Every now and then, out of nowhere, I remember Quentin Coldwater, heart in hands, looking at Eliot with hope and saying, "what if we gave it a shot?" because fifty years wasn't enough time spent loving him.
And then I remember that the writers want me to believe he wasn't bi, that he wasn't in love with Eliot, and they didn't bury their bisexual for cheap shock value and I genuinely don't know whether to laugh or cry.













