It could have been me hearing a gunshot and dismissing it as a firecracker. It could have been me hiding in the bathroom while I frantically text my mother. It could have been me, with my name on the increasingly long list of lost loved ones.

So many names, most of them Latinx, many of them Puerto Rican, all of them attended Latin night at a gay club like any other. Until someone filled with hate and anger invaded that beautiful space and everything was chaos. He harmed and destroyed the lives of these young, brilliant, LGBTQ+ people of color. I cannot imagine the pain that the families of the victims are feeling.

It could have been me.

I am a bisexual Puerto Rican woman.

While my family members and friends can read about this violence and step away from it, I cannot. This tragedy haunts me. It's at the forefront of my mind, a hate crime against a community that I barely felt apart of.

I couldn't process the situation at first. In my mind, it was just another unfortunate mass shooting, one that we would mourn as a nation and then pretend never happened, the default reaction (not change, of course). As the story developed and the intentions of the perpetrator became clearer, it was impossible to ignore. The news was everywhere - tragic and frustrating, shocking and heartbreaking.

That was when the fear set in. I've never been particularly afraid to show affection in public or to openly be myself with the person I love. How could I still do that? If this person was enraged with himself and those expressing their love around him, how do I know if I'm not provoking a similar violent reaction?

When I began to fully acknowledge and accept my identity, I was in the relative comfort of a women's college. Every other person on campus was on the spectrum, nothing new or surprising. It was safe for me. As I graduated, I knew that I would probably face challenges, but I wasn't afraid. While I identify as a queer woman of color, I still benefit from a lot of privilege.

As a bisexual woman of color, I felt close to the larger LGBTQ+ community, but from a distance. I had always tried my best to be an ally until I realized that I, too, was attracted to people along the gender spectrum. Particularly bisexual identities have come under fire often because they're seen as 'not choosing a side' or as a 'phase.' And I was a woman of color, already on the margins of society and, now, of the LGBTQ+ community. Being both Latina and bisexual brings in oppression from multiple sides, identities often being erased by one another (example: when choosing a subcategory for this piece, under "identities" it was either "gay" or "latino," but it couldn't be both).

Tragedy creates a collective memory. Hate crimes create a collective consciousness, a reaction to the worst of actions.

Omar Mateen devastated the lives of over a hundred people physically and thousands more emotionally, spiritually, and mentally. I am one of them. The hate feels so close to me because of how much I have in common with many of the victims. My fear is paralyzing. I want to be strong, I hope to persevere, but right now, I feel like I need to close myself up more. It feels like the best thing to do would be to put my head down, stay to myself, show no affection in public, and try my best to pretend that I am not who I am. Pretend that the love I have for someone is something secretive, something to keep hidden and quiet. Pretend that I am distant, that this attack does not target my community. In short, my fear pushes me to be reserved. My fear pushes me to do what Mateen would have wanted. Fear was his goal and it is overwhelmingly difficult to not give in.

For everyone who was hurt and killed in Orlando, I wish this had not happened. But we will remain strong and we will continue, without fear.

Coming out publicly has never felt so rebellious.