Spoken to me nearly daily. And yet my mother wonders why I come home at 12 in the morning just to leave again at 10. I don't want to hear that.
"Why can't you just be like the other girls your age?"
Maybe being like everyone else isn't what I want. Maybe being a girl isn't what I want. Why do we always care about what others want? Why can't we just let ourselves be happy?
When I first told her of my decision, she cried. Why did she cry? I wasn't dying. I wasn't running away. She doesn't even have to deal with the shit thats thrown at me on a daily basis.
What reason did she have to cry?
And now, here I'm sat, sand in my toes, seagulls circling me. The waves are relaxed. Even more so because its the off season. The wind could be blistering cold, but yet, it feels good.
Refreshing.
It's enough now to keep my mind off of other things.
I focus on the cheap 89¢ cup of coffee in my hands, and listen to the waves.
Behind me I hear the carefree laughter of teenagers, a girlish high-pitched giggle followed by a deeper chuckle.
Graduation was two days ago.
I didn't attend.
...
The sun is lower in the sky now, turning the clouds cotton-candy pink, and an alarm pings on my phone.
I pull on my shoes and stand up. It's nearly 6:30, and time to head back to work. Nearly closing time.
...
"Have a nice walk?" Aaron, my boss, asks. He owns this little diner, just like his father, and his grandfather. It's a little put-back thing, off the main highway, but well-known to those who've lived here most of their lives.
"It was relaxing." I reply, washing up the few dishes in the sink. "Did anybody come in while I was gone?"
"No." he's scrubbing the counter, bottle of bleach in hand. "But it'll pick back up in the spring, I know it. It always does."
I hum in agreement, and we work in companionable silence.
I leave at 8:00 only to loiter at gas stations all night.
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(Pictured above: a 9-photo collection of aesthetics for the story/character)
Authors note: I don't truly have a transphobic family, so this story is based from what I've heard from other's experiences.
