"Because people are afraid of what they can’t categorize, Leo," I told him. "You’re a glitch in their matrix."
The first time Leo mentioned it, we were sitting on his fire escape, the city humming like a low-voltage wire beneath our dangling feet. He didn’t make a grand announcement. He just pointed at a vintage poster of David Bowie and said, "I think I’ve finally stopped trying to decide which half of that energy I’m supposed to like more." My Boy Is So Bi
As the years passed, Leo stopped explaining. He started wearing his identity like a second skin—not a shield, but a light. He taught me that his bisexuality wasn't about being 50/50; it was about being 100% capable of seeing beauty without the borders of gender. "Because people are afraid of what they can’t
For Leo, being a "bi boy" meant living in a constant state of translation. In some circles, he was "too queer"; in others, he was "passing." He had to navigate the girls who thought he was just a "safe" best friend and the guys who thought he was just a pit stop on the way to coming out as fully gay. He just pointed at a vintage poster of
"So, you’re saying the spectrum is looking pretty good from where you’re sitting?" I asked.
One night, after a particularly exhausting party where someone had called his identity a "phase," Leo sat on my kitchen counter, picking at the label of a beer.