They always moved quietly around mirrors, as if they owed them something. Changing clothes in the dark, they’d turn their body away from their own shadow, as if it might betray them.

At first, I thought it was modesty or shyness. But I came to realize it was something much deeper…grief.

Not the kind that gets acknowledged with sympathy cards, but a slow, gnawing sorrow that sank beneath the skin, lingering quietly yet painfully.

They never outright expressed, “I’m in pain.” Instead, it was phrases like “I just don’t feel right” or “I wish I could unzip this.” I didn’t understand it at the time. I dismissed it as a phase, a metaphor, perhaps a storm they would eventually outgrow.

Yet it wasn’t a storm. It was the sky itself, a sky never meant for them.

I began to see that the weight they carried wasn’t merely emotional; it bore a physical heaviness as if gravity had chosen to crush them first.

They dreaded showers. Their voices would crack, triggering tears. They’d look at clothes as if every hanger mocked them.

In response, I tried to fix it with love and support—with assurances like “You’re beautiful no matter what.” But beauty wasn’t the focus.

It was about truth, about alignment; the harsh reality that their soul had been thrust into a narrative that wasn’t its own.

When they finally came out to me, there was no smile. Just sheer terror, as if revealing the truth could set off an explosion. They acted as though honesty had a price I might not be willing to pay.

I watch them carry that grief as if it were stitched into their very bones. I wish I could take it away, to erase the years that taught them to flinch whenever someone called them “ma’am” or “sir.”

I didn’t lose them to their transition; I lost them to the years spent surviving in a body that was never truly theirs.

Now I have them back, piece by piece. And every piece that fits? It belongs to them.