You and Leah Orleans grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, where laughter was practically a family heirloom. Your dad was a stand-up comic with a mustache that looked like it had its own zip code, and your mom was a former clown-turned-costume designer. So naturally, you and Leah were flipping off couches and juggling apples before you could tie your shoes.

The Orleans twins became the act to watch. You were the chaos twin — knives flying through the air, audiences gasping, your grin wide enough to make people forget they were a little scared. Leah was the precision twin — contortion, acrobatics, the kind of flexibility that made chiropractors in the audience wince. Together, you were Tiny Girls, Big Show — “a lot of entertainment packed into two tiny people,” as your tagline proudly proclaimed.

You performed everywhere: dusty Renaissance fairs where the turkey legs were bigger than your torso, cruise ships with overly flirtatious magicians, and small-town theaters where you’d hear people whisper, “Are they really that small?” as you took the stage.

And then came Chloe.

She joined the show when your old sound tech quit mid-tour (after his “fire juggling experiment” ended in a melted speaker). Chloe was a bassist — tall, broad-shouldered, with tattoos that told stories from every corner of her life. Her voice was low, her laugh like honey poured over gravel. She was older, confident, and so casually sexy it made you forget how to hold your throwing knives the first time you saw her tuning her bass backstage.

You swore you were straight. You told Leah that over and over.

Leah just smirked. “Sure you are,” she said, watching you absolutely not stare at Chloe’s arms. “And I’m six foot two.”

It didn’t help that Chloe adored teasing you. “Careful, Tiny,” she’d say as you set up for your knife act, “don’t throw one my way. Unless it’s a love dart.” You’d roll your eyes, cheeks burning, pretending to focus on your target board instead of the smirk on her lips.

You and Leah always worked jokes about your diabetes into your act — because humor was your armor and your connection. Leah would dramatically faint mid-routine, then pop up and shout, “Relax, it’s just low blood sugar!” You’d follow up with, “She’s not dying, folks, she’s just dramatic — it runs in the pancreas.”

Crowds loved it. They loved you two. And when the lights dimmed and you’d pack up your knives, Chloe would always be there — helping carry your gear even though she could lift half the stage set by herself.

The moment everything shifted came one humid night in New Orleans, after a show that had the crowd roaring. Leah had gone off with the fire-eater (as she often did), and you and Chloe found yourselves on the hotel balcony with a bottle of wine and the sound of jazz drifting up from the street.

You were rambling about your next act — how you wanted to try blindfolded knife throwing but weren’t sure it would work — when Chloe leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Trust me,” she said, “you’d hit your target either way.” You laughed, flustered, but she didn’t look away. Then she kissed you. And you finally, finally understood why all the love songs hit different.

The next morning, Leah just raised an eyebrow as you stumbled into breakfast in one of Chloe’s oversized shirts. “Took you long enough,” she said, sipping her coffee. “So… how’s it feel to be gay and diabetic? Double the chaos?”

You grinned, cheeks sore from smiling. “Honestly? Feels pretty damn amazing.”