The Curriculum

A gloved finger pointed at me across the street like a summoning.

Like an idiot, I went.

Bruce was 30. Former Calvin Klein model. Cocaine dealer. And somehow carrying the entire history of European luxury in his head — Louis XIII cognac at $4,000 a bottle, which Dom Pérignon vintage paired with which caviar, cloistered nuns spinning silk from New Guinea silkworms.

This was 1982. No internet. No Wikipedia. How did he KNOW this?

What followed was a 5-year education in excess, danger, beauty, and something I'm only now beginning to understand.

He died of AIDS. I didn't.

It took me 40 years to figure out why I was spared.

This episode is that answer.

Transcript

Chapter: The Curriculum

I was twenty years old when love found me through a pointed finger across a crowded street.

The finger belonged to Bruce. Former Calvin Klein model, Black, thirty years old, wearing elegance like it was tattooed into his DNA. He stood above the Halloween chaos pouring out of Buddies at 2 AM, and when his eyes found mine across that sea of drunk gays in questionable costumes, his gloved finger rose and pointed directly at me. Then curled inward. Come.

It wasn't an invitation. It was a fucking summoning. And like an idiot, I went.

This was 1982. No internet, no Google, no Wikipedia to explain how the hell a thirty-year-old Black man from Boston knew more about luxury than the people who actually owned it. But Bruce carried an encyclopedia in his head—a walking archive of everything I didn't know I was supposed to want.

He didn't just know about Dom Pérignon; he understood why the 1973, with its notes of brioche and some French shit I couldn't pronounce, was meant for Ossetra caviar, while the sharper 1975 cut through foie gras like a hot knife through my naive little soul. He knew which vintage of Château d'Yquem paired with which type of blue cheese, and more importantly, he knew exactly which sommelier at which restaurant would actually admit they had the good stuff hidden in the back.

I was basically dating a gay Black encyclopedia with impeccable taste and mysterious funding sources.

But here's where it gets weird: he knew about cloistered nuns in French monasteries who spun silk from rare-ass silkworms, thread so fine it could only be woven by some blind master craftsman in Milan who worked entirely by touch. This wasn't just knowledge—this was insider trading for the soul.
How the fuck did he know this stuff? There was no internet. No lifestyle magazines for gay Black men. No trust fund. Just Bruce, somehow carrying the secrets of European luxury like he'd been born into it instead of whatever working-class Boston reality he'd actually come from.

So began my education in what it meant to live like money was just paper and the world was your personal shopping mall.

We traveled to Asia in Rolls Royces with interiors of polished walnut and leather so soft it felt like touching a baby's ass. We stayed in Mandarin Oriental suites where the bathrooms were bigger than my entire childhood bedroom and probably cost more than my dad made in a year. We shopped like we were filming a documentary about excess: Cartier for watches that cost more than cars, Van Cleef & Arpels for jewelry that sparkled like captured starlight, custom-made crocodile shoes that required three fittings and a small mortgage.

The tortoiseshell glasses alone were fifteen grand. Real tortoiseshell, not some plastic bullshit. They had to kill an actual turtle for my prescription sunglasses, which felt both horrible and incredibly decadent. Bruce insisted on them because "plastic is for people who don't understand luxury."

I'm pretty sure that turtle died judging me.

We flew to Montreal just to meet some designer who grew his own sheep. His own fucking sheep. This guy had a farm where he raised specific breeds for their wool, then designed custom coats from scratch. We both walked out with ankle-length coats made from wool so fine it felt like wearing a cloud made of money. The fitting alone took six hours. The coats cost more than most people's cars.

Worth it? Debatable. But I looked like a Russian oligarch in training.

Bruce taught me how to cook a goose—the whole ritual of it, from selecting the bird to the final plating. How to make steak tartare without killing yourself, mixing raw egg and beef like some kind of culinary Russian roulette. How to make hollandaise sauce that didn't break,
whisking butter and egg yolks over heat like a patient saint. I was twenty years old, learning French cooking techniques from a Black Calvin Klein model who somehow knew more about European cuisine than actual European chefs.

This was the epitome of the '80s, when excess wasn't just acceptable—it was a fucking art form. But even by those standards, we were performing wealth at a level that should have required multiple trust funds and a PhD in luxury studies.

