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."
He looked up, a small smirk returning. "A glitch? I like that. I’m the colorful static between the channels." My Boy Is So Bi
He laughed, a light, genuine sound. "It’s not even a spectrum, man. It’s just… everything. My boy is so bi," he whispered to himself, testing the words like a new pair of shoes. "Yeah. That fits." But the world doesn’t always let things fit so easily. The first time Leo mentioned it, we were
He’s still "my boy"—my best friend, the guy who cries at Pixar movies and builds custom PCs. But now, he’s a version of himself that doesn't hold his breath. He moves through the world with a dual-citizenship of the heart, proving that the most beautiful thing you can be is "both/and" in a world that insists on "either/or." "A glitch
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.
"They want me to be a finished book," he said, his voice thick. "They want to flip to the last page and see a label. But I’m a series. I’m a whole library. Why is my capacity to love more people seen as a lack of commitment to myself?"
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.