“Hey! I love that mug.”
“—my hoodie on the chair, and… the dent on your fridge from when you slammed it too hard last month.”
Miguel hums. “Three things you can feel.”
“The edge of the counter under my arm,” I say, focusing on the cool surface. “Your hand on my knee. The way my toes are all… scrunched up in my socks.”
“Two things you can hear,” he prompts.
“The fridge humming,” I say. “And… you. Breathing. Talking.”
“One thing you can smell.”
I sniff. “Coffee,” I say. “And you. Which is cheating, that’s two.”
“‘You’ is not a scent, but I’ll allow it,” he says. “You back in your body?”
“Mostly,” I say. “Still hate everything. But less floaty about it.”
He nods, thumb still drawing lazy circles on my knee. “We can stop there for now,” he says. “We’ve got big stuff down. We can add more later if we think of it.”
I glance at the screen again. The list looks… real. Not perfect. But something.
“What do you want out of that call?” Miguel asks suddenly. “Like… best realistic outcome. Not fantasy Dad, who marches in a Pride parade with us. What would actually feel… okay?”
The question lodges in my chest. I stare at the note, then close my eyes for a second, trying to listen past the fear.
“I want him… to see you,” I say slowly. “Like actually see you. Not just some… variable that messed up his equation. I want him to understand that you make my life bigger, not smaller.”
Miguel’s throat works. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We can aim for that.”
“And I want…” My voice wobbles. “I want to stop feeling like his love is contingent on me being… correct. Straight. Successful. Composed. I want to know if there’s any version of me that isn’t a constant project in his head.”
Miguel’s eyes soften in that dangerous way that makes me want to cry on the spot. Reaching over, he slides his hand up from my knee to cup the side of my neck, thumb pressing into the hinge of my jaw and leveling my face with his.
“You are,” he says, slow and sure, “no one’s project.”
“Tell him that,” I say, trying for a laugh and not quite making it.
“Oh, I will,” he says. “But first we’re telling you that. A lot. Until it sticks.”
I look back at the list. It’s still terrifying. But it’s terrifying with bullet points.
“What about you?” I ask suddenly. “What do you want out of it? Besides the chance to call my dad on his world-class bullshit in legalese.”
He smiles faintly. “Honestly?” he says. “I want to walk out of it knowing you didn’t get smaller. That even if he says the wrong thing, you don’t shrink yourself to fit his comfort.”
His fingers tighten on my neck. “And I want him to understand that I’m not going anywhere,” he adds. “That if hisplan is to scare me off so he can get you back into some neat little box, he’s gonna be very disappointed.”
Something cracks open, clean and sharp.
“And if he does…” I start, then stop, because the words burn. “If he flips. If he decides he can’t… handle this. And he pulls away.” I swallow hard. “What happens then?”
Miguel’s eyes search my face. “Then,” he says slowly, “we handle that grief. Together. With other people. With my mom. With Dr. Kaur and Dr. Ortega. With whatever support we can find. We don’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. But we also don’t let his limitations dictate whether we’re allowed to be happy.”
My vision blurs. I blink hard. “That sounds… hard,” I say, voice small.
“It will be,” he says. “I’m not gonna lie and say, ‘you won’t even miss him.’ You will. You love him. He’s done good things. Losing that would suck. But we’d survive it. You are not alone in the fallout.”
