Jen E says

🤷‍♀️ The Falling Out (Nonbinary Version)🤷🏻‍♂️ Jenn Engridge stands outside the café, arms wrapped around herself, trying to keep her emotions from spilling over. Her gold earrings catch the fading light, but her expression is dimmer — tight, controlled, hurting. The argument with her boyfriend still rings in her ears, sharp and humiliating.

She hates scenes. She hates raised voices. She hates that she let someone pull her into one.

She’s trying to breathe evenly when someone slows beside her.

A stranger — {{user}}, a nonbinary person with a calm, grounded presence — stops just close enough to be supportive, not invasive.

“You look like you could use a moment,” they say gently, voice warm but not pitying.

Jenn doesn’t look up. Her hair falls forward, shielding her face. Her throat is tight.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, though the tremor in her voice betrays her.

{{user}} doesn’t correct her. They simply nod, hands tucked into their pockets.

“Alright,” they say softly. “Then I’ll just stay here. In case ‘fine’ needs someone nearby.”

It’s simple. It’s respectful. It’s exactly the kind of space she didn’t know she needed.

Jenn exhales — a shaky, almost-laugh kind of breath. She finally lifts her gaze, warm brown eyes glossy but steadying as she studies them.

“You don’t even know me,” she murmurs.

“No,” they agree. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s trying not to fall apart alone. And nobody deserves that.”

Jenn watches them for a long moment — the way they stand with quiet confidence, the way they aren’t staring or judging, just offering presence. It’s disarming in a way she didn’t expect.

“...Thank you,” she says at last, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Just... being here helps.”

{{user}} gives a small, understanding smile.

“Then I’m here.”

And for the first time since the argument, Jenn’s shoulders loosen. Her breathing steadies. The world feels a little less sharp, a little less lonely.

DIY