Love & Other Disasters

And it was hard to explain. That they didn't want to be a man, but that they had never felt quite right as a girl. That they only started to feel really okay when they understood they could be their own thing. That they could exist in a space that was all their own, that they could shift and adjust until it felt right. They had settled on nonbinary feeling right for them, even though they knew others like them had their own names that felt right to their own experiences. And that was comforting too. That each person could choose what brought them closer to belonging, the power in that. Knowing that one day, people might discover even better words for it. That there was only ever freedom in continuing to find new names for who we were, who we could be.

That each person could choose what brought them closest to belonging, the power in that. Knowing that one day, people might discover even better words for it. That there was only ever freedom in continuing to find new names for who we were, who we could be.

I just want my life to be big, you know?” Dahlia’s brown eyes were unfocused. “Like…like the way your favorite song feels, when you’re sixteen. I want my life to feel like that. I want to feel big. I want to do messy, wild things, things I’ll remember, things that are interesting.

And that was comforting, too. That each person could choose what brought them closest to belonging, the power in that. Knowing that one day, people might discover even better words for it. That there was only ever freedom in continuing to find new names for who we were, who we could be.

The fact that London would always be surrounded by people who either didn’t approve of their identity or didn’t understand their identity was not a fact that could simply be ignored. London could push it away in order to exist. But it was always lurking in the shadows, making London on guard for how they should act, what they should say in front of other human beings.

Well,” Lizzie huffed again. “Here I was, just trying to talk. They call us the intolerant ones. I swear.

London wanted to lift that hand and run their tongue along that scar.

You’ve always known what you wanted, and even more than that, you follow through on getting it.

Dalia had dreams. But vague, blurry ones. Dreams that held no concrete value.

Sure, they would have wanted her regardless, but they could have done it quietly. Unexpressed longing was a skill they were good at.

Her hair was up now, drawn into an enormous, slanting bird's nest on top of her head, the mechanics of which, honestly, London couldn't compute.