And then there was the night he introduced me to Louis XIII cognac. Not just any cognac— the Louis fucking XIII. Four thousand dollars for a bottle that looked like something a medieval king would drink from before going into battle. The decanter was hand-crafted crystal with an 18-carat gold neck and these ten distinctive spikes that made it look like a crown for alcoholics. Bruce poured this amber liquid that tasted like honey, dried roses, and leather—like someone had liquified luxury itself and put it in a bottle that cost more than most people's cars.

"This," he said, swirling the cognac like it contained the secrets of the universe, "is what happens when you blend 1,200 different eaux-de-vie and age them for decades in oak casks that are older than your grandmother."

I was twenty, drinking something that cost more per sip than I made in a week, and somehow this felt completely normal in Bruce's world.

And he knew everything about Sir Basil Zaharoff. Everything. The merchant of death himself - the arms dealer who sold weapons to both sides of every war, who made fortunes from human misery and died one of the richest men in the world. Bruce could tell you stories about Zaharoff's mistresses, his secret deals, his mansion filled with stolen art.

Sure, there was the library. But I mean come on—his knowledge was staggering. How does a thirty-year-old model from Boston know the intimate details of a Greek arms dealer who died in 1936? The kind of details you don't get from encyclopedias—the color of the drapes in his Paris apartment, the exact way he played rival governments against each other, which specific mistress convinced him to bankroll which war. But Bruce knew it all like he'd been there.
It was like he'd been born with a master key to every exclusive door on the planet, and access to knowledge that shouldn't have been accessible to anyone without a library card to some secret archive. Or a time machine. I'm still not ruling that out.

But here's the thing that still fucks with my head: Bruce wasn't wealthy. He was a model, sure, but this was before supermodels made real money. He was a thirty-year-old Black man from Boston in 1982, and somehow he had access to luxury that would make actual rich people weep with envy. He knew people who knew people who knew the guy who could get you into places that didn't officially exist.

The most mind-bending lesson came in Hong Kong, at the Mandarin Oriental. We're sitting in our suite that overlooked the harbor like we owned the whole damn city, when Bruce suddenly gets this look on his face. He turns to our concierge and starts speaking perfect Mandarin, gesturing at me with this serious expression.

The concierge's eyes went wide, then he nodded solemnly and left.

"WTF. What was that about?" I asked.

Bruce just smiled that mysterious smile of his and changed the subject.

Later, I caught the concierge alone and asked what Bruce had said. The guy started laughing —said it was the strangest request he'd ever gotten. Bruce had told him: "Don't let him find an opium den."

I was twenty. I had no idea what an opium den even was. It sounded like something from a Sherlock Holmes story, not something that existed in 1983.

I've remembered that moment all my life. Now I understand: it was a warning placed on my soul by someone who could read my future like a restaurant menu.

We dove into Tokyo's underground scene like we were conducting anthropological research. Through the predawn chaos of Tsukiji fish market, past mountains of silver tuna and enough seafood to stock an aquarium, he led me to a stall no bigger than a confession booth. An
ancient man with hands like weathered leather stood behind the counter, and Bruce somehow found a shy schoolgirl to translate.

This was fugu. The deadly pufferfish that could kill you if the chef fucked up even slightly. The translucent fillets were arranged on lacquer painted with mountain rivers—a plate literally covered in death. The schoolgirl explained with grave reverence that we had to eat counterclockwise, from the outside in, each piece slowly revealing the hidden artwork beneath.

It was only later that I understood what Bruce was really showing me. The counterclockwise movement—going against time, against the natural order. Each bite took us backward through past, present, future, peeling away layers of illusion until only the truth remained visible. He was teaching me that to see real beauty, you had to be willing to dance with death, to consume danger piece by piece until the sacred was revealed.

Bruce caught my eye across the table as I took my first bite, that familiar look that said "pay attention."

We once went to Provincetown—just a shack on the beach, nothing fancy, just the two of us. But he had cooked fifteen different meals in advance for us to have for dinner that night. FIFTEEN. Like who the fuck does that? Who plans and prepares fifteen separate courses ahead of time for a weekend at a beach shack? But there he was, unpacking container after container like he was catering a state dinner instead of feeding two people in what was basically a glorified fish hut.

I was obsessed with Bruce in ways that weren't healthy. Twenty years old, trauma-wired, desperate for someone to see me as worthy of attention. I'd show up places I knew he'd be, manufacture reasons to cross his path. Was I a student seeking a teacher? Or just a broken kid clinging to anyone who showed me a world beyond my pain? Probably both.

