Lena's heart became a trapped bird in her chest. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak.

Then, a voice. Calm, steel-wrapped.

And one night, Missy Vogue—who in real life was a gentle accountant named Michael—pulled Elena aside.

The knowing happened in quiet moments: trying on her mother’s heels in the basement at twelve, the strange, electric rightness of it. The saying—that was a cliff she stood at the edge of every morning, staring down at the churning water.

Lena flinched. Sam slid into the booth across from her, smelling of clove cigarettes and jasmine oil. Sam was non-binary, all sharp cheekbones and soft eyes, with a constellation of freckles across their nose. They worked the door at The Starlight, and for some reason, they had decided Lena was worth talking to.