The Invisible Gay Boy Diaries

 Hey there, Stranger.  I did something bad. Like… actually bad. I fucked up. I told myself— promised  myself—I wouldn’t see C again. And not in the casual “I should stop texting him” way. No, in the  I’m-literally-writing-a-book-about-our-trauma-because-it-was-that-toxic  way. But yesterday—9/5—he texted me. “Hey.” Classic. And, just like that, the timeline split. Because next thing I knew, he was here. With me. In my space. In my bed. And okay, the sex was amazing. I won’t lie. I won’t pretend. I won’t even apologize for that part. It always was amazing, which was half the problem. But yeah… I saw him. Again. And I know what that means. I know what it says about me. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m just bored. Or lonely. Or still addicted to the story of it all. Maybe I just did it for the plot. Maybe that’s my fatal flaw—I romanticize ruins. Anyway, I don’t really want to talk about him more than I have to. So instead, I’m writing smut. Yep. About the first time he...

Hey there, STranger... I started texting this new boy this week.   And I don’t know how to say this without sounding completely delusional, but it feels like something  shifted . Not in a big dramatic way. More like a soft, cosmic hum—like the background static of my life tuned itself into something smoother, glossier. More… TS:   Midnights .   Not the lyrics, necessarily. The  sound . The vibe. The dreamy purple-hued haze of it all. That cotton-candy-sky emotional tone Taylor captures when you’re staring at the ceiling wondering if the butterflies in your stomach are joy or a warning. That’s what he feels like. Texting him feels like  fun . Not just “this is a nice conversation” fun. But  glinting mirrorball  fun. The kind of fun where your brain suddenly starts narrating your life again like it used to. Like maybe the plot picked up where it left off.   He’s 29. Which, normally, I’d raise an eyebrow at. But he’s giving Pedro Pascal wit...

I read something by Aaron Arciaga once — gentle words wrapped in rain-soaked silk — and it never quite let go of me. It hummed like the static between songs, like a secret I already knew but hadn’t found the words for yet. It reminded me of those quiet nights — The kind where the world feels folded in on itself, and I take myself out to dinner just to watch the way candles flicker. I drink in the silence like wine, trace constellations across my ceiling, and pretend my hand isn’t reaching for a hand that was never there. I sleep soundly, most nights. I have routines, rituals — a life that fits. But still, I light a second candle for no one. I pour two cups of tea and let one go cold. I whisper little nothings into the air and pretend someone catches them mid-fall. No one’s ever waiting for me at the end of the day — But sometimes I leave the hallway light on anyway. And it’s not that I’m lonely. Not really. It’s just… sometimes I hear a love song and smile like it’s about me. Like mayb...

 Hey there, Stranger.  *I walk over to the worn-down shelf, the one with the vinyls that smell like old bookstores and late-night heartaches. My fingers pause— there. “Bitter Sweet Symphony.” The sleeve crackles as I slide it out like it’s letting go of a secret. The record drops. The needle hums. And then— that first note, that familiar ache of strings and sky. It plays. Again. Again. Again. I sink into the chair by the window, close my eyes, and read this like a prophecy*: They told you this was it— that life folds itself neatly by twenty-five, that dreams expire like milk if not chased fast enough. But they were wrong. There are mornings ahead that will hold you softer than any lover ever did. Cups of coffee in cities you haven’t met yet. Eyes that will look at you like you built the sky. There are songs you haven’t heard— but will. They’ll find you in grocery aisles, or long drives, and suddenly the air will change. You’ll remember who you are. You don’t even know your fav...

