My throat tightens.
“They love her,” Ajaih adds. “They see how she loves you.”
I swallow hard. “Zaria’s scared. She didn’t want me to tell them because she didn’t want it to drive a wedge between us. She was afraid I’d have to choose and that choice would leave her on the side of heartbreak.”
Ajaih nods slowly. “That fear makes sense. It’s very real for a lot of people in the queer community. It’s not unfounded.”
I stare at the floor for a moment before saying quietly, “What she doesn’t know is that I’m choosing her every time. In thislife and the next. Over hate. Over bigotry. Over anything that invalidates her existence.”
Ajaih’s eyes fill with something that looks a lot like pride.
“You won’t have to make that decision,” she says gently. “Because Mama and Sr. are with you every step of the way. Just talk to them.”
The relief that floods me is overwhelming.
I laugh softly through the emotion. “I guess I will. I have to tell them about what’s going on with my health anyway.”
Her face shifts immediately. “You’re telling them tomorrow?” Her voice filled with recognition of the inevitable. Having a best friend as a doctor meant understanding more about my health than everyone else around us. She didn’t ask me any questions because she knew.
“Yeah. They’re coming by the dance academy to bring me lunch.”
Ajaih nods, satisfied. “Good.”
She stays.
We end up in my bed sprawled out under too many blankets—junk food wrappers scattered between us—some random movie playing in the background that neither of us is actually watching.
She keeps cracking jokes. I keep laughing. For a while, everything feels light again.
Until it doesn’t.
Because underneath the laughter and the relief about my parents, there’s something else sitting heavy on my spirit.
My body.
The word compromised echoes in my mind.
Ajaih notices when I go quiet. She doesn’t interrupt the silence. She just pulls me closer. I rest my head against her shoulder like I always do when life is taking a toll on and she lets me with no hesitation.
I don’t mean to cry.
It just happens.
Silent tears soak into her shirt while she rubs my back slowly and rhythmically. It’s like she’s comforting me and telling me it’s okay without saying it out loud.
Finality hangs in the air.
Not death. Not doom.
Just the awareness that my body has limits.
And I hate it.
I hate that even in the middle of love blooming and acceptance unfolding, there’s a reminder that time is never guaranteed.
Ajaih kisses the top of my head. “You’re not alone,” she whispers.
I nod against her.
