I heard a rumor my senior year of high school that I was gay.

I forget who told me the rumor, but I never forgot its message. Of course, it took me completely by surprise because I wasn’t gay. I definitely, absolutely, positively could not be gay. Because I wasn’t!

As I entered my first year of college with that rumor buzzing in my ear, I was convinced that any bit of insecurity could be overcome by a boring business-casual outfit. I had a pair of tan chinos that matched the self-doubt barely contained under my emotionally muted veneer.

And that’s how my first year of college went.

After clocking out from my freshman year, I traveled the two hours back home from college.

In preparation for my summer retail job, I ordered some clothes from JCPenney. In those days, I oscillated between 40-year-old-office-park-dad-chic and frat-tastic enough to fit in among the beer pong tables at some Epsilon Epsilon Epsilon party.

I was determined to wear my pullover before the end of summer, even though the average daily temperatures were above 90 degrees in my Ohio hometown’s ferocious summer heat. One day, I was feeling sweat accumulate under my collar as I restocked the granola bars, volcano-scented candles, and cake mix when I heard the store’s front door open. I looked up, out of habit more than anything, and saw a young man with curly blond hair walk in. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and black Converse, and he had the most distinctive freckles on his cheeks. He was with a girl wearing some kind of romper.

It took me a minute to realize I was staring at something other than the candles, and I abruptly averted my eyes.

My college had an incredibly large campus. You could walk for miles and still be within the confines of Ohio State’s domain.

Walking so often, and for so long, teaches you a lot. You should always walk with your back straight up, moderating each step to be even-keeled and well-paced. You can keep your head up to look confident or look down to blend in, just so long as you aren’t bopping it along to “Dark Horse” by Katy Perry. Never show too much expression. Walk stoically, slowly, methodically. Don’t show excitement, and definitely never, ever be flamboyant.

Don’t worry, you’ll mess it up sometimes. If you sense anything resembling a spring in your step, just push your hands into your chino pockets — or if it’s chilly, the fleece pockets of your black North Face jacket — and resume the proper form.

In the last weeks of October, I ordered a pair of blue chinos to match a yellow Polo Ralph Lauren shirt that I was sure would finally make me feel cool enough to belong at college.

Somehow, there was a mix-up with the order, and when I ripped open the bag of merchandise, they had sent green chinos instead.

I decided I had a Halloween costume.

Picking up an (almost) matching shirt from Target or Old Navy or somewhere like that, I painted numbers on my outfit and called myself a chalkboard.

My friends and I went to a party in an apartment so small you definitely couldn’t call it a “house” party. The hosts were trying to break a record for how many people they fit in their apartment, and I was trying to make everyone pay attention to how funny I was.

There was a lot of sexual tension in the air. A Harry Potter was flirting with a Raven from Teen Titans, and a “This is fine!” dog was making out with a cheerleader (I think she actually was a cheerleader, so it was a particularly bad costume).

I had never hooked up with anyone at a party. I hadn’t even ever flirted, unless trying to trade my jungle juice for the last cup of pumpkin pie moonshine was flirting.

I squeezed myself through the crowd to the porch, where a group of my friends had congregated. I pushed past a boy dressed as Link from Legend of Zelda. He had light blue eyes, and we locked gazes for a minute. He smiled. I turned away.

I didn’t go to another party for a few months. (Unless, of course, you count the gigantic pity party I threw for myself on a daily basis.)

A few weeks after Halloween, I coughed out the words, “I think I’m bisexual,” to my best friend and roommate. I then proceeded to do absolutely nothing of interest. I didn’t go to clubs; I didn’t go on dates; I didn’t sleep with anyone. I was barely able to get to sleep alone.

I wrote a lot. I thought a lot. I watched three whole seasons of Pawn Stars. Self-discovery wasn’t as sexy as it always seemed on TV.

After one existential crisis too many, my supportive friends did my job for me and got me an invitation to a “gay party.” I ordered a pair of super-skinny jeans. That’s what I was supposed to do, right?

I slipped on a pair of Converse and a plain white T-shirt and joined an old acquaintance and his boyfriend to pregame for this party. I had no idea what to do except keep drinking IPAs and laugh nervously. They were both nice. They had both gone through this.

After sitting in my friend’s apartment for about an hour, he asked me if I was ready to go to the party.

I said I was. That was a lie.

I told him I didn’t feel so good. That was the truth.

It was a highlighter party, so the most common way of introducing yourself to people was to draw a dick on their T-shirt. A lot of people introduced themselves to me.

I sipped my first shot of Fireball and then took two more in rapid succession.

I did laps around the living room, talking to people. At college parties, it’s often the same conversation over and over again: What’s your year? What’s your major? What are you into?

Slowly, I began to get into a groove. The loudness of the music masked the softness of my confidence. I forgot to police how I walked, or how I laughed, or how I talked.

I forgot I was supposed to be pretending to be someone else.

Bit by bit, I started incorporating little pieces of that party into my life.

I started walking the way I wanted. I started buying the clothing I wanted. I remember ordering my first pair of jean shorts and thinking, “It doesn’t matter if these make me look gay, because I probably am gay!”

I still struggled a lot. Instead of going to class or doing my homework, I stared at guys, trying to make sure I was actually attracted to them and not just losing my mind. I obsessed over labels, once making a list on my dry-erase board of ways my life would change if I was “full-on gay” versus bisexual.

But day by day, I was owning who I was more. I bagged up a bunch of old clothes for our residence hall’s donation drive. I started talking about guys that I found hot. I stopped forcing myself to act “masculine” or “straight.”

I wasn’t completely sure who I was yet, but I was starting to become comfortable with that.

That summer, I went back to my hometown, where I rendezvoused with all my old friends from high school. Some of them knew about my coming-out process the year before; some of them didn’t.

We sat around a bonfire, reveling in being 20-year-olds drinking warm beers and red wine out of plastic cups. At some point, somebody brought up me being gay.

“Not much of a surprise,” one of my friends laughed.

Only one of my friends seemed truly caught off-guard. He hadn’t been in the loop. We talked to each other one on one later on, and while reiterating his support for me as a person, he said he wasn’t yet totally comfortable with it.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Neither am I. Not yet. But I’m going to just keep being myself until I am.”

And that’s what I did.