He doesn’t know how he got here, to this point, to this moment in his life when all he feels is confusion, and lust, and an itch under his skin that he doesn’t know how to scratch. He thinks if he could just identify the moment, that specific instant when everything changed, he would find a way to transform it into something different, somehow. He would erase all of it -- the kiss on the street, that first late-night visit, carrying a ragged sofa up three flights of stairs -- all of it, right back to the stupid recital that he didn’t want to attend in the first place. He’d make it all go away, if it could just mean that he’d be at peace again. If he could just be sure of his place, again.

But there is no magic wand to wave. No fairy godmother to grant three wishes. No way to turn back the clock so that he can tell Brian: I need. I want. I crave. I desire.