A Closet Story

The girl puts her phone back onto the bed beside her, thoughts racing. That can't be right, right? She can't be that because that is bad. That is sinful. That means losing her family and friends and future.

But she knows it's all true.

Shirts too tight, shorts too short, hair too long. She knows deep down that all of these things pointed to one answer, but she refuses to accept it. Why did she have to be that? 

She goes to class the next day, a pit in her stomach as she pushes away the knowledge that she acquired the night prior. Those thoughts don't need to be dealt with at that moment. There's tests to take, assignments to complete, things more important than acknowledging that.

But eery time her name is called it rings in her ears, a high-pitched whistle deafening her. Health class is Hell as she listens to her teacher drone on about anatomy she wishes she could forget. With labored breaths - and heavy sweaters - she makes it through the day, and the ones that follow. 

Over the course of late nights, the girl ponders over ignoring this idea entirely. So, ignore she does; night after night, the idea flies over her head. Whenever her parents talk about that, she waves her hand and pretends that the accusatory tone in their voices had no effect on her. 

“Of course not," she replies when they ask if it's true.

“I’m alright," she says with a weight on her chest.

“You looking into it too much," she responds to her siblings.

She can't be that.

The questions piled up until they became a weight too heavy for anyone, man or woman, to carry. She resents having to listen to conversations where forbidding words are exchanged between family members - where slights are tossed around as if they aren't persecutions - how loved ones can dismiss them as nothing more than jests.

The girl sits on the stairs and hears it all. 

Now she know's she really can't be that.

She stands in front of a mirror, the door locked. Her legs shake as she struggles to find the confidence to say the words that buzz around her mind. She wishes to be impenetrable, but no human is.

There's one more shaky breath as she stares at the girl in front of her: the long brown locks that cascade down her shoulders, a worn sweatshirt to hide her figure, and of course the face she dreads staring right back at her.

She closes her eyes; the two dreaded words fall from her lips.

And the world does not end.

He - because he is a comfort balnket - tries out new labels. Nonbinary, agender, genderfluid, demiboy, none of the titles seem to fit. On his phone once more, the moonlight streaming through the blinds, he attemps to put a name to the contorted feelings in his stomach. 

Bleary-eyed and weary he comesacross another video, one promising answers to all his questions. Fifteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, he is yet again a different person, or perhaps he's the same person who simply developed a better grasp on himself.

The rabbit hole had invited him; he leaned over the edge, hands struggling to cling onto the ground that held them back from complete and utter entrapment. 

There’s a world of enchantment within that hole. Realms of internet forums, endless blog sites, words he never knew existed; he soaks every term up like a sponge. The void in his stomach is still there. The pit eats him up every moment he's awake. He's still unable to escape the harsh reality of the world around him - and it breaks his glass heart every day to hear the name of his past. 

He's terrified.

He knows if he says the words out loud he'd be ostracized, cast aside, everyone would leave. There's also the grip on his body that feels even more constricting, the realization that he is wrong. The boy is wrong - he always has been, and now everyone else will be able to see that too. Admitting that to himself is one thing, but saying it for the rest of the world to hear is an entirely different mountain to conquer. The outside world will recognize that his body does not match his words, and they will ask endless questions; the void will grow and grow until there is a black hole threatening to turn him to dust.

So, he doesn't say a word. He hides. Closeted. Trapped. 

He knows he's that. He knows the late-night scrutinizing sessions will not stop; they will continue until he doesn’t know who he is anymore.

The moon peeks through his blinds as dusk turns to dawn. Some time, eons from now, he will learn that that is okay. He will learn new words, but for now he's a closet story, waiting to come out.