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Mira crossed the threshold of their home to a familiar sight: Rumi bundled up in blankets, legs tucked beneath her, claiming the couch as her temple of comfort. A small storm of wings fluttered against Mira’s ribs – that old, frankly ridiculous fluster that she never managed to outgrow. A reminder that she had found her person far earlier than she deserved and somehow kept her.
“You’re home!” Rumi’s eyes lifted, bright with that same delighted surprise she’d offered Mira for thirty years – as if Mira might one day forget to return. As if years of coming home every night weren’t enough to prove to Rumi that there was nothing more important.
Mira toed off her shoes and hung her jacket on the well-worn hook by the door. The metal was smooth now, polished like the noses of those little bronze dogs people touched for good fortune – demanding their bit of luck from the most unlikely place.
“Hey, love.” Mira crossed the living room and sank into her spot beside her wife; her spot. “How was your day off?”
“So good,” Rumi chuckled, leaning into her. “If you can believe it, I’ve hardly moved. Just me and the couch.”
Mira eyed the couch carefully, searching for the familiar pages peeking from below the covers. “And let me guess… you and the couch had some company?” She leaned sideways, trying to get a better angle. “Maybe a shirtless knight? Riding high on his high horse with his huge—”
Rumi gasped, un-tucking a foot to kick uselessly at Mira, her leg bound by the chains of blankets. “I’ll have you know this knight keeps his shirt on until chapter twelve. Like a real gentleman.”
“Oh, so it’s literature.” Mira laughed, melodic and breathless. She kissed her wife’s temple, warmth blooming in her chest at the familiar heat of Rumi’s skin – a little too warm from the coziness she must have spent all day perfecting. She breathed in the scent of Rumi’s hair and felt her body relax into the feeling of home. Rumi had always smelled like home to Mira. So much so that she often wished there was a way to abandon her earthly possessions and move into the crook of Rumi’s neck. Live there, tucked away; just the two of them.
“I still don’t understand why you read that stuff,” Mira hummed, still suspended in the ephemeral dream.
“It makes me appreciate what we have.” Rumi winked, then shifted and pulled a photo album from beside her. Mira recognized it, despite the dozens scattered across their shelves. Unlike most of their other albums, their wedding album gave itself away immediately. It was unreasonably shiny – aggressively bedazzled in a way that made the cover hard to look at directly. Silver sequins and glass jewels meticulously glued by hand over a not‑so‑well‑hidden leopard print cover.
Rumi’s mother had made it for them. Neither of them had ever found the courage to tell her it was the ugliest thing they owned.
“Oh, you’ve been looking through it again?” Mira’s voice dipped without her permission, the question trembling at the edges.
“Yeah,” Rumi said quietly, voice turning smaller in a way that made Mira want to take her words back in that instant.
“I just mean… I’d love to look through it with you, if you’re not done yet.”
The way Rumi’s eyes lit up told Mira she’d said exactly the right thing. ‘Happy wife, happy life’, as the straights say – and maybe they were onto something.
Mira pressed in closer, draping an arm over Rumi’s shoulders, and settling in for a walk down memory lane.
Rumi flipped through the pages slowly, letting the tips of her fingers trace the lines on the faces of friends. Mira remembered the day clearly even now – the dizzyingly busy rush of the wedding, the way it all flashed and disappeared into memory before they had the chance to truly appreciate it.
The pages in Rumi’s lap showed the family shots – mostly Rumi’s family. Her brother Jinu, lifting Rumi in his arms and grinning widely at the camera; a proud younger brother who had always adored her. It had taken two good years into dating Rumi before he began to truly acknowledge Mira. It had been a trial of proving, over and over, that she was there to stay. That the complexity of her own family life would never dare touch Rumi. That Mira would do anything in her power to protect her.
Mira’s eyes drifted to the figure standing beside them – Celine, Rumi’s mom – caught mid‑gasp, one hand hovering uselessly in the air, reaching to steady her son before he dropped her daughter. Even all these years later, Mira could still read the expression as clearly as she had through the camera lens. I will love you forever, but if you break your sister’s neck on her wedding day, I will haunt you from beyond the grave.
The woman with a heart of gold who tried the best she could to play mom for both Rumi and Mira that day. Filling in the gaps the only way she knew how. Love layered on thick, sprinkled with affection and care – often overbearing and always endearing
Losing her had been brutal. For both of them, yes, but for Rumi it had carved out years of prolonged grief. Depression so deep Mira had barely recognized her partner. This album had become a makeshift shrine during that time. The first sign of Rumi resurfacing had been her hands returning to these pages, touching the things Celine had touched. And Celine’s hands had touched everything about their wedding – made it perfect, in her own imperfect way. Love threaded through every gesture, every action. The memory living on, bittersweet and stubborn. Celine through and through.
