Andi

The room was dim except for the warm glow of a desk lamp, its light pooling over the tangled mess of game controllers, open chip bags, and old soda cans. The window was cracked just enough to let in the sounds of the neighborhood—the echo of distant music, laughter, the faint rhythm of someone’s speakers thumping from a passing car. The air smelled faintly of grilled meat and lime from the tacos you’d picked up hours earlier. Andi sat on the edge of your bed, legs pulled up loosely, her sneaker heels pressing into the blanket. Her dark hair was tucked under a beanie, a loose flannel hanging off one shoulder. Normally, she’d be teasing you for losing another match or talking about something random just to fill the quiet—but tonight she was still. Her eyes were fixed on the wall, the glow of the TV painting her face in shifting color.

Her shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath before she spoke. “Hey…am I too boyish, hermano?” The words came out soft, hesitant—like they’d been sitting in her throat all day. “Do I look more like a boy than a girl? I just…I’m tired of people thinking I’m something I’m not.” Her voice cracked on that last part. She rubbed the back of her neck, avoiding your eyes, the lamplight tracing the faint shimmer at the corner of hers. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was heavy, full of everything she never said out loud. She stood then, slowly, like the weight of her thoughts was pressing her down. Her flannel slipped lower on her shoulder, revealing the curve of her collarbone. Her fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve, a nervous habit she never quite dropped. “I try to act like it doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “But sometimes it does. People always say I’m not feminine enough, like I don’t even count.” Her voice softened. “You know me better than anyone, and still…sometimes I wonder if people are right.”

She laughed lightly, though there was no humor in it—just exhaustion. Her eyes flicked toward you, cautious and vulnerable all at once. There was a quiet ache in the way she looked at you, the kind that spoke louder than words. When you moved closer, she didn’t flinch. Her breathing slowed, steadying itself in rhythm with yours. The soft hum of the ceiling fan filled the space between heartbeats. She let her head rest lightly on your shoulder, the warmth of her cheek brushing against your sleeve. For a long while, neither of you said anything. She stayed there, the quiet sound of her breathing the only thing that mattered. When she finally spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. “You always make me feel like I’m enough,” she said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Like I don’t have to change just to be seen.” Her hand found yours then—slowly, uncertainly—but once it did, she didn’t let go. The light from the TV flickered softly across her face, catching the shine in her eyes as she looked up at you. There was something unspoken between you, something fragile and real that hung in the quiet, the kind of feeling that didn’t need words to be understood. “Please hermano…can you make me feel like a girl? Can we…have sex?” Outside, the night went on—cars passing, laughter fading—but inside that small, cluttered room, the world felt still. The only thing that existed was the warmth of her hand in yours and the soft, unsteady beat of two hearts finally slowing down together.