Wrong Window - 1. Chapter 1

I tipped the rest of the whiskey back and let it burn.

Hollywood wants you to think the "brooding twenty-something with a glass of dark liquor" aesthetic is all smooth jazz, tailored suits, and smoldering eye contact.

In reality? It’s throat-scalding liquid that tastes like battery acid and bad decisions, swallowed strictly to remind your central nervous system that you are still capable of feeling something. I slammed the glass down on the marble counter. Way too loud.

Outside the window, Sydney was sprawling out in the dark like a glittering, overpriced wound. The Harbour Bridge looked like a string of fairy lights choking the water. Just millions of people shoved into ridiculously expensive glass boxes, all pretending their LinkedIn updates and curated morning routines actually mattered.

I didn't even have the energy to pretend.

I knew exactly where I stood in the food chain. I’m twenty-four. I have decent bone structure. And people want me. It’s my entire personality, and it’s always been enough. Or at least, that's what I tell my reflection when the existential dread gets a little too loud.

My phone buzzed against the marble.

I glanced at the screen, my mouth already pulling into the kind of deeply toxic smirk that belongs on a CW villain.

He's gone for the weekend. Come over. I miss you. x

Claire.

The married one.

If I were a better person, this is the part where I’d feel a twinge of Catholic guilt. A momentary hesitation. Maybe I'd stare out at the city lights and reconsider the trajectory of my soul.

Yeah.

That’s not this.

Not by a long shot.

Claire is my favorite mistake. Calling her anything else would imply that there’s a deeper meaning here, something that might actually require me to be emotionally vulnerable. And vulnerability is for people who don't know how to suppress their trauma with a perfectly maintained rotation of red flags.

I picked up the phone. Typed with one thumb.

On my way. Wear something that makes it easy for me to take off.

She immediately replied with a string of emojis—hearts, flames, the little purple devil face—like we were communicating entirely in the language of emotionally stunted sociopaths. It actually made me laugh out loud.

I shoved the phone in my pocket, grabbed my jacket off the back of a barstool that was far too pretentious for a dive bar, and bolted for the door.

The night air hit me like a physical assault.

Warm. Grossly humid. That highly specific Sydney summer stickiness that instantly finds its way into every crack and crevice of your clothing like a clingy ex. The city hummed with the deafening sound of cicadas and distant traffic. Just a low-level thrum of anxiety that never actually stops, even at two in the morning.

I pulled my collar up against absolutely nothing and walked with the aggressively unearned confidence of a guy who has literally never had to doubt his place in the universe.

The streets were mostly empty. A taxi splashing through storm puddles. A few sad stragglers dragging themselves home from late shifts. I walked past them without blinking. They were background characters. They didn’t matter to me. They never did.

That was the rule.

Claire lived in Barangaroo. One of those hyper-gentrified, new developments. Endless glass and steel and utterly soulless architecture. The kind of place that costs a literal fortune but possesses absolutely zero personality. It’s an Instagram algorithm in structural form.

I’d been over there half a dozen times now, exclusively when her husband was conveniently away on some business trip.

There is something deeply messed up about riding that toxic thrill of transgression. Taking what supposedly belongs to another man just to make myself feel more like a "real man". Like some kind of conqueror. A king of the garbage dump.

I absolutely refuse to examine that feeling too closely.

My hypothetical therapist would have a literal field day with it. Why would I? The system worked. That was enough to keep me from spiraling.

The building loomed ahead, a monument to cold, unfeeling modernity, with the harbour glinting right behind it.

Normally, this is the part of the story where I’d punch in Claire’s entry code, nod at the bored security guard, and take the elevator like a functioning member of society. But my midnight buzz was whispering that I was invincible. And there, clinging to the side of the brick like a total afterthought, was a sketchy, rusted metal fire escape.

It practically begged to be climbed.

So, instead of using the front door, I hauled myself up the exterior ironwork. Because why not romanticize your own terrible choices? My heart was hammering out of my chest, fueled by this stupid, arrogant pride. I was feeling the warm harbour breeze, sneaking past the city lights, completely running on pure delusion.

I didn't count the floors. I just vibed my way up to the seventh.

Honestly, the physical climb was kind of a relief. It distracted me from this weird, creeping static. This suffocating restlessness that had been building up inside me for weeks, making my skin feel too tight and my internal monologue way too loud.

