What I confessed in the letter I had painstakingly written and handed to Mario before his flight that day were essential facts I had conveniently omitted about myself. At that time I was swept up in a romance that I thought would “fix me.” But the reality was I didn’t want to face the truth that I was already in a relationship of two years, and I was HIV-positive, vital facts I had not disclosed to Mario. This made me a liar, adulterer, and poisoned goods. I even attempted to explain my bipolar illness to him. I wanted Mario not to blame me for withholding the truth. I wrote that I wished I had been honest from the start, but I didn’t know how to extinguish the raging fire of passion that truly burned out of control. I had never felt that kind of intensity before—a deep connection with som