Because that's what it was—a curriculum. Every luxury he showed me, every impossible experience, every moment of beauty and horror was a test. Could I handle this level of intensity? Could I survive being shown the absolute pinnacle of human experience and then
have it all ripped away? Was I strong enough to be a student of someone who carried both the keys to heaven and the seeds of death?

I followed him because I knew, on some soul level, that what he was offering wasn't just luxury—it was initiation. Into what, I had no fucking clue. But I could feel the weight of it, the importance of not missing a single lesson.

The toxicity between us wasn't just emotional—it was nuclear. After a screaming fight in a Tokyo taxi where the air was so thick with rage you could taste it, I did the only thing my twenty-year-old brain could process: I grabbed the door handle and threw myself into traffic. Rolling across asphalt while cars swerved and horns shrieked, leaving him and all that luxury behind in pure panic.

When cocaine entered our story, Bruce didn't just bring home a gram or an eight-ball. He walked through the door with a fucking kilo. Just like that. "Honey, I'm home," except instead of flowers, he's carrying enough pure Colombian to supply half of Boston.

I became the technician. Cutting, sorting, weighing, creating our own signature blend for Boston's A-list. The finest cocaine money could buy—because of course Bruce somehow had access to pharmaceutical-grade shit that made everything else look like baby powder. I had to experience that level of purity, that crystalline perfection.

We weren't just users. We were entrepreneurs with a very exclusive clientele.

My habit grew to three grams a day. Three fucking grams. For a year. To put that in perspective, most people would consider half a gram a big weekend. I was doing six times that daily, like cocaine was a vitamin supplement and I had a serious deficiency. I was twenty-one, my brain rewiring itself around powder while my heart tried to make sense of a love that felt like being struck by lightning every single day. By the time I fled to Sweden, I wasn't just running from Bruce—I was running from a complete mental breakdown and a cocaine habit that should have required its own zip code.
But here's the weirdest part: after a year of that level of usage, I just stopped. Cold turkey. No rehab, no intervention, no dramatic rock-bottom moment. Just... stopped. Like my body had learned whatever lesson it needed and was done with the whole experiment.

Apparently I could handle three grams a day of the finest Colombian without losing my soul permanently, but Bruce's warning about opium dens? That was the line I wasn't supposed to cross. Turns out cocaine was like advanced calculus—difficult but manageable. Opium would have been like trying to perform brain surgery while riding a unicycle. Some substances test you. Others just erase you entirely.

We weren't dancing in a# Chapter: The Curriculum

I was twenty years old when love found me through a pointed finger across a crowded street.

The finger belonged to Bruce. Former Calvin Klein model, Black, thirty years old, wearing elegance like it was tattooed into his DNA. He stood above the Halloween chaos pouring out of Buddies at 2 AM, and when his eyes found mine across that sea of drunk gays in questionable costumes, his gloved finger rose and pointed directly at me. Then curled inward. Come.

It wasn't an invitation. It was a fucking summoning.

This was 1982. No internet, no Google, no Wikipedia to explain how the hell a thirty-year-old Black man from Boston knew more about luxury than the people who actually owned it. But Bruce carried an encyclopedia in his head—a walking archive of everything I didn't know I was supposed to want.

He didn't just know about Dom Pérignon; he understood why the 1973, with its notes of brioche and some French shit I couldn't pronounce, was meant for Ossetra caviar, while the sharper 1975 cut through foie gras like a hot knife through my naive little soul. He knew which vintage of Château d'Yquem paired with which type of blue cheese, and more importantly, he knew exactly which sommelier at which restaurant would actually admit they had the good stuff hidden in the back.
And then there was the night he introduced me to Louis XIII cognac. Not just any cognac— the Louis fucking XIII. Four thousand dollars for a bottle that looked like something a medieval king would drink from before going into battle. The decanter was hand-crafted crystal with an 18-carat gold neck and these ten distinctive spikes that made it look like a crown for alcoholics. Bruce poured this amber liquid that tasted like honey, dried roses, and leather—like someone had liquified luxury itself and put it in a bottle that cost more than most people's cars.

"This," he said, swirling the cognac like it contained the secrets of the universe, "is what happens when you blend 1,200 different eaux-de-vie and age them for decades in oak casks that are older than your grandmother."

I was twenty, drinking something that cost more per sip than I made in a week, and somehow this felt completely normal in Bruce's world.

