The first time he had done it, it was quite a shock for me. It was evening and I was on my bed, thinking about whether I should continue reading the book I had open in my hand or give up on it and sleep. There was only so much information from it I could absorb at half-past-midnight. On the other bed, he had been listening to music and watching funny videos on his laptop. It was all very mundane.

As I contemplated giving up on my book, a small voice called, "Hey, bro? Bro?"

I didn't respond, turning a page and marking my place.

"Bro, you alive?"

I heaved a sigh of yes.

"Bro... I'm bored."

I closed my book and placed it on the small table between our two beds. I smiled at him, but even I could feel it was forced. "I was thinking of going to sleep."

The boy on the other bed pouted and moved his eyes back to his laptop.

Good, I thought, I'll just try to sleep and ignore him. I nestled myself into my blankets and faced away from him completely.

It wasn't entirely by choice that we came to share a room. The language barrier I found myself encountering almost necessitated that I be in a room with the one person who was the poorest at speaking my native language. I think it's called immersion learning or some other bull . It still meant that I had to keep learning from a book, having lessons, and be thrown into the culture shock. The situation isn't as bad as it seems, but having to learn a complicated foreign language quickly isn't exactly easy. However, as a roommate, despite the occasional childish whining and his interesting workout regime, he was a good choice. Gentle, mostly quiet, and always sympathetic (even though he really didn't truly understand the strange position I had been put in). He definitely wasn't a bad choice.

However, there were some nights when his youthfulness drove me crazy.

"Bro? You still awake?"

And this felt like it was going to be one of those nights.

"Bro?"

I groaned something that sounded like, "Yeah, I'm awake," though my brain added that it was mainly his fault that I was incapable of resting.

"Oh, good. I'm still bored."

Silence was my answer.

"Are you bored?"

My initial thought was to answer no, but previous experience dictated that he would keep on wanting to do something until I gave in to his whining, so a let out a rather reluctant, "Yeah, I guess I am." The warmth of his youthful smile beamed itself straight into my back. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be happy along with him or not.

Silence fell for a long moment, save for the creaking of his movements on his bed, before I felt my own bed sink a little behind me. A new weight had decided to fit itself onto my small bed and the back of my mind began to panic. Heat from a human body closed in and soon a slender, muscular arm wrapped itself around my waist, clinging long fingers to the fabric of my shirt. Panic was morphing into horror as a face nuzzled into my neck, hot breath blowing over the sensitive hairs where the neck touched the scalp. Had I been misinterpreting his meaning for boredom this entire time? Had he been secretly wanting to...

Nothing happened.

After worrying for a great while over what any of this meant, I could hear the sounds of slumber coming from the boy at my back. He didn't want anything more than this, it seemed. He just... felt like cuddling? I relaxed into his embrace and eventually fell asleep. The morning after, we never spoke of it again or acknowledged that anything strange had happened.

It's what I should have expected, honestly. Despite his fierce eyes and sometimes chilling expression, he's truly a sensitive and innocent person. For him, I guess I was a human-sized stuffed animal for him to sleep with. I didn't feel used at all; the whole experience was rather endearing.

What I hadn't anticipated was that he would want to do it again.

And again.

And then more times.

It seemed timed to whatever emotions he had been feeling during the day. I was used to watching everyone else play, observing them from a distance. The fate dealt to me has not exactly been what I had expected, but I try not to complain. There are so many out there who would only dream of doing what I'm doing, and I am truly blessed to have this destiny, even if my position in this world has become strange and at odds with who I am as a person. I don't have a choice but to go along with it.

However, in those moments where there was no need to play someone that I'm not, I could observe the behavior of the others. They're all younger than me and all have such vitality in them. Watching them makes me feel tired sometimes, but it never deters me from trying to be the best I can. I can keep up with them, as I'm not that old. The youthfulness around me, though refreshing, does get exasperating at times, and those are the moments when I stay a little behind and watch them. And that boy, especially, has an intriguing relationship with the man who is our group's leader.

My young roommate and the leader, despite not knowing each other for a long time, have the relationship of a younger brother that looks up to his older, charismatic brother. Our leader has an aura of cool around him all the time, and a handsome face and a body that any man would be jealous of. I know that I am jealous of his perfect body, but that's only because shorter men tend to always idolize those who are taller and more handsome. Whereas I envy our leader's height and charm, my roommate wants to be our leader. I had seen him, before we were roommates, try to mimic our leader's movements, his hairstyles, his way of talking. It seemed cute, in an odd sort of way. A tall, gorgeous man being followed by a tall, fierce-looking puppy. It's not a common sight.

It's endured for nearly two years now.

"I want to be just as handsome as our leader when I turn 22."

It's words like those that solidify his admiration.

But what does all this have to do with nightly cuddles, you must be wondering?

It's simple. If his interactions with people, especially our leader, are good, he has no desire to snuggle up with me at night. However, if his interactions have been bad and he feels insecure, he wants to know that someone is willing to let him know that everything is all right. Not surprisingly, that person ends up being me.

And maybe that's more unfortunate than I had realized.

