“That’s tough,” I said, meaning it.
“Yeah, but it’s better now. Having a place where you can be yourself, you know? Where nobody’s gonna give you shit for who you are or who you like or what you dress like.”
Maya’s words stuck with me as she wandered off and we continued painting. The idea of needing a safe space to be yourself, of having to find community because your family couldn’t provide it, made me think about how lucky I’d been to grow up with parents who supported my dreams, even when those dreams were expensive and uncertain.
“Heavy stuff,” I said to Nils as we took a break to eat the sandwiches Sarah had provided.
“It is. But important work, what they’re doing here.”
“Yeah. Makes you think about how much we take for granted.”
“Such as?”
“Family support. Having people who accept you for who you are. Not everyone gets that.”
Nils nodded thoughtfully. “Acceptance is rarer than it should be. And more valuable than most people realize.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
“Don’t we all? Everyone has parts of themselves they’re afraid to show other people.”
“What parts of yourself are you afraid to show?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard, and he was quiet for a long moment. “The parts that don’t fit other people’s expectations, I suppose. The parts that might make them see me differently.”
“Different how?”
“Less of whatever they think I am, more of whatever they’re not prepared to handle.”
I wanted to ask more, but something in his expression suggested he’d already shared more than he’d intended. Instead, I focused on my sandwich and tried to figure out why his answer had made me feel strangely sad inside.
The afternoon was spent on smaller projects: fixing the dripping faucet in the bathroom, tightening loose screws on chairs, touching up paint around doorframes. Work that required us to move around the building together, sometimes in close quarters, always finding easy conversation.
Nils was happy to let me take the lead and support me. Even though I was younger, he allowed me to study each problem and come up with a solution, and then he assisted me in fixing it.
“You’re a good assistant,” I told him as I spread glue all over a wobbly table leg.
“I’m very good at following directions… as long as they’re verbal and not communicated through diagrams and drawings.”
“That’s definitely true.”
We were crouched next to each other, holding the table steady while the wood glue set, and I was suddenly aware of how close he was. Close enough to notice that he smelled like paint and soap and something else that was distinctly him. Close enough to see the concentration in his expression, the careful way he held the table leg.
“There.” I tested the stability of the leg. “That should hold.”
“Nice work.”
He looked up at me, and for a moment, we were looking at each other, faces maybe ten inches apart, and something passed between us that I couldn’t quite identify. Not awkward, but charged somehow. Like there was something we weren’t saying.
“We should clean up,” he said finally.
“Yeah.”
By the time we finished for the day, the center looked noticeably better. Fresh paint, working fixtures, sturdy furniture: all small improvements that would make a real difference in how the space felt to the kids who used it.
“You two did amazing work,” Sarah said as we gathered our tools. “Seriously, this place looks better than it has in months.”
“Happy to help,” I said. “Let us know if you need anything else.”