Rumi’s index finger lingered over the flow of her mother’s hair cascading down her shoulders. She was wearing a beautiful teal dress – one that Rumi had picked out for her. Mira noticed the stutter in her wife’s breathing. She squeezed Rumi into her side.
“I miss her too, love.”
Mira felt Rumi stiffen.
“Remember when Celine hand‑wrote notes to my parents trying to convince them to come to our wedding?” Mira started, offering a memory as an exit out of whatever feeling had locked Rumi up inside. “And how she was so much angrier than either of us when they didn’t show up?”
It worked. The smallest smile tugged at the corner of Rumi’s lips. “What I remember were the… whatever is the opposite of thank‑you notes.”
“Fuck‑you notes.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“It’s okay. They were well deserved…” Mira felt the old twinge of disappointment rise in her chest. An echo of the one she’d learned years ago as a young woman, when she had to realize in real time that sometimes hate was stronger than love. Stronger than family.
“They missed out,” Rumi said without missing a beat. “You looked damn good that day.” She turned until her eyes met Mira’s, soft wrinkles crinkling at the corners of her eyes in tandem with her smile.
Mira knew Rumi meant every word. And she did know – if she were to go somewhere objective and clear in her mind – that she had looked good. That she always looked good. That she was pretty, even. But there was a twinge of something that came with being confronted with images of herself. Mira could never put a finger on it; she couldn’t now either. But the feeling was fast and familiar, the way it lodged itself between her ribs and throbbed with that dull, persistent ache of not meeting her own expectation.
She noticed the way her posture looked forced and stiff, the way her smile never quite reached her eyes. Any time she took a photo, the dread of having to look at it later made her nauseous. At a certain point she had simply accepted that photos weren’t for her – they were something she did for others.
Still, her eyes flicked down to the picture: Rumi and her posing in an embrace, her own smile wide as she shoved a slice of cake into Rumi’s mouth. She remembered being in the moment when the photo was taken. How for just a moment her entire world had been her and Rumi and that German chocolate cake. Rumi’s laugh, the love that buzzed electric between them. The relief of calling Rumi hers forever.
Now all she could see was how broad her shoulders looked in the photo. How the dress didn’t quite complement her frame. How femininity had always felt like a requirement she’d made sure to fulfill – a kind of safety she’d been taught to cling to. That no matter how hard she tried, Mira still looked like one of those paper‑doll cutouts with different outfits stuck on. All of them meant for her, but not one of them fitting quite right.
Mira knew she’d gotten too caught up in her own head when Rumi’s eyebrows knit together in concern.
“You alright?”
Mira blinked, coming back to the moment. Returning slowly to the warmth of Rumi pressed against her. “Yeah… yeah. I’m sorry, I think it was just a long day.” She had to stop her hands from moving, from cradling her ribs. From showing the pain that had lived under her skin for as long as she could remember. The sharp, throbbing warning to not make life harder than it already was. “I think I’mma head to bed a little early. Is that okay?”
“Sure, love—” Rumi hummed. It almost looked like she was going to say something else, but she cut herself off.
Mira didn’t press, hoping that her discomfort would go unnoticed, skimmed over by her wife’s watchful gaze.
Just then, when she was almost free, Rumi’s hand wrapped around Mira’s wrist. Anxiety spiked – Mira felt like she was caught – but Rumi didn’t say anything, she tilted her chin instead, in that familiar way that demanded a parting kiss.
A passage toll Mira was more than happy to pay.
-----------------------------------------
Mira had almost fallen into the blissful avoidance of sleep when her phone buzzed. She groaned, propping her pillow into a sitting position.
Her daughter’s name lit up on the screen. A burst of anxiety shot through – why would Nara message her this late at night? While her brain spiraled in every unhelpful, most drastic direction, her fingers retained enough control to unlock the phone and actually check the message.
The light of the screen blinded Mira momentarily, she blinked trying to regain sight. To her surprise and relief, the message didn’t read I need your help, come rescue me now. Instead, Nara had sent a long message telling her about her first day of classes. Nara was a junior now, fully moved out. It was a hard adjustment, but the instincts still kicked in for Mira whenever her little girl reached out.
Mira read the text, having recently figured out how to increase the font size on her phone, so she didn’t need to fish for her glasses in the drawer. Nara would be proud of her technological advancement.
Chicken:
Hey momma!
Sorry for the late text, I thought you’d want to hear that I have just heard back from all of the internship sites and been officially been assigned to a forensic lab >:)
Mira tilted the phone sideways, trying to decipher the smiley face.
