cake and cosmic apotheosis | lgbtq+

comfort.

There was always an Astrid. Before life blossomed from the uncertain hands of the universe—before all the stars in the sky ever formed, before the concept of existing ever dawned on God—Astrid breathed. She was conceived from the mind of the ruler of the stars, whoever they are and wherever they dwell. She existed in a pocket of illusion, her perception of the entire universe large so wide and deep it would split the human mind in two. Astrid, as she likes to say, was nothing more than a celestial being, a deity, worthy of all the worship she didn't receive.

And then I became conscious.

I'm sure I was born at some point in time, but my childhood memories come in short but intense waves of nostalgia. Sometimes all I can remember is Astrid in each and every memory, as young and dazzling as the very last time I saw her. Immortality is a very strange thing; the years slip past as fast as seconds while the days are eons as they sludge by. But Astrid had no need to care for time, and time wasn't ever troubled by her. As far as the universe knew, Astrid was never born, and I could never die.

I suppose that made us the perfect couple.

I never understood Astrid's existence, and she never wanted me to. I'd joke that her presence in my life was nearly as fluid and confusing as my sense of gender, and she'd tell me it was just as hard as to understand how one could exist forever when she hadn't ever felt the anchor of time on her bones. But she'd laugh, too, as she wound her fingers around mine and leaned her head on my chest. She'd laugh, and I would feel her joy against my skin.

We'd watch as time passed us by, an irrevocable bubble of eternity sheltering us from the world.

"My Astrid," I'd whisper.

"My Casey," she'd whisper back.

And that was all we ever needed. Our comfort was ours to keep.