It’s impossible to understand or explain what it feels like when you’re told you’re going to die. Back in New York, some days I wanted to breathe in every single second. I’d notice little things—like a scrawny tree pushing up through the cement—and feel grateful I was a part of the city I loved. Other days I was a sobbing mess. Still, other times I burned up with anger toward everyone who was not me—because they were alive, living their goddamn lives, and, I was sick. And people knew it, especially other gays. I had that look—I know because I’d seen it in others: a haunted, hunted look. My
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