Momma:
That’s amazing. Do you mind if I tell mom about this? Let me know if you ever need any help with the course work…
Chicken:
Of course! I was gonna call you two over the weekend anyway
Momma:
Oh good, I will let her know then.
So… Did you meet anyone handsome at the lab?
Or beautiful?
Or whatever.
Chicken:
I am NOT about to recreate your and mom’s love story.
I am there to work.
Momma:
Tragic.
Chicken:
But I have been meaning to tell you that I’m dating someone
Mira’s heart locked up, going still and lifeless, completely flatlining. Nara was dating someone? For how long? How did they meet? Was he a good person?
Right before she texted the cascade of questions, she caught herself. Heard Rumi’s voice in the back of her mind telling her to take a deep breath.
Momma:
What’s his name?
Chicken:
Their name is Eden.
And they prefer handsome.
Oh.
Mira raked her brain for the explanation her daughter had given her about pronouns and the new – or rather now named – identities which fell somewhere between a man and a woman. The details scattered like loose beads, rolling out of reach. Mira paused, fighting the embarrassing thought that she was much too old to be learning this now. That she somehow should have known, should have taken note of the confident young woman she had raised – one that moved through the world in ways Mira had never been allowed to imagine.
She typed and deleted, retyped questions over and over again.
Should I ask if Eden is…
She wished desperately that Rumi were here helping her through the conversation. Her wife had a way about her – a way of asking things without making it sound like an interrogation. Mira, on the other hand, felt a strange sort of fluster, a tightening in her throat, a burning she wanted to extinguish with understanding. Understanding, but on her terms. She had grown up in a world where labels were few and risks were high, where visibility was… at best uncomfortable, at worst dangerous. Even now, thinking about her daughter being in a queer relationship made Mira’s chest burn with worry. She knew the times had changed, but her body told a different story.
She fought the impulse to ask Nara to be careful. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her daughter… she simply didn’t trust the world around her.
After what felt like an embarrassingly long time, Mira settled for something safe.
Momma:
Do we get to meet Eden at New Years this year?
Chicken:
Really? I could bring them??
Momma:
Of course, love.
Chicken:
You are the best!
Momma:
I know.
Go to sleep now! Rest so that you have a strong start to the academic year.
Chicken:
I will, I will… Goodnight! Love ya
Momma:
I love you so much. You are my whole heart. Goodnight chicken.
Chicken:
<3
‘Happy daughter, happy life’ might be even more true, Mira thought. She sighed and set her phone back on the nightstand.
Just then the door into the room creaked open, the soft light of the hallway spilling into the bedroom. Rumi eased it open slowly, her head poking through first – top of her head, then inch by inch the rest of her face – exactly the way Mira remembered Nara being born. Pushing her head through the narrow gap, finally breaching the doorway into their bedroom.
“Are you still up?” she whispered.
“Nara messaged me right as I was about to fall asleep,” Mira explained, voice creaky from disuse.
“Nara?” The alarm in Rumi’s voice made Mira feel justified in her initial anxiety. She wasn’t alone in her worry about late‑night messages from their daughter.
“She was just letting me know about her first day at school. She got into an internship finally!”
“Good! She’s been searching all summer. I’m glad that girl finally found a place to land.” Rumi stepped inside, moving to change out of her comfy house clothes into somehow even comfier pajamas.
Mira watched her for a moment, each move familiar and routine. She wondered how something as simple as putting on clothes finds a way to etch itself into muscle memory.
“She was also telling me… that she started seeing someone.” Mira started, eyes following Rumi.
Rumi froze mid‑motion, one arm halfway through a sleeve. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Mira tried to sound casual, like she was a cool mom who didn’t for a second spiral at the news, but her voice betrayed her – cracking, making the word end in a high‑pitched shrill. “Someone named Eden,” she added, in an attempt to cover up the worry.
Rumi’s expression softened. “Eden. That’s a nice name.” She pulled the long‑sleeve pajama shirt over her head and stepped toward her side of the bed.
“It is,” Mira agreed, though her throat tightened again. “They’re… uh… they’re not a he.” She added quickly, “If you were wondering.”
Rumi blinked, processing. She lowered herself onto the mattress, the surface dipping with her weight as she settled.
“I didn’t ask too many questions,” Mira continued, “I didn’t want to sound… so old. I have some Googling to do for sure.”
Amusement and tenderness braided together, softening the lines of Rumi’s face. “Love, asking questions doesn’t make you old.”
“It sure makes me feel old.” Mira insisted, voice growing smaller. Rumi scooted in close and Mira took the opportunity to lay her head on Rumi’s shoulder. “She grew up so fast, you know? And she talks about these things so casually. Feels like I should just… know. I just want to get things right with her.”
