Like a Love Story
They don't look at me or talk to me. I don't get it. I'm the one who just came out to them. I'm the one who is broken up inside. Why am I not the one being comforted? Why is no one telling me it's okay?
We didn't talk. This was the quietest moment I had ever been in. Even my busy brain--it was quiet. So quiet that I felt that I was in a church. And the thought entered my head that my love for Dante was holy, not because I was holy but because what I felt for him was pure.
I want her to hold me, ask me about him, something. Instead she says, "I can't hear about this. Please. I can't.” In the language my mother speaks, I literally don't exist.