On October 25, 2020, my finger hovered over Instagram’s Post button. I was about to share a series of selfies I’d taken with Julia, the woman I’d begun dating a couple months earlier—in them, we were on her rooftop, our faces close together, cracking up as we failed to center ourselves in the frame.
I’d told a few close friends about her. The rest of the world had no idea about her existence; no idea I was attracted to women, period. Among my 8,000 or so Instagram followers: my conservative parents, religious family, professional contacts, friends from all walks of life, strangers who followed me after reading my thriller books. The caption wasn’t a heartfelt Coming Out. It didn’t even identify Julia as my girlfriend (“Bad at selfies,” it read, because self-deprecation is my defense mechanism.) Still, our intimacy was obvious; people would know, or at least suspect, the truth. I hesitated, aware that this one casual Instagram could forever change how people think of me.