“You will.” Rumi said simply, her hand finding Mira’s. “And if you don’t, she’ll tell you. That’s the beauty of raising a kid who knows who she is.”
Mira hesitated, then whispered, “Don’t you think her life will be harder? Being so open about it?”
Rumi chuckled softly. “Those kids are being who they are. We could learn a thing or two from them, huh?” She nudged Mira’s side. “It was hard for us, and that’s not the world I want for our baby. Imagine what it would have been like to be so sure.”
“You are right.” Mira sighed, closing her eyes and letting the ache in her chest settle into something duller. Dim enough for her to finally ignore.
Rumi shifted beside her and pressed her lips to Mira’s forehead.
“Do you… want to have sex tonight?” Rumi whispered against her skin.
Mira couldn’t help the smile that stretched across her lips. “I’m feeling kind of tired, love. I think I’m ready for bed.”
“Oh thank God!” Rumi gasped in relief, slouching back against the headboard. “I’m tired too.”
“You are unbelievable, you know that?” Mira rolled her eyes, pulling away to settle back into her own side of the bed.
“You love me.”
“More than anything.”
~
Despite her best efforts, sleep did not come for Mira. It avoided her, skirting around the edges of her consciousness while her mind continued to reel – swirling with thoughts. None that mattered. All that she couldn’t ignore.
Reluctantly, she pulled her arm off Rumi’s waist. The warmth departed her skin with the ache of losing something precious, even if only momentarily. She flopped onto her back, greeted by the cavernous darkness of the room. Mira stared at the ceiling like it might give her the answers she was looking for. Like the odd shapes of the night could help her decipher a code she had been choosing to ignore.
It was frustrating – her mind didn’t listen, neither letting her rest nor letting her access the part of herself that rattling the walls of its cage. She figured that if she was going to spend her time ruminating, she might as well take the opportunity to do some Googling now. Maybe it would lead her toward the calmness necessary to turn her brain off. Mira told herself this, knowing full well it was the furthest thing from the truth. No one had ever gotten calmer from Googling the thing that caused them anxiety. But it was a nice, self‑serving lie nonetheless.
She unlocked her phone, forced into a blinking fit by the bright light for the second time tonight. The after‑image blurred her vision until her practiced hands lowered the brightness.
Mira hesitated, thumb hovering over the search bar. It only made sense to start with the most obvious:
How to talk to your queer adult child without sounding clueless
She frowned at the screen and tapped at the delete button. No, she needed something more specific.
Nonbinary partner what to ask
That didn’t make sense – not to her and clearly not to the search engine.
Pronouns they them dating daughter help
Too desperate.
Finally, she settled on something neutral and hit ‘search’:
nonbinary meaning simple explanation
The results flooded in – articles, infographics, video compilations that she absolutely did not click on. She skimmed a few definitions, nodding like she understood, even though the words just rattled around in her brain without settling. Gender identity. Gender expression. Spectrum. Fluidity.
After a good ten minutes of opening and closing links to websites claiming to help parents understand their children, Mira felt both more enlightened and more confused than when she started. How hard could it be?! She even had a head start of being queer herself. No matter.
She clicked another link, something about Queer identities 101, then another about How to support your nonbinary kid. When she finally got to the Q&A her chest tightened. Muscles knitting together in a tight braid around her ribs holding her still; holding her hostage. The language was so casual, so confident. Parents asking questions that actually made sense – nuanced, in tune. Everyone online seemed to know exactly what they were talking about, while she felt like she’d walked into this conversation some twenty years too late.
Scrolling further, she found a forum thread titled:
Am I too old to figure myself out?
She backed out quickly without catching a single word. The answer was obvious; she didn’t need internet know-it-alls to rub it in her face.
Another link caught her eye – colorful and aggressively cheerful:
What Kind of Lesbian Are You? (Fun Quiz!)
Mira snorted. How fun can something really be if you have to tell people that?
She scrolled past it.
Then scrolled back up.
Her thumb hovered.
What’s the harm if it’s just for fun, she told herself. Something to quiet the mind.
She clicked.
The first question popped up:
What is the perfect first date you would take your partner on?
Option one: Picnic on a hillside, looking over the sunset.
She liked it, though it seemed a little specific. Mira let her mind wander, imagining taking Rumi on a date like this. A picnic on the hillside… maybe a little more than a picnic. Laying Rumi down on a blanket, climbing over her, settling gently between her legs… Watching Rumi while she watched the sunset.
Anyway.
A clear winner.
She clicked the option without considering any others seriously.
