Her life! GxG! Intersex! (Book 1)

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The sun was high and bright by the time Abigail pulled into the campus parking lot, the sky a clear, endless blue. The kind of morning that already promised good energy. She parked in her usual spot near the arts building, slipped her backpack over one shoulder, and took a deep breath before stepping out of the car.

The cool breeze carried a mix of coffee, freshly cut grass, and the faint buzz of students chatting as they hurried between classes. Abigail sipped the last bit of her smoothie, tossed the empty cup in a nearby bin, and started across the courtyard. Her guitar case swung lightly at her side, a familiar weight that always grounded her.

Her first class of the day—English Composition & Writing Workshop with Professor Fletcher—was one she'd grown to love. The room always smelled faintly of ink and coffee, and the professor had a way of making every discussion feel like a conversation rather than a lecture.

When Abigail walked in, the chatter of her classmates filled the small room. A few people waved, and she waved back, her smile easy and genuine. She took her usual seat by the window, the sunlight spilling across her notebook.

"Morning, Abigail," Professor Fletcher said as she passed by, setting a stack of papers on the desk.

"Good morning, Professor," Abigail replied, her tone bright.

"Today," Professor Fletcher began once everyone had settled, "we're focusing on voice. Not just what you say, but how you say it. Every writer has a rhythm, a cadence, a truth that only they can express. Today, we're going to explore that."

Abigail leaned forward, pen ready, her attention sharp. The professor handed out a short quote on slips of paper, one for each student.

"The moment you learn how to express yourself, you learn the power of your own truth."

Professor Fletcher smiled. "I want you to take ten minutes. Write a short paragraph about what that means to you—personally, creatively, emotionally. Then we'll share."

Abigail's pen moved across the page with fluid ease. She wrote about music, about how every note was an extension of her truth. She wrote about the nights she spent playing for no one but herself, about how her emotions found their way into melodies before words ever could. When she finished, she looked up, catching Professor Fletcher's approving glance.

By the end of class, the energy was alive. Students had shared, laughed, even debated, and Abigail left the room feeling light—like she'd stretched a creative muscle she didn't realize was tight.

Out in the hallway, she checked her phone: a text from Emma.

Hope class is going well, my love. Baby's kicking like crazy today ❤️

Abigail grinned, her heart swelling. She texted back quickly.

Good class! I'll call you after my next one. Tell the baby I said hi.

She slipped her phone back into her pocket and started walking toward the student center for lunch, humming softly to herself.

She still had a little over an hour before her next class—Music History: 20th Century & Beyond with Professor Shields. That thought alone might have made another day tense, but not today. Today felt different. She wasn't nervous or uneasy. Just steady.

Abigail grabbed a wrap and a smoothie from the café, found a quiet table by the window, and pulled out her notebook. She doodled a few lines of song lyrics in the margin while she ate, the rhythm of campus life unfolding outside.

When the clock neared one, she packed up her things and made her way toward the music hall. Her steps were calm, her mind clear.