But here's where it gets weird: he knew about cloistered nuns in French monasteries who spun silk from rare-ass silkworms, thread so fine it could only be woven by some blind master craftsman in Milan who worked entirely by touch. This wasn't just knowledge—this was insider trading for the soul.

How the fuck did he know this stuff? There was no internet. No lifestyle magazines for gay Black men. No trust fund. Just Bruce, somehow carrying the secrets of European luxury like he'd been born into it instead of whatever working-class Boston reality he'd actually come from.

So began my education in what it meant to live like money was just paper and the world was your personal shopping mall.

We traveled to Asia in Rolls Royces with interiors of polished walnut and leather so soft it felt like touching a baby's ass. We stayed in Mandarin Oriental suites where the bathrooms were bigger than my entire childhood bedroom and probably cost more than my dad made in a year. We shopped like we were filming a documentary about excess: Cartier for watches that cost
more than cars, Van Cleef & Arpels for jewelry that sparkled like captured starlight, custom-made crocodile shoes that required three fittings and a small mortgage.

The tortoiseshell glasses alone were fifteen grand. Real tortoiseshell, not some plastic bullshit. They had to kill an actual turtle for my prescription sunglasses, which felt both horrible and incredibly decadent. Bruce insisted on them because "plastic is for people who don't understand luxury."

We flew to Montreal just to meet some designer who grew his own sheep. His own fucking sheep. This guy had a farm where he raised specific breeds for their wool, then designed custom coats from scratch. We both walked out with ankle-length coats made from wool so fine it felt like wearing a cloud made of money. The fitting alone took six hours. The coats cost more than most people's cars.

Bruce taught me how to cook a goose—the whole ritual of it, from selecting the bird to the final plating. How to make steak tartare without killing yourself, mixing raw egg and beef like some kind of culinary Russian roulette. How to make hollandaise sauce that didn't break, whisking butter and egg yolks over heat like a patient saint. I was twenty years old, learning French cooking techniques from a Black Calvin Klein model who somehow knew more about European cuisine than actual European chefs.

We once went to Provincetown—just a shack on the beach, nothing fancy, just the two of us. But he had cooked fifteen different meals in advance for us to have for dinner that night. FIFTEEN. Like who the fuck does that? Who plans and prepares fifteen separate courses ahead of time for a weekend at a beach shack? But there he was, unpacking container after container like he was catering a state dinner instead of feeding two people in what was basically a glorified fish hut.

This was the epitome of the '80s, when excess wasn't just acceptable—it was a fucking art form. But even by those standards, we were performing wealth at a level that should have required multiple trust funds and a PhD in luxury studies.
The most mind-bending lesson came in Hong Kong, at the Mandarin Oriental. We're sitting in our suite that overlooked the harbor like we owned the whole damn city, when Bruce suddenly gets this look on his face. He turns to our concierge and starts speaking perfect Mandarin, gesturing at me with this serious expression.

The concierge's eyes went wide, then he nodded solemnly and left. "WTF. What was that about?" I asked.
Bruce just smiled that mysterious smile of his and changed the subject.

Later, I caught the concierge alone and asked what Bruce had said. The guy started laughing —said it was the strangest request he'd ever gotten. Bruce had told him: "Don't let him find an opium den."

I was twenty. I had no idea what an opium den even was. It sounded like something from a Sherlock Holmes story, not something that existed in 1983.

I've remembered that moment all my life. Now I understand: it was a warning placed on my soul by someone who could read my future like a restaurant menu.

We dove into Tokyo's underground scene like we were conducting anthropological research. Through the predawn chaos of Tsukiji fish market, past mountains of silver tuna and enough seafood to stock an aquarium, he led me to a stall no bigger than a confession booth. An ancient man with hands like weathered leather stood behind the counter, and Bruce somehow found a shy schoolgirl to translate.

This was fugu. The deadly pufferfish that could kill you if the chef fucked up even slightly. The translucent fillets were arranged on lacquer painted with mountain rivers—a plate literally covered in death. The schoolgirl explained with grave reverence that we had to eat counterclockwise, from the outside in, each piece slowly revealing the hidden artwork beneath.
It was only later that I understood what Bruce was really showing me. The counterclockwise movement—going against time, against the natural order. Each bite took us backward through past, present, future, peeling away layers of illusion until only the truth remained visible. He was teaching me that to see real beauty, you had to be willing to dance with death, to consume danger piece by piece until the sacred was revealed.