Hey there, Stranger I left. Not with noise, not with fanfare— just a full heart and a suitcase of silence. The city stayed the same, but I didn’t. Northwest shadows behind me, now I breathe in the deep south air— heavier with heat, lighter with peace. It’s almost summer. You can feel it. In the way the light lingers on skin like it knows a secret, in the way the wind no longer pushes— it waits for me. I don’t rush anymore. I don’t chase. I  arrive . There’s power in the stillness I carry now. In the empty spaces I no longer fill with noise. I’ve burned enough bridges to stay warm without anyone’s hands. And that chill you feel? That’s me choosing silence over the smallness of being seen. Because I’ve been loud. I’ve been reckless. I’ve been hungry for love that never fed me. Now I feed myself. Now I starve the past of my presence. Now I am lean with purpose, sharp with peace, and soft in a way only steel can be. And look— my phone? dry. my socials? desert. but you know what’s not, ...

  Hey there, Stranger.  i shouldn’t be writing this. the hour’s too late,  3.25 the sky’s too tired. but here i am, bleeding in ink again. you always come back when i am almost better — when my hands are finally steady, when my plate is finally full. you watch. you wait. then you tip it all over, laughing at the wreck you leave behind. it’s sick, how much i missed you. how i crave the high no one else can name, the kind of rush they preach against but never understand. it’s not about more, not about less— it’s about tighter. smaller. sharper. a kind of disappearing that feels like power. i know it’s wrong. i know it’s a trick. i know every surrender pulls me closer to a kind of grave that looks a lot like a mirror. but you whisper to me: you are strong enough to vanish. you are brave enough to stay hungry. and god, some nights, that sounds like love. and some nights, my god,  my thighs in the moon light,  that looks like love. the only freedom i ever felt was ...

 Hey there, Stranger to the boy who aches in silence, but only when no one’s looking— i hope you know what you lost. i hope it haunts you, in the back of your throat when you’re laughing too loud, in the fake love you chase at parties, in the arms of people you’ll never actually love. i hope you feel it when you roll over in beds that still feel cold, even when they’re full. i watched you. god, i watched you. i watched you let the world hand you a script where love was easy, obvious, expected— and you swallowed it like it was your birthright. while i sat in the back row, rewriting mine in invisible ink, teaching myself how to survive on scraps. you got fairy tales handed to you. i got warnings. you got parades. i got closets. you got to love out loud. i got told to shrink, to hide, to survive. and maybe you didn’t notice. maybe you were too busy being adored to see the way i cracked open my own ribs, the way i stitched my heart into a language you were never brave enough to even tr...

Hey there, Stranger.  i’m going to change. not tomorrow. not when the stars align. not when the world decides i’m ready. now. when i leave this place— this four-walled ache i’ve been calling home— when i move back, breathe different air, taste a little hope again, i won’t just be  waiting. i’ll be building. i’ll be becoming. this is my revelation: i am worthy, even when the mirror lies. i am strong, even when my hands shake. i am good, even when the world tries to stain me. i will love myself the way i love the broken, the way i love the ones who never asked to be saved. i deserve more than scraps. i deserve a love that holds me like a prayer. a man who looks at me like i’m a sunrise he never expected to see. i deserve joy that blooms even in winter. i deserve to laugh until i forget all the reasons i ever cried. i am a badass. i am a boss. i am a storm that learned to dance in its own rain. the universe is not against me. it’s been whispering my name all along. and i’m finall...

Hey there, Stranger. It’s officially March 1st. Spring has arrived. Soon, the earth will wake up. Tiny green sprouts will push through the soil, stretching toward the sun, preparing to bloom when summer comes. It happens every year, without fail. The flowers grow, they fade, they rest—and then, when the time is right, they begin again. It’s the quiet magic of life. How incredible is it that something so delicate can start over, again and again? No hesitation. No fear. Just the simple, natural trust that after the cold, there will always be warmth. This isn’t about the weather.  Happy spring. 

