All men are equal, but some men are more equal than others.

I reach for his hand, I hold it tight in mine. He turns to me and smiles, the same old smile full of tenderness. I want to carress his cheeck, I want to kiss his lips. But I don’t. Holding his hand is enough. Smiling to him is enough. Let’s not push this.

The toughest part is when I haven’t seen him for a while. Waiting at the airport arrivals, twisting my umbrella in my hands. He comes out, I wanna jump and kiss him, I wanna hug him tight, I wanna tell him how much I love him, how I missed him. I bite my lips hard, I bleed. We shake hands speechless instead. In the tram, my shoulder trembles when I touch his.

We weren’t invited to my brother’s wedding. He knows, he loves me and all but he thought it would be provocative. Either I would go alone he said, or not at all. I couldn’t stand by him at his father’s funeral. I was waiting outside the grave yard, starring at his dispair, at his tears, at his trempling hands.

When we were looking for flats to finally live together: long glances, faces getting red, wicked jokes, pretentious laughter. It’s just unusual for two men your age to want to share a flat, one agent said in a poisonous tone. We got our flat through a friend finally, the landlord was queer too.

My biggest fear is a disease or an accident. Not just the emergency room, not the pain, not the loss, no. Not being able to enter these damn white doors. Family members only. Who am I? Noone. We won’t even be able to hold each other’s hand in the end, give a last kiss, sooth the pain. They won’t call him if I faint at work, they won’t reach for me if he gets hit by a car. We are nothing in their eyes. Maybe friends. Flatmates. Acquaintancies.

But he’s my man. And I am his.

In memoriam of all the victims of the LGBT community.