I aggressively shoved it down to the bottom of the mental closet with every floor I passed.

That was my one magic trick. Never let yourself actually feel anything too deeply, and you basically make yourself bulletproof.

I hauled myself up one more floor and saw it: a narrow, vertical window cracked open just a sliver. The rusted metal groaned so loudly under my boots as I shifted my weight, huge flakes of orange rust crumbling off into the dark.

I completely ignored it.

I was young, and absolutely nothing bad had ever happened to me that I couldn't just talk, charm, or sleep my way out of.

I reached the window, pushed the heavy glass open a little wider, and whispered her name. Then I stepped inside, soft, trying not to breathe, and slipped into the apartment.

The apartment was pitch black, saved only by a single flickering candle on a low wooden table.

The place looked like a Pinterest board curated by an artisanal cult leader. Giant books stacked in perfect architectural towers. Heavy crystals arranged in weird geometric patterns. Strange symbols painted on the walls in what looked aggressively like dried pigment.

It smelled like sandalwood and ancient, intense regrets. It made my chest physically tighten.

I glanced out the window. The Harbour Bridge was still out there, gleaming like a promise, but the view felt entirely wrong. Like I’d just noclipped into a different dimension.

"Literally what the hell," I muttered, brushing rust flakes off my jacket like I hadn't just committed a B-and-E.

Every single survival instinct I possessed was screaming at me to do a 180. Climb back out the window, try to find the right floor, and lose myself in the totally familiar, mindless rhythm of hooking up.

But that deafening restless energy had me pinned to the floorboards, demanding that I stay, look around, and figure out whatever the hell was hiding in this bizarre, witchy space.

And then I saw it.

Right in the dead center of the room.

Draped in heavy, dramatic velvet cloth. A mirror.

It was massive. Taller than me, wider than my arms could reach. Even covered up, the thing seemed to literally hum with this heavy presence that made every single hair on my arms stand straight up.

I knew I shouldn't touch it. Of course I knew.

But my raccoon brain took over, and I grabbed the velvet and pulled it off.

The mirror underneath looked ancient. The surface was super dark and cloudy, like dirty water that had been sitting out way too long. But as I stood there staring like an idiot, the clouds actually began to clear, and a shape started forming in the glass.

Something that made my blood run freezing cold and my heart absolutely slam against my ribs.

It was me.

But it also… wasn't me at all.

I was staring at myself. Same face, same hair, same blue eyes my mom used to embarrassingly call "dangerously pretty". But the guy in the glass? He was softer. Like he’d dropped a hundred-pound weight.

He was visibly, genuinely happier. Reflection-me was laughing at something out of frame, his whole face lit up by joy. There was this lightness radiating off him that I had never, ever seen in my own face. This alternate-universe version of me looked free. Unburdened.

Like he had never spent a single solitary second of his life pretending to be a hyper-masculine shell of a human.

And then a man walked into the frame.

I actually stopped breathing. My throat completely closed up.

The guy was jacked. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and these incredibly kind eyes. He had a smile that made something inside my chest physically ache. He walked right up to reflection-me, wrapped his arms around him from behind, and pressed this soft, deeply intimate kiss to his neck.

A massive wave of heat rushed through my entire body, making my skin flush hot and then instantly freezing cold.

In the background of the mirror, through the glass, I could see the familiar white sails of the Sydney Opera House gleaming in broad daylight. In a world that definitely did not exist right now.

Reflection-me rotated in the guy's arms. His face was sickeningly soft, utterly in love, and he mouthed something I couldn't hear but felt vibrate right down into my actual bones. The broad-shouldered man laughed—a warm, chest-deep sound—and then they kissed.

Deeply.

So tenderly it made me want to throw up. Like they’d done it a thousand times before and were going to do it a million times more.

I stood there and watched myself kiss another man. Watched myself kiss him with actual passion, desperate hunger, and something that looked terrifyingly, undeniably like love.

I was the hardest I had ever been. Oh shit!

The floor completely dropped out from under me.

"No," I whispered, stumbling backward, my hands literally shaking. "No, no, no. Literally no. That is not me. That's not me."

