when I imagined hands on me, they were a woman’s. When I saw myself struggling and I pictured the shoulder I would most want to cry on, it was a woman’s. When I asked myself who I liked to travel with, or who took the best pictures of me, or who made experiences the most fun, it was a woman. I’d tricked myself into thinking that meant friendship, because sometimes it did. But I’d spent my whole life muting the part of myself that wanted more from women. Now that part of me was screaming, a speaker turned up so high the sound almost hurt—wild and sharp and very, very loud.
