I’ve heard it said that if you spend long enough on a story, long enough absorbed in the world and the characters, that it all starts to become real. It starts to seem as though the characters are actually people you could converse with, as though the events that you write are times you’ve lived through.

I’d like to find the person who said that and punch them in the dick.

Wait, I should probably back up before I say that.

My name is Trevor. I’m an author. Not a very good one, but it pays the bills… barely. I specialize in male-male romance, because, well, I’m a dude and I’m gay. They say to write what you know, so I do. Sometimes my heroes or their love interests are bi, but they always get the man in the end.

For all the stories Scot had ever heard about college dorm rooms, this one sure wasn’t that bad. Cramped, sure, but what else could you expect from trying to fit enough furniture for two students into one bedroom?

Through the walls, he could hear the kid in the next room being lectured by his mother. So the part he’d heard about hearing everything from other rooms was true. Scot felt bad for the guy, because his mother would not shut up about how he needed to be careful and not go to parties and not bring girls back to his room–like the guy would listen to her–and get good grades because she would be damned if she would waste her money–

Scot was glad his parents weren’t worried about any of that. He’d always been a “good kid,” one of those kids who got good grades and never caused their parents any worry. He walked around the room aimlessly, rearranging the items he’d already set out with no real intent behind the motions. Scot knew he needed to make a good impression on his roommate, because they’d be spending the year together and he didn’t want it to start off on the wrong foot.

“Hi.”