I grew up dancing and singing no matter what was happening. Living room? Stage. Kitchen counters? Drums. Sidewalk? Catwalk. I twirled until I got dizzy, made up songs about every dumb little thing, even my little brother’s Lego disasters. Life was for chaos, for loud laughter, and for pretending every normal day was some ridiculous musical. I didn’t care who was watching. Fun was mandatory.

High school was when everything got complicated. I started noticing girls differently, in ways I couldn’t explain. At first I told myself it was admiration or feminism or whatever, but deep down I knew it was more. One night, I stayed up texting my best friend, “Okay, I think I like girls. Like… actually like them. Not joking.” She responded with three laughing emojis and, “You’re kidding, right?” And I typed back, all caps because my heart was pounding, “No. I mean yes. I’m scared. I think I’m gay.” That tiny text, those words, felt like setting off fireworks in my chest. I didn’t know what the hell it meant, but suddenly the world felt bigger, sharper, more alive.

Coming out to my parents was chaotic, emotional, and life-altering. Dinner that night was silent at first.

I finally blurted, “I’m not just experimenting. I like girls. I really do.”

Mom’s hand froze over her fork, Dad leaned forward like he was about to argue, and I braced for disaster. Instead, they talked. Really talked. Questions, tears, laughter, a lot of “holy shit, we didn’t see this coming” energy. They didn’t shrug or snort. They listened. They understood. And I realized that saying the words didn’t just change my life, it changed my perspective on who I could be. I could be bold, chaotic, sexual, whimsical, and fully myself. The world didn’t have to shrink around me. I could exist in it fully, and that realization made me feel unstoppable.

College is glorious chaos. I dye my hair ridiculous colors on a whim, mix patterns that clash gloriously, flirt freely, and chase whatever makes my pulse spike. Leo, my best friend, calls me fire and confetti and he isn’t wrong. I go after what I want without hesitation, which usually leads to stories worth telling. My style, energy, and impulsiveness are unapologetically mine, and I fucking love it.

Tonight the bar is alive with neon lights, bass rattling under my feet. Leo and our friends are arguing about nonsense I stopped listening to minutes ago. I’m staring at her. She’s at the bar, brushing her hair back as she takes a sip of her drink, calm, confident, and holy fuck, gorgeous. Heat pools low, pulse spikes, and yeah, I’m turned on just by looking.

Leo notices and smirks. “Go,” he says.

I walk over and stop beside her. She turns, raises an eyebrow, curious. I grin, letting my excitement show. “Hi,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I couldn’t not come over. You’re… stunning. You’re really really pretty.”

“Are you perchance attracted to women?”