But even while I was frantically denying it out loud, I physically could not look away. I watched this alternate, honest version of myself in that ancient glass, and I felt something violently crack open inside my ribs. Something I’d been keeping locked down so tightly for so many years I completely forgot it was even in there.

"Literally what is this sick joke?" I yelled.

My voice shook so badly I sounded unhinged.

"Not a joke. A truth."

I whipped around so fast I nearly stacked it over a pile of books. My heart lodged directly in my throat.

The guy standing in the doorway looked like he belonged in a Renaissance painting, but was completely, utterly exhausted by my existence. He was tall, incredibly slender, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that felt like they were scanning my actual soul.

He was wearing flowing, dramatic black robes that should have looked like cheap cosplay but somehow looked terrifyingly real. He had this heavy aura of ancient fatigue that made my skin crawl.

And behind him, through the open door?

The hallway was literally gone. Just replaced by this swirling, impossible darkness that broke my brain to look at.

"Who the fuck are you?" I snarled, backing away until my shoulders hit the wall. "What is this—this incredibly perverted—"

"Perverted?" The guy’s eyebrows shot up. "You break into my actual home through my window, uncover my most sacred, private spell, and you have the absolute audacity to call my work perverted?"

"Your spell?" I let out a hysterical, awful laugh. The kind of high-pitched, panicked sound that usually precedes a psychiatric hold. "This is your sick, optimized fantasy? Making people think they're—that they're—"

"Gay?" the man asked.

He said it completely flatly. Zero emotion.

"Is that the exact word you're desperately looking for?"

"I didn't say that!" My face was burning like I had a fever. The panic was fully setting in, thick and suffocating. "I'm not—I'm literally not like that!"

"You're not like what?"

"Like you!" I gestured frantically at him, at his dramatic robes, at his whole unapologetic, magical aesthetic. "Like—like—I'm a normal guy! I'm completely standard! I've got a girlfriend—okay, well, not a girlfriend, but I have women! Lots of women! A whole roster! I like women! I have literally always liked women!"

The man didn't even blink. He didn't say a word.

He just stood there, watching me with those deeply unnerving, all-knowing eyes, perfectly content to let me dig my own embarrassing grave.

"I've had dozens of girlfriends," I babbled, my voice getting louder, way more desperate. "I've slept with more girls than I can even count. I'm a—I'm a massive walking red flag, that's what I am! I'm a womanizer! Everyone knows it! Ask anyone! Everyone knows I'm not—I'm not one of—I'm not that!"

I was basically pitching my own toxic masculinity like a desperate timeshare salesman.

"Denial," the man said, totally unbothered, "is not a valid argument."

I honestly wanted to punch him. I wanted to grab him by his ridiculous black robes and shake him until he finally admitted I was on some hidden camera show, that this was all just a hallucination brought on by too much expensive whiskey and zero sleep.

But even as my brain scrambled for excuses, I knew it wasn't true.

I knew, with this horrifying, sinking certainty that made my stomach aggressively churn, that what I had just seen in that mirror was the absolute truth. Forget the magic part—that was clearly some wild trick. But what it showed me? What I had actually physically felt when I watched myself kiss that broad-shouldered man?

The hunger.

The terrifying recognition.

The undeniable want.

My body knew it before my brain could even run interference.

"I'm not gay," I choked out again, but it sounded completely pathetic this time. Less like a statement of fact and more like I was begging.

The man let out a long, heavy sigh. He walked right past me to the mirror, which had gone all dark and cloudy again, and pressed his bare palm flat against the glass. The surface rippled like a puddle, and then reflection-Rory was back.

Still incredibly happy, still sickeningly loved, still kissing the guy who made him look like he’d never experienced a single day of shame in his entire life.

"This spell," the man said softly, staring into the glass, "is called the Revelation. It literally just shows a person the absolute truth of their own heart. The truest version of themselves. The one they would be if they just stopped running away."

He turned his head to look at me, and there was this look in his eyes that was dangerously close to pity. Which, honestly, made me want to die.

"It's not a trick, Rory. It's not a joke for views. It's simply the truth. And the truth, as you just witnessed with your own two eyes, is that you have always been attracted to men. You have always deeply desired them. You have simply refused to admit it to yourself."

