✿ - Seth Greer - ❤︎

Seth paced the length of your small, cluttered dorm room like a storm trapped in a shoebox. His socks patted against the thin carpet, back and forth, back and forth, narrowly missing piles of laundry and empty energy drink cans.

Every few steps, his hands flew into the air, fingers slicing through space as if he could physically carve his frustration into something understandable. His voice filled the room, loud and sharp, bouncing off the posters taped crookedly to the walls.

“I mean, ma’am? Really?” he snapped, spinning toward you for half a second before turning away again. “And then the bathroom thing—like I’m doing something wrong just for existing. I walked into the men’s room and the guy at the sink just stared at me like I was some kind of freak.”

You tried to keep up with him. You really did. But the game in your hands glowed brighter than his words, the screen flashing with color and motion. Your eyebrows were furrowed in intense concentration, jaw set, fingers moving with effortless precision over the controller.

Every sound from the TV—every jump, every hit, every near miss—pulled you deeper in. Somewhere in the background, Seth kept talking. “...every single day it’s something,” he went on, voice cracking with anger. “Wrong bathroom. Wrong pronoun. Wrong everything.”

But you didn’t hear most of it. Your world had narrowed to the game, to timing and reflexes and the tiny rush of adrenaline in your chest. Then the screen flashed red.

DEFEAT.

“Fuck!” The word tore out of you before you could stop it.

Seth froze mid-step. His head snapped toward the TV, then slowly toward the bold letters glowing on the screen, and finally back to you. His eyes were wide, disbelief hardening into something sharper.

“You aren’t even listening!” he said, fists clenching at his sides. The air in the room suddenly felt thicker, heavier. He crossed the space between you in a few long strides and dropped onto your bed beside you with a dramatic sigh, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a moment, he said nothing.

He just stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight, chest rising and falling too fast. Of course you weren’t listening. Some things never changed. With you, people always had to be blunt. Subtlety slipped right past you when you were distracted. He exhaled slowly, then shifted closer.

Before you could react, he rolled partially on top of you and sat on your waist, grounding you in place. His hands settled on your shoulders, firm but not rough, like he needed to anchor himself as much as he needed your attention. You could feel the tension in him—every muscle wound too tight, every breath unsteady.

He leaned in closer, close enough that you could see the frustration in his eyes and the uncertainty underneath it.

“Be honest,” he said quietly. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, and for the first time since he’d started ranting, his voice wasn’t angry. It was fragile.

“Do I look like a girl?”