a woman?" While pausing for a long time as if I was going to answer him, not to mention when he called me Sophia outright, it was not funny since we were at one of those countless family dinners they organize yearly.

That day, my mother could not keep her displeasure to herself, as she usually does, without worrying about her guests, grandfather, and grandmother. She glared at him before putting him down flatly with a surging wave of aggressive and well-deserved words.

It was the first time I saw her in this state. I had to take her off the table to calm her down, leaving behind us an audience red with confusion and shock.

My mother doesn't the type to get angry quickly and constantly in public. My father couldn't even dare to look up at her, and my grandfather lost all his grandeur and hostility for a moment. And it was the best moment of my life.

I was too proud of her that day. I didn't even apologize to them for taking my mother off the table. I led her to her room, where she hastened to take me in her arms away from their shocked gaze and mouths wide open in amazement and displeasure simultaneously.

And she whispered in my ear, "there's no shame in being yourself." I didn't know what she meant, but it wasn't the most important thing at the time.

"Your dad is just a double jerk with an oversized ego," she said with such tenderness while stroking my hair that I wanted to burst into laughter, but I did precisely the opposite for some reason or another. I burst into tears with my head hidden in her warm shoulder's crook.

We stayed like that for a while. I couldn't keep myself from crying. I cried like a madeleine, not because my father called me Sophia but because I was proud of my mother, and her tenderness didn't help in the current situation.

She is Irish. She's one hundred and sixty centimeters tall, and I'm one hundred and seventy-five. She is tenderness, joy, beauty, and kindness; partly, all my delicate, gentle, fragile side comes from her.

Oh, talking about height, my dad is a giant like him, but they're not the same species, and I can tell that with only one look.

Speaking of him, why he doesn't come here anymore, it's been a few good weeks since I've seen him, and since then, he hasn't come.

Was it because I had ventured onto his territory? The last time I saw him, he was absorbed in his thoughts while walking.

I was afraid that he would collide with the other students moving around him without him realizing it.

In fact, how can someone live like this? I watched him that day until he looked up like he felt my gaze on him. I ran full speed towards the building before he spotted me.

I didn't want him to assume I was following or watching him around or something more creepy than that. I am not some watcher. But he didn't go up to the roof, to my amazement. I stayed up all day in my usual place, from where I spotted him for the first time, but he didn't come up, and I haven't seen him since.

He has deserted his territory, which I now see myself watching over and cleaning up. After all, someone needs to take care of this place; it was spotless when he left in a hurry, so I can't bring myself to leave it in a mess.

So far, I've never been so curious about anyone, let alone someone of the same sex as me, despite my feminine side, as they describe me. Sometimes people say I'm androgynous, but yeah, whatever. I am a bit effeminate because I take great care of myself more than a girl gives time to her toilet.

After all, femininity is often associated with softness, grace, elegance, and neatness. It's obviously about staying clean, and that's all about me.

They all say that I am too demanding and that they are uncomfortable around me. How ironic!

I have never been able to keep a girlfriend longer than two to four months or sometimes less than two months.

I admit that sometimes, I overdo it with my beauty care. I have a set of Korean and French products that I use for my morning and evening routine. Who else but my mother and I would have the courage to put up with me for so long? I don't blame them. I'm not easy to live with sometimes. I know it.

And I am not fond of careless people who do everything negligently as if nothing is important and do not consider the benefits of having healthy skin and stuff.

Since my youngest age, I have been considered a demanding person, and I am not afraid of this label.

Leaving aside my thoughts, I apply for the thousand umpteenth times to clean this place. I don't know why I do it, but I have to keep it as clean as he left it before taking his feet to his neck the last time and never coming back.

"What a deserter!" I mumbled to myself.