“It’s not so bad living in the real world,” he says softly. “In the real world, you have a clear head and food in your fridge and furniture. You have friends. Maybe even a boyfriend-girlfriend-nonbinary friend or whatever you’re into these days.” “I’m graysexual,” I say. “Grayromantic.” His mouth is still open but his eyebrows furrow. “The hell is that? You like old men?” “No, I only feel romantic feelings or attraction some of the time, in very specific circumstances.” “You mean, like everyone in the fuckin’ world?” He scoffs. “‘Graysexual.’ I try to keep up with you and your generation, but
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