Bruce caught my eye across the table as I took my first bite, that familiar look that said "pay attention."

But here's the thing that still fucks with my head: Bruce wasn't wealthy. He was a model, sure, but this was before supermodels made real money. He was a thirty-year-old Black man from Boston in 1982, and somehow he had access to luxury that would make actual rich people weep with envy. He knew people who knew people who knew the guy who could get you into places that didn't officially exist.

And he knew everything about Sir Basil Zaharoff. Everything. The merchant of death himself - the arms dealer who sold weapons to both sides of every war, who made fortunes from human misery and died one of the richest men in the world. Bruce could tell you stories about Zaharoff's mistresses, his secret deals, his mansion filled with stolen art.

Sure, there was the library. But I mean come on—his knowledge was staggering. How does a thirty-year-old model from Boston know the intimate details of a Greek arms dealer who died in 1936? The kind of details you don't get from encyclopedias—the color of the drapes in his Paris apartment, the exact way he played rival governments against each other, which specific mistress convinced him to bankroll which war. But Bruce knew it all like he'd been there.

It was like he'd been born with a master key to every exclusive door on the planet, and access to knowledge that shouldn't have been accessible to anyone without a library card to some secret archive.

I was obsessed with Bruce in ways that weren't healthy. Twenty years old, trauma-wired, desperate for someone to see me as worthy of attention. I'd show up places I knew he'd be,
manufacture reasons to cross his path. Was I a student seeking a teacher? Or just a broken kid clinging to anyone who showed me a world beyond my pain? Probably both.

Because that's what it was—a curriculum. Every luxury he showed me, every impossible experience, every moment of beauty and horror was a test. Could I handle this level of intensity? Could I survive being shown the absolute pinnacle of human experience and then have it all ripped away? Was I strong enough to be a student of someone who carried both the keys to heaven and the seeds of death?

I followed him because I knew, on some soul level, that what he was offering wasn't just luxury—it was initiation. Into what, I had no fucking clue. But I could feel the weight of it, the importance of not missing a single lesson.

The toxicity between us wasn't just emotional—it was nuclear. After a screaming fight in a Tokyo taxi where the air was so thick with rage you could taste it, I did the only thing my twenty-year-old brain could process: I grabbed the door handle and threw myself into traffic. Rolling across asphalt while cars swerved and horns shrieked, leaving him and all that luxury behind in pure panic.

When cocaine entered our story, Bruce didn't just bring home a gram or an eight-ball. He walked through the door with a fucking kilo. Just like that. "Honey, I'm home," except instead of flowers, he's carrying enough pure Colombian to supply half of Boston.

I became the technician. Cutting, sorting, weighing, creating our own signature blend for Boston's A-list. The finest cocaine money could buy—because of course Bruce somehow had access to pharmaceutical-grade shit that made everything else look like baby powder. I had to experience that level of purity, that crystalline perfection.

We weren't just users. We were entrepreneurs with a very exclusive clientele.

My habit grew to three grams a day. Three fucking grams. For a year. To put that in perspective, most people would consider half a gram a big weekend. I was doing six times that daily, like cocaine was a vitamin supplement and I had a serious deficiency. I was twenty-
one, my brain rewiring itself around powder while my heart tried to make sense of a love that felt like being struck by lightning every single day. By the time I fled to Sweden, I wasn't just running from Bruce—I was running from a complete mental breakdown and a cocaine habit that should have required its own zip code.

But here's the weirdest part: after a year of that level of usage, I just stopped. Cold turkey. No rehab, no intervention, no dramatic rock-bottom moment. Just... stopped. Like my body had learned whatever lesson it needed and was done with the whole experiment.

Apparently I could handle three grams a day of the finest Colombian without losing my soul permanently, but Bruce's warning about opium dens? That was the line I wasn't supposed to cross. Turns out cocaine was like advanced calculus—difficult but manageable. Opium would have been like trying to perform brain surgery while riding a unicycle. Some substances test you. Others just erase you entirely.

We weren't dancing in a vacuum, either. Whispers had started about something called "gay cancer"—mysterious pneumonias, weird skin lesions, perfectly healthy men suddenly wasting away. This was 1983, when AIDS wasn't even called AIDS yet. We were all still clueless about the death wave barreling toward us.