Hey there, Stranger.  Feels like it’s been forever. It’s strange—when I’m not writing, I feel… hollow. Like this diary isn’t just a space I stumble into, it’s the  only  place I can actually breathe. No armor, no performances. Just me, bleeding quietly onto the page. And somehow, that’s enough. Maybe more than enough. Anyway— I spent yesterday at straight boy’s place. Just a couple of drinks, just a couple of souls trying not to drown. And God, was it good. It’s rare, finding someone who just  gets it. Where you don’t have to explain the inside jokes or the heavy silences. Where you don’t have to translate your heart into smaller words. It’s just there, buzzing between you like a second electricity. We talked about everything and nothing. And somewhere along the way, we started dancing. No awkwardness, no second thoughts. Just two bodies moving like they already knew how. It felt timeless. It felt stupidly human. Later, he opened up about his insecurities— and it bro...

Hey there, Stranger.  I think I need to slow down before I burn out completely. I called in sick this weekend. Technically, I’m not sick. Unless you count a mind that’s been slipping through the cracks like sand. And maybe you should. I’m not sorry. I needed time to breathe—to do nothing, to  be  nothing. So I took a mental health weekend, and for once, I’m not carrying guilt around like a second skin. The plan is simple: games that don’t ask too much of me, a book ( Normal People , because irony is a love language), and long stretches and sketches of simply existing. Breathing like it matters. Because it does. I don’t know when it became controversial to take care of your brain, but here we are, pretending broken spirits can still clock into 9-to-5 shifts. They should make mental health days a national holiday. Put it in textbooks. Carve it in stone. I’d sign that petition in my sleep. Anyway—I’m rewatching  Awkward. Yes, that one—where teenagers are confused and ho...

Hey there, Stranger.  Something’s rotting inside me, and I don’t know when it started. Lately, it feels like I’m breathing through water, every emotion dragging me under. Not just today. It’s been building—quiet, patient, cruel. There’s this fury in me, small and endless, like a cigarette that never burns out, just smolders. The smallest spark sets me off. Maybe this is punishment. Maybe it’s just who I was always meant to become. I talk about hope like it’s easy to hold onto, but if I dropped the act, if I let the anger swallow me whole, what would happen then? Would anyone even notice the difference? And then there’s the hunger. It coils beneath my skin, always waiting. It’s not something I can explain without sounding broken. It flares when a song drags something bloody out of me, or when the stars look too far away to ever touch. It’s the kind of ache that feels like dying, and somehow, it still feels better than feeling nothing at all. It’s a reminder that the life I want is s...

Hey there, Stranger. Meeting up next Friday. It’s a strange thing—how the smallest kindness from a straight boy who cannot love me the way I crave still lights a fire beneath my skin. We are only friends. We have only ever been friends. Yet somehow, my heart forgets its place, blurring lines it has no right to cross. Perhaps it’s the way their attention feels different, like sunlight slipping through a crack in the door— something rare, something I was never meant to touch. Or maybe it’s loneliness, dressing itself up as hope. I never quite know how to wear myself in these moments. Should I bury the feeling deep, or let it flicker for a little while longer, just to remember what it feels like to be noticed? The truth is, I am looking forward to it. To the laughter, the easy conversations, the weightlessness that only true friendship can offer. There is no real desire tied to his name, no desperate love story waiting to unfold— only this soft, foolish hunger for something more. I hate h...

  Hey there, stranger. You’ve stumbled into something that was never meant to be found. A hidden space where I let my thoughts pour out, unfiltered and raw. This is where I document what no one else sees—the chaos, the quiet moments, the things that slip through the cracks. If you’re here, maybe it’s fate. Maybe you were meant to find this. Or maybe you just got lucky. Either way, welcome. Welcome to my world, where invisibility is my truth, and honesty is my only defense. So… where do I even begin? I guess I should catch you up. A lot has happened. But I’ll keep it short.  I moved around a lot when I was younger. Eventually, I settled in a city I spent most of my childhood and teenage years in. Looking back, I don’t know if I’m happy about it. Maybe I would’ve been better off staying where I was born, who knows? All I know is that I’ve always felt different. I don’t know my dad. He left before I was born. I’ve talked to him a few times, but honestly, I don’t care to know him....