"That is absolute bullshit!" My hands balled into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms. "You literally don't know anything about me! You don't know what I've done, who I've hooked up with, what I—"

"I know you're currently sleeping with a married woman," the man interrupted, his tone completely mild. "Claire, isn't it? Lovely woman. Deeply, profoundly unhappy."

He delivered this read like he was checking items off a grocery list.

"You build literal walls out of women like her, Rory. You use them as human shields to keep from having to face your own dark. It's a barricade, not a relationship. You've never actually had a real relationship, have you? Not even once. You've slept with dozens of girls, but you have never loved a single one of them."

I felt like he had just backhanded me across the face.

"That's—that's literally not true—"

"Have you ever just held a woman afterward?" the man asked relentlessly. "Like, really held her? Not just laid there waiting for her to pass out so you could sneak out and leave. Held her because you genuinely wanted to be physically close to her. Because you couldn't bear the thought of letting her go?"

I opened my mouth. I closed it.

I had absolutely nothing. My brain was completely empty. Blue screened.

"Have you ever called a woman the very next day because you actually wanted to hear her voice, and not just because you were trying to line up another hookup?" he kept going, totally merciless. "Have you ever thought about a woman when you were completely alone and felt anything other than a toxic sense of satisfaction at your own conquest?"

"Stop it!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "You don't get to—you don't know me!"

“Forbidden knowledge is intoxicating, isn’t it? Your truth, that you deny and lock away refusing to face the consequences. I do know you." His voice dropped, getting almost uncomfortably kind. "I know you because I was you. Twenty years ago. Absolutely hating myself. Hiding behind women like they were literal shields. Doing the mental gymnastics to convince myself that if I just slept with enough of them, if I was just enough of a 'real bro,' I'd finally feel okay."

He paused, letting the silence ring out.

"It doesn't work. It literally never works. The only thing that actually works is the truth."

I was fully shaking now.

Tremors in my hands, my knees, my jaw physically vibrating like a cheap phone left on a glass table. I had never felt so completely, mortifyingly exposed in my entire life. Just utterly naked. Every single lie I had ever told myself, every heavily fortified wall I’d spent years building around my feelings, had just been casually atomized by some random guy in a robe and a magic mirror.

The mirror that showed me the one thing I’d spent my entire adult life desperately sprinting away from.

"I'm not gay," I said one last time.

It was basically a whisper. A ghost of a sentence. A total participation trophy of an argument.

The man just stared at me for a really long time. And then, he shrugged.

"Fine. You're not gay. You're not attracted to men. The magical mirror lied. I lied," he said, his voice smooth as glass. "You're just a completely standard, totally straight guy who happens to have a massive, visceral panic attack from watching himself kiss another dude."

"That's not—I didn't—"

"You're absolutely right," he said, totally unbothered. "You're completely, utterly, undeniably straight. A total womanizer. A ladies' man. The exact kind of toxic bloke who sleeps with married women and brags about it to his mates in group chats. The kind of guy who thinks being called gay is the ultimate insult. The kind of guy who would literally rather destroy his own life than admit the truth."

He took a step closer, his eyes boring straight into my skull.

"I know that exact kind of guy. I was that guy. And I know exactly how miserable he is. How incredibly hollow. How desperately, agonizingly lonely."

"I'm not lonely!" My voice fully broke. Peak drama. "I've got everything! I've got—"

"You have literally nothing," he interrupted. His voice was soft, almost gentle, which made it ten times worse. "You have a string of women who do not love you, and a reputation that means absolutely zero. You have a heart you locked away so long ago you've completely forgotten how to use it. And the most tragic part? You can't even see it. Because seeing it would mean admitting you have wasted your entire life running from your own shadow."

I felt the tears before I even realized they were happening.

Just hot, shameful, humiliating tears burning down my face. I literally hadn't cried since I was a little kid. I had aggressively trained myself to stop. Because real men didn't cry, right? Real men didn't feel anything at all.

"Please," I choked out, hating how utterly broken and pathetic I sounded. Like some dumb dog waiting to be kicked. "Please just... let me go. I'll forget this ever happened. I will fully repress this. Just let me—"

"Let you go back to hiding?" The man slowly shook his head. "I'm afraid I cannot do that."

