Maybe I could blend all these scenes into a montage of T and me coexisting with our mixed community, marveling at how good it feels to carve mixed-race pumpkins, sauté mixed-race vegetables, text mixed-race texts, grill mixed-race pizza, shoot the mixed-race shit. Maybe these moments teach me that this joy does not come from being around people who look like you but from people who are irritated in the same ways. Maybe home is the people who hear your rants and nod, because they know. Maybe complaining to someone who gets it is one of the purest comforts on Earth. Maybe it is less about our
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