The next question came out of left field:
Are expensive socks worth it?
Obviously yes. What a silly question.
What is the best women’s sport to watch?
Now this was a tough one. She and Rumi weren’t really into sports, but if they had to pick it was a close call between hockey and pickleball. Hockey. Sure… why not?
What item to you always have on you?
A tricky question. Mira hated carrying anything in her hands or on her person. She felt like any extra item beyond her clothes offset her equilibrium. Which meant, unfortunately for her wife, that she was designated as the carrier of all things Mira. Her phone, her wallet, her keys, her water bottle. Mira felt bad about it most of the time, but never enough to carry the items herself.
But nothing wasn’t an option.
Her choices were: lipstick, a multi‑tool, loose change, carabiner, a sweet treat, or a pocket watch.
Who the hell still carries a pocket watch? Even she wasn’t old enough for that kind of behavior.
If she had to carry something on her at all times, a multi‑tool only made sense. It was the most useful.
Next.
Pick your ideal room.
Mira was really not getting the fun part of the quiz yet, but she persisted regardless.
The rooms were all vastly different: one looked like a bougie beach house, all sleek surfaces and minimalist interior. One looked like a library, all dark colors and dim lighting. One was a cozy cottage filled to the brim with little mementos, with a large couch in the center. The last one was a high‑rise apartment; two of the four walls were glass floor‑to‑ceiling, looking out onto the street below.
She studied the images for a long time before settling on the cottage. It had two advantages – one, obviously, was the couch. She needed a place for her wife to lounge. The second was the atmosphere: shelves filled with books, statuettes, little thingamabobs. Mira loved her trinkets. Lovingly called herself a maximalist. She clicked on the cottage.
For one stressful moment everything disappeared and she almost panicked, thinking she had ruined it. But the quiz reassured her that they were simply calculating and any moment now she would have her answer.
So she waited.
And then it appeared:
YOU AREA BUTCH LESBIAN!
The words were bold, celebratory – confetti animations popping across the screen like this was good news.
Mira’s stomach dropped.
A hot, prickling sensation crawled up her neck. She felt suddenly aware of her own body – too aware. The weight of herself in the bed, the way her clothes clung to her curves, the cotton of the sheets pressing against the bare skin of her legs, the odd heaviness of the blanket, the soft dip of the mattress to her side where it cradled Rumi. Even the sound of her own breathing felt wrong, aggravating.
“No” she whispered. “No, that’s not…”
She reloaded the page. The quiz returned pristine and untouched. Ready to be filled out once again.
This time she selected different answers. Said no to the expensive socks. Chose pickleball instead of hockey.
She hit submit.
YOU AREA BUTCH LESBIAN!
Her breath shuttered.
She reloaded the page again. Took the quiz again. She forced herself to pick the beach house instead of the cottage. Fancy dinner date, instead of the sunset, despite hating fancy dinners where she always felt like she was wearing someone else’s skin.
YOU AREA BUTCH LESBIAN!
How is this even possible?!
The quiz gave her its stubborn verdict like it had reached into her chest and pulled something out into the light that she had been ignoring for decades. And she was determined to continue to ignore.
Mira locked her phone and pressed it face‑down to her chest, trying to smother the bitter lie.
She was a pretty woman.
Pretty, feminine, desirable.
Just the way Rumi liked her.
Just the way she liked herself.
The way she had learned to like herself.
The memory hit her like the palm of her mother’s hand across her cheek. Shame blooming hot and immediate, swallowing the sparks of curiosity she had felt.
Don’t tell me you are a boy too now.
She had spent years proving she wasn’t one of those women – the ones her mother talked about with disgust, the ones she made a point to note in public. The ones who dressed wrong, walked wrong, existed wrong. Perfect strangers who somehow managed to offend her mother simply by breathing. Mira related to them in that way, but she didn’t want to push her mother any further away than she already had.
So she learned to keep her shoulders soft, her voice gentle, her clothes pretty. Always pretty. She had learned to be the kind of lesbian her parents could tolerate. To not make anyone uncomfortable.
She wasn’t one of them.
Mira squeezed her eyes shut, willing the feeling away.
She was fine. Normal.
She pressed the phone harder against her sternum, as if she could crush the label before it dared to settle into her bones.
Before she noticed how well it fit her.
---------------------------------------------------
Mira wasn’t sure how she ended up here, but she felt like she was in the eighth circle of hell. She didn’t belong – that was blatantly obvious. Her high heels, her short shorts, her tank top covered by a long sleeve cardigan – pretty yet useless in helping her blend into the environment of the outdoor retail store.
