We keep coming back to My Gay Best Friend because… why wouldn’t we!?

Queer stories are important — always have been, always will be — and we’ll keep making space for them for as long as we’re able to. 

My Gay Best Friend (and other unspoken letters) started back in 2023. It began as a bit of everything: a love letter, a protest, a night of honesty, and a way to let queer voices take centre stage without needing to ask permission. Now in our third year, it’s become something we cling to tightly — a reminder of why we started this, and why we keep going.

Every year, during a significant time towards the LGBTQIA+ Community (this year we’re doing the week before Manchester Pride), we head back to the King’s Arms in Salford. What we do is simple on paper but feels massive in practice. We commission LGBTQIA+ writers to create something deeply personal — a letter, a monologue, or a speech — about something they’ve never quite said out loud before. They write it, we seal it away, and then on the night, an actor opens it and reads it live on stage for the very first time.

No rehearsals. No edits. Just truth — messy, funny, painful, bold, and beautiful — shared in real time. Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes it’s heartbreaking. But, it’s always personal.

The first year (2023), we had all the letters read by straight-identifying actors. That was on purpose. We wanted to flip the usual dynamic and let queer voices be heard through the people they often have to explain themselves to. What do we wish we could say to our straight mates, if we had their full attention — just for a minute?

In 2024, we changed it up a bit — a mix of actors from different identities and backgrounds. Because in the end, it’s the words that matter most. The letter always leads.

And this year, 2025, with everything going on in the world — especially that Supreme Court ruling earlier this year — we knew it had to be different again. So this year’s five new letters were all written by trans and/or non-binary writers. Because it’s urgent. Because the noise out there is getting louder. And because when people are being silenced, we’ve got a responsibility to hand them the mic — and step back.

We’re not trying to be slick. Or fancy. Or make a big splash. But what we are trying to do is be honest. And human. And brave. Because there are people — artists, audiences, allies — who come away from these nights feeling seen in a way they maybe haven’t before. Or feeling challenged. Or finally feeling like they said the thing they’ve been holding in for years.

That’s why we keep doing it. That’s why it matters.

And as long as there are things we’ve been too scared, tired, or fed up to say — we’ll keep making space for them to be heard.

Because someone always needs to hear it.

This post was written by:

Jessica Rose Renshall [she/her], Associate Director and Producer of Peripeteia Theatre.