I tell H he won’t talk because he’s still hurt, I imagine, because of how it all ended. I tell H I still think we can get back together, but he refuses to see me. He’s pretty and cis and is decidedly gay, not queer. I broke up with him NEARLY A WHOLE FUCKING YEAR AGO. Since I started hormones I’ve been trying to keep a running list of things going well that I don’t want to change, like sharing soup and spilling it. Broth drips off our spoons onto the grass and I remind myself to be grateful. H and I sit on my back porch and drink miso out of the pot we cooked it in. I’m developing a taste for simple pleasures that remind me there is an existence beyond queer panic and overwhelm.Ĩ p.m. I buy tangerines because they make for a romantic, simple, agreeable image. I ask if we can make that miso soup she made for me last week.Ĥ p.m. I text my friend H if she wants to make dinner together. Class ended last week, and I should really be getting ready for finals, but I can’t exert the energy. My body is changing so much right now, it’s hard not to feel alone.ġ1 a.m. The last few weeks I’ve been crying like a madwoman. A little less than three since I need to shave half as often, two since my dick doesn’t get quite as hard. It reminds me of how single and alone I’ve been in my bedroom.ĩ a.m. On most nights I can hear them having sex and it wakes me up because our walls are half an inch thick and her room is technically my closet. My roommate’s door is ajar, which means she must’ve slept at her girlfriend’s. This week, a student manages complicated feelings about transition, their exes, and a new hookup: 22, single, Chicago.Ĩ:30 a.m.