She had done this to herself, really. Picked a place where every option was a ‘men’s option’ so she couldn’t shy away. Mira had to confirm once and for all that it was a lie. That she was decidedly not butch.
Obviously.
It went without saying.
And was made even more apparent by how out of place she felt.
Mira entered the space like an impostor; her heels clicked too loudly on the concrete floor. Her bright red hair – a glowing beacon beneath the fluorescent lights. She looked around. The mannequins wore utility pants and fishing vests. The walls were lined with every color flannel, of which there were apparently only four: red, green, black, and an off‑brown. The air smelled like rubber and something pine‑scented. In this context, her cardigan felt completely ridiculous. She tugged it tighter around herself as though it could shield her from the confused looks of male employees who peeked over the clothing racks at her.
Mira wandered the aisles on autopilot, her body moving before her mind could catch up, before it could stop her. She reached out and ran her fingers along hemlines and collars without thinking, letting the strange feeling inside her swell and guide her limbs.
Each item she picked up felt like a betrayal to her sense of style. And yet… her hand kept drifting toward them. Like her body was a compass and these offensively ugly things were her north star. First, she grabbed a pair of oversized cargo shorts. Or maybe they were regular cargo shorts but they were sure to look oversized on her. Then it was the button‑down with a hideous print – a mix of dirty blue and green leaves over a noxious bright green background. Worse yet, it was 100% polyester. Mira grabbed it anyway. Finally, a pair of sandals that looked like they belonged to someone who would actually prefer to walk around barefoot but needed to have some proof that there were in fact shoes on their feet.
She gathered them in her arms, cradling them to her chest, the pile growing heavier and more absurd.
A man in a camo baseball cap glanced at her, and Mira’s stomach flipped. She could feel his confusion. Imagined him thinking What in the hell is this clown doing here?
She imagined Rumi thinking the same thing.
Naturally, she tightened her grip around the items and speed‑walked away. She didn’t know where, weaving between the racks until she almost crashed into one while glancing behind her shoulder.
She found herself in the women’s section.
Oh.
Don’t tell me you’re a boy too now.
Her arms twitched, unsure whether to let go and run or hold on tighter. She almost dropped the clothes on the ground, almost turned around and left.
Almost.
Instead, Mira held them tighter and marched herself into one of the fitting rooms. She was just hoping that her pace and the expression of pure terror that was twisting her features didn’t make anyone think she was stealing.
Inside the small, badly lit cubicle, she dumped the clothes onto the bench. The button down-shirt slid off and puddled on the floor like it was trying to escape.
“Same,” Mira muttered.
She put on the cargo shorts first. They were enormous. They swallowed her hips, hung low on her waist and made her legs look long and knobby. The sandals were worse – they looked orthopedic.
Then the shirt.
The fabric draped over her, emphasizing her shoulders. The sleeves hit her biceps in a way that made her arms look… different.
She stood there, staring.
It was bizarre. The whole thing felt bizarre and awkward. Like she was torn between two versions of herself and neither one knew what to do with her pointy knees.
And yet—
Something in her chest loosened.
Her breath came easier.
Her reflection sharpened, the mirror finally coming into focus.
And when she saw herself, the only word that came to mind was:
Handsome.
The thought ran through her like a jolt of electricity.
You are so handsome.
Her pulse thudded in her chest. Her eyes began to sting.
Nothing I just did is anything I would do.
She stared.
I know you.
The words rose and crashed over her, lingered while she caught her breath. She traced the lines of her silhouette with her eyes. Trying to memorize every shape, every color. The way they came together to assemble someone completely new and yet someone she felt like she had known for years. Someone who had always been there.
Her reflection felt lived in. Worn in, despite the tags still sticking out in random places from her clothes. She lifted her chin slightly, testing the angle. The mirror caught the movement and gave it back to her.
For a moment she felt the quiet, startling rightness. Like her bones had finally arranged themselves in the correct order.
Then the moment tilted.
Suddenly the comfort felt stolen, borrowed. No. Loaned. Something she had to return and pay interest on. Her reflection wavered, blurred at the edges.
Panic surged.
She tore the shirt off, then the shorts, then the sandals. Taking each piece off like it was burning her skin, branding her into something she could never be.
She dressed in her own clothes with frantic urgency.
Gathering the outfit – the whole ridiculous ensemble – Mira marched out of the fitting room. She made it a point not to look at anyone.
Then she left.
But not before she swiped her credit card at the register.
----------------------------------------------------------
Rumi was going to be home soon. And how did it get this late anyway?
