At twenty, he knew what he wanted but could not say it out loud. He watched other men from a distance and told himself the feeling would pass. It did not pass, and part of him was relieved.
At thirty, he had said it out loud, first to himself and then to everyone else. He fell in love twice and lost both times. He learned that telling the truth was only the first step.
At forty, he stopped waiting for the right city, the right job, or the right year. He went out, met people, and let some of them matter. A few stayed as friends, and that counted for more than he expected.
At fifty, he had buried people he loved and outlived the rules that once kept him quiet. He could marry now, if he found someone to marry. He had not found him, but he had not closed the door.
At sixty, he still looks up when someone new walks into the room. He has spent his life searching, and he does not consider that time wasted. He is still looking, and he intends to keep looking.