It was late one evening and I was alone in our dorm room. That day was one of our rare days off and we had all split up to do various things. I spent the day with half of our group, playing soccer and hanging out with them, one of our six spent the day composing music (he really is something, that man), and my young roommate had gone off early, before I had even woken up, to spend the day with our leader. After a long, fun day, ending with a great dinner, we had arrived back at our dorm early. I sat on my bed, struggling through a language book when he finally returned.

His expression was odd. Though he outwardly displayed the look of someone who had had a great day with a good friend, behind his smile was something that could only be read as sadness. I thought to ask him about his day, but opted to say nothing at all. The boy walked in and tossed his bag and jacket in a corner.

"There's watermelon in the fridge," I said, gesturing to the small corner of the room we had designated as a kitchen/snack bar. The boy's expression brightened a little as he turned toward the small fridge, opening it to have the orange glow of the tiny light bulb create a halo around the plate that held that boy's favorite fruit. He ripped the cellophane that bound the watermelon to the plate and began to indulge. I watched him from my bed, observing the roller coaster of emotion that came from his delight in each bite. The initial introduction of the fruit to his mouth would make him smile so happily, but as he chewed and eventually swallowed, there was a downward spiral of sadness at having to say goodbye to the flavor he enjoyed, but upon his next bite, a childish smile would return to his lips.

I watched him for a few moments before rising from the bed and walking to the dresser in search of sweatpants and a t-shirt. The next morning would be a return to our usual, rushed schedules and a good night's rest would aid in greeting the day's business. I peeled off my tight jeans and shirt, exchanging them for the baggiest sweatpants I owned and an over-sized t-shirt that I'd had since before leaving home. There is a certain comfort in putting on whatever clothes a person wears to bed, I think. It's trading the image you're forced to present to the world with the freedom of wearing whatever feels good. It's a good feeling to end the day with freedom.

"I'm going to sleep," I said, pulling back the blankets on my bed. "Make sure to clean up before you go to bed." A grunted sound that was vaguely affirmative was enough for me, and I slid into bed.

In a half-drowsy state, I could hear my roommate finishing his bedtime snack, cleaning up, going to the bathroom to relieve himself, change his clothes for bed, and turn off the lights. I soon expected the familiar creaking of his bed as he shifted into it, pulling out his laptop to listen to music and watch videos on the internet. It was a nightly ritual and I'd gotten used to the cool glow of the computer screen bathing his corner of the room in light.

The creaking never came.

Instead, a long silence remained in the air before my own bed sank downward from the introduction of human weight. The blankets lifted and a warm body moved close, and slender, muscular arms wrapped around my waist, tugging me close. Long fingers searched for my hand and interlaced themselves between my short, stubby fingers. Soon, a face buried itself into my back and I could feel his body shaking. The silence was becoming broken by soft, shivering sobs as I was held much more tightly than usual. I had seen him cry before, but this was different. I gave his hand a gentle squeeze and let him cry. It was all I could do.

He trembled and cried behind me for a few minutes before his breathing became more even, accented by scattered hiccuped sobs. His grip loosened and he released my hand, moving his hands to cling at my t-shirt fabric. He nuzzled his forehead against my back.

"Hey... bro...?"

I stayed silent.

"Bro...?"

"Hm?"

"Have you..." He swallowed, repeating himself, words jittery, "H-have you ever..."

It was becoming apparent that I probably shouldn't ask him to continue. I didn't want to know what happened, but my curiosity was getting the better of me. "Have I ever?"

"Have you ever," he sniffled up a sob before continuing, "e-ever liked... someone... that you didn't think... liked you the same way that you liked them...?"

"Unrequited love?"

"Yeah... that."

Slowly, I was beginning to realize what he was asking. The puppy who had been following his master so diligently had transformed into a man who had fallen in love with another man. All that observing and all that watching I had been doing and I never realized that the boy I had been living with this whole time was falling in love with the man he had spent so long admiring and trying to be like. How did I not notice it?

"Have you...?"

I my lips and thought. There was really only one way I could answer his question. I'd never liked someone who didn't like me back. I'd never fallen in love with a man. I'd never even been in any sort of relationship before. Armed with the only answer I had to give, I weakly replied, "No." It was an absolute no.

A moment passed and the body at my back pulled away, the hands at my shirt freeing the material from their grasp. The weight at the end of the bed lifted, but there was no other movement. "Sorry," he said, his voice rasping from his crying, "I'm sorry I did that." I could hear the shuffling of his footsteps as he returned to his own bed, the creaking as he slipped under the sheets, and the rustling of him turning to face away from me.

No, I thought, I'm the one who should be sorry. Not only could I not help someone who was supposed to be my friend, but I didn't want to help him. Deep down, I didn't want to help him in any way. I still don't want to help him. I was into a position I didn't want, saddled with a roommate I didn't choose, sent to a country I knew nearly nothing about, and I had no desire to help my friend. I've been given an opportunity that any other person in the world would desire, and I should be so happy to be doing this. This was what I wanted, wasn't it? Somehow, it had become everything I didn't want. Somehow, I'd become someone I didn't want to be. I was deemed worthy, yet I felt so empty.

I won't even help my friend.

Maybe that's why no one loves me.