That makes me smile. “Good. That was the point.”
I struggle to get my next words out. “You two… need each other.”
Calil shakes his head. “Don’t.”
“I knew,” I whisper. “We all needed each other. And in my absence… you’ll need each other more.”
Zaria’s breath shudders.
“You’re a perfect fit,” I manage. “Don’t waste that.”
They both cry harder.
“There’s a letter,” I whisper. “At my place. Read it together. When you’re ready.”
Calil presses his forehead against my hand. “Don’t apologize,” he says fiercely when I murmur I’m sorry. “You fought with tenacity. With vigor. You earned your rest.”
Zaria nods through tears. “No apologies.”
I exhale slowly.
My body feels lighter. Less pain but more distance.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“We love you,” they answer together.
And for the first time in my life, my body is quiet. Not fighting me. Not aching. Just still. I close my eyes and let go.
THE SHAPE OF YOUR ABSENCE
Six months feels like six minutes. Hell, six lifetimes.
The house is too quiet. Her place still smells faintly like jasmine and vanilla, like the body butter she used after showers. We haven’t moved much. Haven’t changed much. It feels disrespectful.
Zaria stands by the window when I walk in, arms folded tight across her chest. Her curls are longer now. Softer. She finished her master’s degree last month. Lena would have been insufferably proud.
The envelope sits on the coffee table between us. We’ve both avoided it. Not because we didn’t want to read it. We know that reading it makes it final.
“You ready?” I ask.
Zaria nods once, but her chin trembles.
I sit down. Pick up the envelope. My hands feel heavier than they should.
Her handwriting hits me first. I inhale sharply before I begin reading aloud.
My Loves,
If you’re reading this together, you did what I hoped you would. You stayed with each other.
First, let me say this plainly so you don’t twist it into something tragic — I did not lose. My body lost. I did not. I lived. I loved. I experienced things my little sickle cell warrior self never thought she would. And you two gave me that.
Calil,
My Professor. You loved me like I was permanent, even when my body was temporary. You never made me feel fragile. You made me feel chosen. Please keep unlearning. Keep dismantling the parts of you that were built from fear and shame. Replace them with softness. Replace them with healthy love. You are not your father. You are the man who knelt and asked for consent. You are the man who surrendered when he could have dominated. You are the man who loved a trans woman out loud. Don’t stop becoming that version of yourself. And go to the sickle cell gala in my honor. Wear something sharp. Bid high. Be loud about why you’re there. Make them remember my name.
Zaria,