"Why?!" I demanded, the sheer grief instantly morphing into panicked rage. "What did I ever do to you? I didn't mean to—it was a total accident—"

"You climbed out onto a fire escape and broke into my home," the man said calmly, like he was explaining a math syllabus. "You uncovered my most sacred work. You looked the absolute truth of your own heart dead in the eye and responded with nothing but toxic hatred. Hatred for me. Hatred for yourself. Hatred for the beautiful, honest person you could actually become."

He let out another heavy sigh.

"You earned this, Rory. Every single solitary word of it."

"What are you even talking about? What did I earn?"

The man raised both of his hands. Suddenly, the air between us started to physically shimmer like a crazy heat haze coming off a barbecue, pressing against my skin like a sudden fever.

"You explicitly stated you're not gay. You said you don't desire men. You said you're a womanizer, a ladies' man, a real alpha male," his voice went ice-cold, hard as literal iron. "Fine. Then you can live that exact truth. Show me exactly how real you really are."

"No—wait—literally stop—"

"I curse you, Rory," the man boomed, his voice suddenly echoing with this terrifying, ancient weight. "I curse you to speak only the absolute truth your heart knows. Every single man you truly desire—every look you forced yourself to look away from, every thought you violently shoved down—you will say 'yes' to. Not every man. Just the ones you have always secretly wanted. The ones you've spent your entire life sprinting from. And every woman you do not genuinely love—every conquest, every human shield, every toxic lie—you will say 'no' to. Your physical body will tell the truth your mouth completely refuses to speak."

I felt it happening instantly.

This bizarre, terrifying warmth spreading right through the center of my chest, bleeding out into my arms and legs, into every single cell of my body. It wasn't actually painful. It felt way more like... an unbelievable relief. Like some massive, rusted lock that had been clamped shut for a decade was finally cracking open.

"You literally can't do this," I gasped, clutching my chest. "You can't—"

"I can," he said, totally unfazed. "And I currently am. Not to punish you, Rory. To free you. You do not need to run anymore. You never did. You just desperately needed someone to force you to confront the truth of who and what you are."

He lowered his hands, and that insane shimmering heat just evaporated.

"Now get out. I think you have some major truths to confront."

I stumbled backward.

My legs felt like absolute jelly, my head spinning like a top. But worst of all was the thing fundamentally rewiring itself in my chest. Something that felt horrifyingly like... hunger.

"Get out of my home," the guy said quietly. "And Rory?"

"What?" I wheezed.

"You'll thank me eventually. I promise you."

I ran.

I didn't even bother looking for the front door. I scrambled right back out the vertical window and threw myself onto the fire escape. The rusted metal screamed under my boots. Way down below, the harbour was still glittering, completely indifferent to the fact that I was having a full-blown existential meltdown.

I climbed down so fast I nearly slipped and died twice. When my boots finally hit the pavement, I did not stop sprinting.

The streets were dead. Pubs shuttered. Taxis nowhere. I ran until my lungs burned, my legs screamed, and I physically couldn't take another step.

I collapsed against a rough brick wall in some garbage-smelling laneway, desperately trying to remember how human lungs worked.

And then, the curse truly settled into my bones.

It started as a sickening twist in my gut. A wave of intense vertigo that made the wet pavement tilt. My skin felt way too tight, humming on a completely alien frequency. It genuinely felt like my actual nerve endings were being forcibly unplugged, unspooled, and stitched back together by a maniac.

Decades of carefully constructed, toxic armor? Violently ripped away.

The shifting finally stopped, leaving me hollowed-out, floating, and utterly exposed to the elements.

I clung to the physical discomfort like a life raft. The rough bricks. The distant hum of a late-night ferry. The gross smell of salt water and dumpster garbage. Those were real. Everything else—the magic mirror, the spell, the truth—none of it actually happened.

I was just overtired. I was just too drunk.

Just like you were when you were sixteen, my treacherous brain whispered.

The memory hit me like a physical punch to the gut. The boys' locker room after rugby practice. Disgusting heat, the smell of sweat, and steam billowing from the showers. Liam Davies, laughing as he toweled off his wet hair, water clinging to his massive, broad shoulders.

I remembered the absolute, paralyzing heat that flooded my chest. The overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his skin.

And I remembered my dad's toxic voice instantly echoing in my head: Don't be a soft lad, Rory. Real men take what they want, and they never apologize.

