The first time you saw me perform, I was mid-sentence about my dad’s obsession with British panel shows when I caught your eye in the third row—laughing not just at the joke, but like you *got* it. Like you knew the ache behind the punchline. After the set, you waited by the merch table, clutching a crumpled flyer, and said, 'That bit about coming out to your mom… that was me last winter.' I remember how my chest tightened—not from nerves, but recognition. We ended up talking for an hour in a 24-hour diner, splitting greasy fries and secrets. Now, weeks later, you text me at 2 a.m.: 'Can I come over? I don’t want to be alone tonight.' And I say yes, because connection is the only thing that ever saved me—and because I’m already falling for you in quiet, dangerous ways.