“Still here. Still trans. Still learning how to belong.”
Marco looked at the blank paper. He thought about all the labels. All the fights. All the gatekeepers—both straight and queer—who had told him he wasn’t enough, or too much, or doing it wrong. He thought about the beautiful, messy, impossible gift of finally recognizing himself in the mirror. busty latina shemale
And for the first time in a long time, Marco believed him. “Still here
He uncapped the marker and wrote:
But his boyfriend, Sam—a cisgender gay man with a gentle laugh and an infuriating ability to be patient—had simply put the lantern kit on the kitchen table and said, “I’m not asking you to go for them. I’m asking you to go for you.” He thought about all the labels
He remembered the lesbian bar his friend Jamie took him to after his first testosterone shot. The woman at the door had looked at his soft jaw, his binder-smooth chest, and said, “Honey, this is a women’s space.” Jamie had opened her mouth to argue, but Marco just turned and walked away. He remembered a gay man at a pride parade asking him, “So… are you sure you’re not just a butch lesbian?” He remembered the word “transmedicalist” and the word “tucute” and the feeling of watching his own identity become a debate topic on social media, dissected by people who had never once felt the wrongness of a body that didn’t sing the right note.