I was twenty-one and treating my body like an amusement park. Alleyways behind clubs, abandoned buildings with broken stained glass, bathhouse steam rooms where you couldn't see your own hand—anywhere two bodies could collide in darkness, I was there. Anonymous encounters that I'd forget before my pants were zipped, quick blow jobs that left me tasting shame and cigarette smoke for hours.

This wasn't love or even lust half the time. This was freedom disguised as self-destruction, celebration disguised as Russian roulette. We were the last generation of gay men who could fuck without calculating death, even though death was already taking attendance.

So those three days with Bruce? They were the grand finale of months of playing sexual lottery with an immune system under attack from forces we didn't even know existed.
The final act was domestic horror. Cast iron flying, sharp steel glinting, Christmas Eve with my mind fracturing under three grams a day and a love that was systematically destroying me. But then something shifted. After all the screaming and broken glass, after we'd tried to murder each other with words and fists and pure fucking hatred, something else took over.

Three days. Three days where our rage transformed into the most tender love I'd ever known. We held each other like we were trying to heal forty years of wounds with our bodies. We whispered apologies and promises we both knew were bullshit but felt true in the moment.

I thought it was just the cycle of toxic love—fight, fuck, forgive, repeat. But now I see he was saying goodbye. Giving me three days of pure, undiluted love so I'd remember what that felt like when everything went to hell.

Then I fled to Sweden with a mind in complete breakdown.

A week later, the call came. Bruce was dead. AIDS. First person I knew who died of it, but definitely not the last.

The news didn't bring tears—it brought cold terror that settled into my bones like winter in Stockholm. Those three days of unprotected love suddenly felt like a death sentence I'd signed without reading the fine print.

For forty years, I told myself a story about genetics. The Delta-32 mutation, supposedly common in Scandinavians and Germans—thanks Dad—that might provide HIV resistance. It was scientific, logical, something I could hang my survival on without diving into the deep end of survivor's guilt.

But lately, something else has been writing alongside me. The universe pulling up a chair, co-authoring this story while I type. The past isn't fixed—it's a narrative we're healing in real time.

And from somewhere deeper than thought, a word rises: embracing.
As it forms in my mind, the radio echoes it back twenty seconds later. Not coincidence. Divine synchronicity. A cue from forces beyond my understanding that this moment is being documented in real time as I write it.

In the sacred silence that follows, I finally see what that word means. It means embracing not just Bruce the teacher, Bruce the lover, Bruce the cosmic tour guide to luxury I could never afford. It means embracing Bruce the stigmatized discard. The man who became society's scapegoat. The beautiful, broken angel who was tossed aside to die alone in some AIDS ward while the world looked away.

I can see him now in that hospital room, watching his body betray him, knowing that his death was serving a purpose larger than his own life. He carried that virus not as victim, but as voluntary sacrifice. He absorbed the plague into his own flesh so that others—so that I—could continue walking.

The radio's timing wasn't random. The universe was telling me it was time to embrace his suffering as sacred. To see his death not as tragedy but as the ultimate act of love.

Not just embracing Bruce the teacher, Bruce the lover, Bruce the cosmic tour guide to luxury I could never afford. Embracing Bruce the sacrifice. The beautiful, broken angel who somehow knew he was meant to absorb that virus so I wouldn't have to.

The Delta-32 theory was never why I survived. It was just a story I told myself to avoid the real truth: Bruce wasn't a random lover who happened to point at me across a street. He was a teacher sent by forces I'm only beginning to understand, and his curriculum was designed with brutal precision.

Every luxury, every danger, every moment of beauty and horror—it was all testing. Could I survive the beauty without being trapped by it? Could I endure agony without being destroyed? Could I love someone completely, lose them, and still keep walking?

He was testing my durability for something I couldn't comprehend at twenty.
The fact that he was my first love and the first to die wasn't cosmic cruelty. It was the entire point. My soul needed to learn about love and loss in one searing, unforgettable lesson.

He had to die so I wouldn't.

He carried that virus knowing what it would cost him, absorbed the full weight of that death into his own body so mine could be cleared to continue whatever fucked-up journey I was meant to take. His death wasn't my tragedy—it was my salvation.

There was no genetic lottery. There was only love willing to sacrifice everything. I passed the test. At his expense.
This is me, across time and space, finally embracing you, Bruce. The beautiful, broken angel who agreed to carry death so I could carry life. Thank you for the protection. Thank you for the love. Thank you for the sacrifice that saved me before I even knew I needed saving.

The sky parts. The angels sing. And for the first time in forty years, I understand.