I have to backtrack from graduation for a moment, to add in family drama. What would a good Christian-turned-gay story be without family drama? The first family member to know was my father. His and my relationship had been rocky, and I finally told him because I knew it was the worst thing I could tell him. It would either make him shun me completely, or we could start building a relationship again from the ground up.
He did a little preaching, a little "thought you knew better," a decent amount of "of course I love you." He commented that the daughter of an old friend of his "went through a phase like this." I promptly facebook messaged her; cue another good friend for us (hint: it wasn't a phase). We started talking again. We didn't talk about my relationship, of course, but things were improving.
V told her mom on Easter break of senior year, a year exactly since our first kiss. She was told that she was going to hell. Surely Lina knows better, with her father being a pastor. Jesus isn't happy with you. I love you, but this is wrong.
I told my mom shortly thereafter. The next time V and I went to visit her, she made us sleep in separate rooms, whereas before we'd always shared the queen-sized air mattress. I protested. If I hadn't told you, I asked, would we still both be sleeping on the air mattress? Yes. So the fact that I told you the truth is not in my best interest? I guess not.
(Things have gotten better in all three cases. Getting married helped.)
And then, we graduated. Glorious, beautiful graduation. The knowledge that no one could take away my hard-earned education simply because I was in love. The fact that I could tell people I was in love, without fear of recrimination. The ease with which I breathed. The kiss we had, on campus, after night fell on graduation day.