The Comfort of Being Seen
I had. Grad school was eating me alive. But somehow, sitting across from someone so unapologetically himself made the weight feel lighter. My-Femboy-Roommate
One night, he found me crying in the kitchen over a failed grant application. Without a word, he pulled me into a hug. His sweater smelled like vanilla and sandalwood. His cheek was soft against my shoulder. The Comfort of Being Seen I had
Three hours later, my left hand was a disaster of smudged midnight blue, and Leo had walked me through the entire plot of a dating sim I’d never admit to enjoying. Somewhere around level four of “convincing the stoic blacksmith to go to the beach festival,” I laughed. A real one. It cracked something open in my chest. One night, he found me crying in the
He held out his hand. Not for me to hold—for me to see. The nails were now a perfect, glossy black.
I never did get the hang of painting my own nails. But every now and then, when life gets heavy, I hear Leo’s voice in my head: You just have to be here.