Moments like this keep me on my feet

Troubled thoughts hang heavy in my head as we walk, but our footsteps are lightly sprinting across the hot pavement. The afternoon sun peeks through the trees, but there’s no shelter from the heat. It’s everywhere, even in my mind. As we stroll around, our bodies stand an inch closer to each other, but we don’t close the gap because we’re out in public.

I think back to what we talked about earlier this morning. We sat on the high chairs in a café, ignoring the crowd swinging by for coffee or a treat, picking up their orders, looking for more chairs. You said you were worried about me last night. I thanked you first before assuring you this was something I had to do. I was scared, full of fear. I was swimming in a sea of worry, and the water was already pulling me below the surface. But I still held my breath because I wanted to get through it; because I held onto the feeling that buoyancy would push me back up, then onto the shore, where I could breathe again without gasping for air.

I told you I had already planned to tell my family about you: my first relationship, and with a man. Years of hiding who I am, quietly admiring men from afar, would finally rise to the surface and become known. I told you I was just grateful it was with you; someone I could proudly introduce to anyone, a person who constantly teaches me how to grow.

But the fear always sets in. Coming from a reserved, if not conservative, culture, there’s always this worry that I’ll be shunned by my own family. Outsiders aren’t part of these worries because they don’t know anything anyway, only fragments of the full puzzle.

My family is an open environment. We are jovial, and our conversations flow from taboo topics to typical subjects with ease. We joke and laugh a lot. We tease each other; we help anyone who needs it. Still, there are certain topics we remain closed off from, and I fear that sexuality is one of them. In my mind, chaos erupts, and I end up crying, running away with a wounded heart and a lost mind. But my friends – and even you – think otherwise. You all believe there’ll be a phase of confusion, a state of shock, followed by tolerance, and, hopefully, acceptance.

So, I cry silently. The pit in my stomach hasn’t gone away yet, and the lump sits there, bobbing, swaying, waiting to launch back to my throat and out of my mouth. But every time I try to push it up, a memory – sometimes fleeting, other times lingering – passes through and pulls it back into place, jailing it there. The days are easier, but the nights, the times when I’m still reeling from the joy that just occurred, hit hard. I freeze up as I ponder: the self I’ve suppressed for years wants to crawl out and know itself, but who am I, the owner of this borrowed vessel I occupy, to keep it locked up?

I cry without wailing, without sobbing; just allowing the tears to flow, letting them go instead of letting myself go. Then, I pray. I close my eyes and whisper my struggles: the pain I feel and may feel, the joy I experience and may experience, the death I go through and will go through—but above all, the thousand rebirths, the reincarnated versions of myself that finally see the light of day.

I told you all of this before I said that you were one of the reasons I smile in public when I walk alone, I can finally picture a future with someone next to me, I plan trips for two, and I rest at night knowing I’m on someone’s mind, because you tell me so.

We reach the stoplight now, and the sun, at its peak, burns our skin. I ask us to step to the side where there’s shade. Then I look at you, already looking at me. Your eyes are some of my favorite parts of you: a burst of color: first a hint of honey on the outside, then a touch of green before the pupils. The sides of your eyes crinkle with lines when you smile, and I hope mine do too. Moments like this keep me on my feet, reminding me that whatever happens, you’re here.