The day got away from Mira but thankfully she had gotten rid of the branded bag in the store parking lot earlier; now all that was left to do was hide the rest of the evidence. Despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, she folded the clothes carefully. Still the fabric slipped, didn’t quite fold right. It insisted on its own shape, its own creases, like it had a spine she couldn’t break. She pressed the palm of her hand over the soft, completely synthetic fabric. Each pass gifted her a desperate breath. Sustaining her but never quite settling the chaos inside.
She didn’t want to think about Rumi’s reaction.
Couldn’t.
What if she thought Mira was being silly.
What if she laughed.
What if she didn’t like her anymore.
The thoughts came sharp. They cut the wounds already torn open by memories of the past. All of the love she never truly felt worthy of started seeping out until she was hemorrhaging, staining the floors of their bedroom. She refolded the clothes, pressing tighter this time. Neater. Packed them together and lifted them onto the top shelf of the closet – the one only she could reach.
She shut the closet door with a soft click.
Mira wrapped her arms around herself, like she could stop the slow bleed. Like she could catch the love with her hands and force it back inside, force herself to believe she deserved it despite… this. Her palms pressed into her ribs, and she felt herself tremble. Her body hummed with the aftershock, a low buzzing current under her skin.
She settled into the bed like she had every night for the past thirty years. Back straight, ankles crossed. Not a hair out of place. Her face arranged into something neutral, welcoming. Something that said I am normal. Nothing happened.
The practiced version of herself that Rumi knew.
She pulled the blanket up to her waist, hands folded neatly on top, and waited for the sound of Rumi’s keys in the door
~
Rumi was settled beside her in bed, reading glasses perched low on her nose. The soft light of the bedside lamp caught playfully on the lenses as she flipped through the forensic files spread across her lap. She’d brought work home again – grainy and off-putting photos depicting the quiet violence of her job – but Mira couldn’t focus on any of it. Not when the real crime scene was three feet away in her closet, folded and poorly hidden like a body half buried.
She was sweating so much she could feel the sheets clinging to the backs of her thighs. She tried to shift subtly, but every movement made her more aware of the damp fabric beneath her.
Mira resolved to stay put, despite being cooked alive, simmering in her own panic.
Rumi glanced at her – a quick, distracted flick of the eyes – then returned to her files.
But then her head snapped back.
“My god, love, are you okay? You look beet red.” She yelped.
Before Mira could even think to dismiss the worry, Rumi shoved the files aside, pulled off her readers and crawled toward her on hands and knees, blankets tangling around her legs. She pressed the back of her hand to Mira’s forehead.
The touch was meant to soothe.
It detonated her instead.
Heat roared through Mira’s body, a tidal wave of molten embarrassment.
“I— I’m fine,” she managed, though her voice sounded small and choked. She tried to swallow the panic, but it rose anyway – like a cigarette package inching its way back up an ostrich’s throat. She had never lied to Rumi. At least not in the way she had lied to herself. Mira found she didn’t have the stomach to start now either.
She forced herself out of bed, legs trembling.
“Mira?” Rumi’s voice followed her, confused and soft. “What’s going on?”
“I need to show you something,” Mira forced out, throat tight. “Could you… close your eyes?”
Rumi obeyed, moving to sit at the edge of the bed with her legs dangling. Mira watched the way her muscles shifted beneath her skin, the soft, familiar lines of her body. That face – god, that face – gentle and curious. Always beautiful. Impossibly so. And just like that, Mira felt like she was falling in love for the thousandth time, with the same dizzy, stupid, undeserving ache.
She opened the closet.
The clothes waited for her just where she left them. Mira put them on. With shaking hands she straightened the collar, smoothed the wrinkles that had already formed in the cheap fabric. Her heart hammered so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I think I’m ready. You can… open your eyes.”
Rumi did.
And Mira’s world went ice cold.
The confusion on Rumi’s face didn’t just appear – it swirled into the room, a biting blizzard that stole the air from Mira’s lungs. The slight raise of Rumi’s eyebrow deepened the wrinkles that had moved in and made her forehead their home about five years ago. Mira knew that expression. And it wasn’t a good one.
Her breath left her in a cloud of fog, lungs suddenly empty, hollow. The floor beneath her turned slick and treacherous, like ice cracking under her feet. The frost settled across her skin, rejection and fear working together to bind her. Suddenly, Rumi felt far away, completely unreachable.
Mira tried to take a step forward, to reach her wife, to bridge the gap she had foolishly created and already regretted. Her foot slid on the ice, her whole-body shuddering. The frozen surface groaned beneath her, unable to sustain the weight of her guilt.
“Fuck—”
She took another step, but the ice split beneath her. She looked up at Rumi, panicked, hand outstretched for help. She reached for warmth, for anything, something to give her balance.
Rumi dropped her gaze.
