The Invisible Gay Boy Diaries

Hey there, Stranger.  *I love you* by Billie Eilish starts playing:  It started with the way he said my name. Soft, like a secret. Like it belonged to him before it ever belonged to me. I remember thinking:  this is it. The great, tragic kind of love. The kind that poems warn you about. The kind that rips you apart and calls it devotion. The kind that makes you feel chosen… and then cursed. He always knew how to look at me like I was glowing, even when my body was trembling in corners I don’t remember walking into. He always said the right thing, just two seconds after saying the wrongest thing imaginable. And me? I forgave him. Every time. Because I saw the ghost behind his eyes. Because I was foolish enough to think my big & great love could heal him. There were things I never told anyone. Not really. Just gestures. Just unfinished sentences. People would ask, “Are you okay?” And I’d smile too quickly. Shrug too hard. Laugh at the wrong moment. He never raised his v...

 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, ...