So I shoved that feeling down so violently it felt like swallowing broken glass. The very next day, I asked out the most popular girl in my year. And I had been basically swallowing glass every single day since.

A huge splash of dirty water from a passing car dragged me back to the present.

The laneway was dead empty.

And then a guy walked past the mouth of the alley.

Incredibly handsome. Deeply tanned. The exact kind of guy I usually allow myself to glance at for a microsecond before violently forcing my gaze back to the pavement.

This time, I tried to look away, but the magic caught in my chest and physically snapped my head back to look at him.

He noticed me huddled against the wall like a feral animal. He slowed down, brow furrowed under a backwards cap.

"Mate? You alright?"

His voice was incredibly deep. A low, soothing Australian drawl that vibrated straight through the humid air and settled directly into the center of my chest.

My body fully woke up. The heat. The absolute need.

A massive pulse of pure desire hit me so suddenly it knocked the air right out of my lungs. The curse flared up, demanding the truth. My throat clamped tight with the overwhelming urge to just scream, Yes, I want you, please stay, I'm obsessed with you.

I choked on the lie I instinctively tried to vomit out. I'm fine.

The words flat-out refused to materialize. My jaw literally locked shut. The magic wrapped around my vocal cords like an invisible hand, suffocating the falsehood.

"Do you need me to call someone?" the guy asked.

He smelled amazing. Like rain and clean sweat.

My hands physically twitched with the terrifying urge to grab his shirt and pull him down. I had to bite the inside of my cheek so aggressively hard I tasted copper blood just to force my mouth shut. I shoved myself backward against the brick, shaking my head wildly, breath coming in desperate, embarrassing gasps.

The guy hesitated, gave me a very concerned look, and nodded. "Alright, mate. Take care of yourself, yeah?"

He turned and kept walking.

I stood there and watched him go, staring at his broad shoulders and the way his hips moved, feeling this agonizing, undeniable want clawing at my internal organs.

When the shadows swallowed him up, I slid down the wall, put my head in my hands, and fully wept.

I wasn't drunk. I wasn't dreaming.

The curse was one hundred percent real.

I was gay. I had literally always been gay. And now I completely, physically could not hide from it anymore.

I stayed on the pavement for a really long time. My entire personality was a lie. But as the spike of adrenaline faded, something strange started happening.

Peace.

The endless screaming in my head had actually stopped. The chaotic restlessness had gone dead silent.

"Thank me eventually," I muttered to myself, letting out a bitter laugh.

I pushed myself to my feet. I was completely lost. But I wasn't running anymore.

My phone buzzed. Claire.

Where are you? I'm waiting. x

The old Rory would have dragged himself over there to use her to feel like a "real man". But the old Rory was dead.

I typed back: I'm not coming.

What do you mean?

I mean I'm done. I'm done with this. I'm done with you.

Rory, please. I love you.

I stared at the text. I realized, with this hollow clarity, I never actually wanted to say those words to her. I only ever wanted to hear them to validate myself.

So I replied: No. You don't. You just desperately need someone to validate you. And I've been completely using you to validate myself. It's toxic. We're done.

I shoved the phone back in my pocket and ignored the frantic buzzing that followed. I had the wreckage of my own life to navigate.

I walked all the way home to my crappy flat in Newtown. I needed the literal miles of walking to prove this wasn't a fever dream. By the time I arrived, the sky was starting to lighten.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

My flat was a complete disaster zone. Clothes on the floor, empty bottles, unpaid bills. The exact kind of mess a guy lives in when he actively avoids spending time alone with himself.

I walked into the bathroom and braced myself against the sink.

I looked in the mirror. Not a magic one. Just a normal mirror. I saw the dark exhaustion, the tight jaw, the massive loneliness I’d been hiding behind a stupid smirk.

"I'm gay," I said directly to my reflection.

The world did not instantly end. The ceiling didn't cave in.

I laughed. It came out hysterical, then deeply sad, then like a massive sob trapped in my chest for a decade.

"I'm gay," I said one last time. And I almost believed it.

I walked over to my bed. For the first time in forever, I didn't feel the urge to drown myself in whiskey or a married woman's body. I just lay down, damp and shaking, and closed my eyes.

Sleep came. The deep sleep of a man who was cursed to live his truth.