And Mira was the one who fell.
She plunged beneath the surface, cold swallowing her whole.
Her lungs seized.
Pressure crushed her from every direction.
She kicked, tried to swim, but her limbs felt numb. Her vision tunneled, darkening. The cold sank into her bones, into her marrow, into the oldest parts of her fear.
Then—
Fingers fisted her shirt.
A desperate tug.
Mira broke the surface with a gasp.
Rumi stood in front of her, eyes wide, hands splayed at the center of Mira’s chest.
Warm.
So warm.
“Baby, are you okay?” Rumi breathed, voice cracking.
Mira couldn’t answer. She was gulping air like she’d been underwater for hours.
“Good god, Mira— breathe. Please breathe. You’re okay.” Rumi cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks.
Her hands were steady, warm enough to thaw.
Mira tried to speak, but the words tangled. “I— I’m sorry,” she whispered, still fighting to catch her breath. “You don’t like it. I know. I’ll change back. I was just— I was joking, I didn’t mean—”
Her fingers began to fumble at the buttons, clumsy and desperate, trying to peel the clownish outfit off her skin. She hated how reluctant she felt, how every part of her wanted to keep the fabric on even as she tried to strip it away for Rumi’s sake. For love, she would take off anything. She would carve herself down to the safest version if that’s what Rumi needed.
But before she could undo the second button, Rumi caught her wrists.
“Mira,” she said softly.
Mira stilled, eyes finally meeting Rumi’s.
“You look so handsome.”
The words landed like a gentle hand pressed to Mira’s cheek – steadying her, keeping her from running away with her own thoughts.
And then came that look.
The look of someone who had you figured out a long time ago and was just waiting for you to catch up.
Rumi’s voice wavered, hesitant in a way it rarely ever was. “I’m sorry if you thought… if you thought I didn’t like it. Mira, you look perfect.”
Mira blinked hard, vision still blurry from the panic, but she could see the truth in Rumi’s face now – that Mira was being a complete idiot. A fool who doubted a love that had never once wavered.
Before she could say anything, Rumi’s lips met hers.
It wasn’t a dramatic kiss. It wasn’t hungry or frantic the way one might find in romance novels. It was just soft. A warm press that anchored Mira back into her body and stitched her soul back to her limbs. Reminded her where loved lived.
Mira exhaled into it, panicked tension easing from her limbs as she let herself be held by the moment. By the woman who had always known how to bring her home without even trying. She felt her own tears searing trails down her cheeks, stray droplets slipping between their lips – salt to a wound that had finally begun to heal. A sting that felt like reassurance. Like she was on the mend.
She deepened the kiss, leaning in, arms wrapping around her wife’s frame. Clinging.
Rumi’s lips curved into a smile against hers. “You know…” Rumi whispered between breaths, “it might be the outfit doing it for me.”
Mira huffed a shaky laugh, pulling back. “I knew it.”
Rumi didn’t answer – she just tugged Mira gently toward the bed, eyes warm, smile slightly crooked from the kiss. Mira followed. The backs of Rumi’s legs hit the mattress and she went falling, but Mira was there to catch her. She laid Rumi down, climbing on top, inches away from being enveloped in Rumi’s arms—
—and then her phone rang.
Both women froze.
Nara’s name lit up the screen.
They stared at each other for a beat, cheeks burning.
Rumi bit her lip.
Mira nodded, resigned and knowing.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “We should take that.”
Otherwise, they’d spend the rest of the night spiraling about what emergency their daughter might be calling about.
Rumi pressed a quick kiss to Mira’s cheek before reaching for the phone. “Don’t think even for a moment that I am done with you.”
And Mira felt something inside her settle. “I guess I’ll just have to wait until chapter twelve.”
“I do think you’d look rather dashing as a shirtless knight,” Rumi said mere moments before picking up the phone. Not enough time for Mira to even begin to process where Rumi’s fantasies might lead.
Just then, Nara’s voice came through the phone. “Hey moms!”
“How do you know we’re both here?!” Rumi protested.
“Because you always are.” Their daughter’s laughter filled the room. “And… because you picked up Momma’s phone.”
Rumi settled beside her, phone on speaker, already glowing, nodding along as Nara talked a mile a minute. She shot Mira a look, soft and adoring and Mira’s stomach landed an impressive backflip.
And Mira felt it.
Wanted.
Seen.
Handsome.
She held Rumi’s gaze for a moment longer, knowing that if she looked away, Rumi would still be there. Without a doubt.
Mira cleared her throat, wiping the last of her tears with the back of her hand.
“Tell us about your first day, chicken,” she said, voice steady now. “We’re dying to know.”