The world is a beautiful symphony of hues,

Flamboyant rays of sunshine the brighten up the day,

These people take the stage and make it their own,

Not shying away from the spotlight,

Because they know the spotlight was made for them.

I never wanted to be the center of attention,

I was content to remain the steady,

Calming sea that welcomes the weary.

Blue has always been my favorite color,

The color I wear most often,

The color people associate with me.

Blue is the color of safety,

of peace,

of healing.

The vibrant colors illuminate,

but the light can be harsh.

When the day is done,

And your eyes are overwhelmed by the brilliants,

Come back to the blue.

The steady flow of a river,

An ocean opening its arms,

Skies that seem to smile.

Blue is the color of giving,

Of a soft wave,

Carrying you to a welcoming shore.

Maybe that is why I am drawn to it,

Maybe that is why I try to embody it.

I try to be the healer,

A steady hand,

A gentle light,

Glowing faintly.

But there is another side to blue.

The rare vicious side,

That drowns sailors in its murky waters,

That molds rocks to its will,

That shapes the earth over time,

And can swallow cities.

It claims all in the end.

Blue is a paradox,

Providing the healing touch,

And the silent death.

In that way it is like all humans,

It is not one sided.

It is complex,

Nuanced.

That is why I am drawn to it.

It is the color of a gentle welcome,

A mysterious calling.

It has depth,

layers that few have ever seen.

In that way,

It is the most human of colors,

And I am nothing if not human.

From a boy that likes to wear dresses.

Nathaniel Green stared up at the ripening pears hanging from the branches. They were almost ripe enough to pick.

“We need to leave soon, kiddo,” his mother called from the patio.

“Okay, mom,” he called back.

Today was Wednesday, meaning there were only a couple more days to finish the final touches on the costumes. The play premiered this Friday night. He took a deep breath as he pictured the actors in their costumes, specifically the white gown he had made for the angel. He glanced down at his own clothes: a ratty blue t-shirt and jeans. A smile flickered across his lips as he imagined his clothes transforming into a dress. Leaning his head against the bark, he began his daily ritual of writing a letter to the tree:

Dear Mr. Pear Tree,

The play premiers this Friday. I am both ecstatic and nervous. The costumes are almost done, just a couple more buttons and hooks to sew on the townswomen’s dresses. I have this strange feeling whenever I see the angel dress that I want to wear more things like that. I want to wear dresses. Transitioning has already been hard, and that’s with my parents being supportive. Can trans men wear dresses? That sounds like a silly question, but I don’t know anyone like me.

His mother called once more, this time much louder. Nathaniel went off running. He raced to the car and quickly closed the door.

“Are you staying at school late today?” She asked, peering at him through the rearview mirror.

“Yes, I need to finish up the costumes. I only need to sew some buttons onto the front of one dress and then I’ll be done. Plus, I want to see Anna’s face when everyone comes out wearing their costumes.”

His mother smiled warmly.

“Anna is very lucky to have you as a friend, someone to design and sew all the costumes for her plays. You two make a good team.”

“Yeah, we do,” he smiled back.

School was uneventful. He went to his usual classes, barely surviving Calculus at the end of the day. He practically ran out the door, when the clock chimed. He made his way to his sanctum sanctorum, the basement of the building where his sewing machine and mannequins were set up. Anna was already down there, pacing back and forth.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, halting in front of her.

“Susan is sick, extremely sick. She is bedridden, Nate.”

“Oh. Can’t one of the actresses paying the townspeople be the angel as well?” He inquired.

“No! None of them want to play the angel and I can’t exactly force them to do it.” She slumped to the floor.

“It’s a morality play,” she continued, “The angel is a necessary piece.”

“Does the gender of the angel matter?” A thought brewed inside his head.

Anna looked up at him, “No, but I already asked the boys, and they don’t want to do it either.”

Nate glanced at his shoes before responding, “Well, I could do it. If that would be okay with-”

Anna wrapped him in a tight hug.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re the best bestie in the whole world!”

“Of course. This is our project after all.” He pried his arms out from under hers and wrapped them around her back.

She looked up, eyes trying to surpass his chin.

“Would you be comfortable wearing the costume? It is a dress. If you’re not comfortable wearing it, we can always go shopping.”

“About that,” Nate breathed deeply, “I think I like to wear dresses.”

Anna blinked.

“Oh, okay. That’s fine. Clothes are a different thing entirely from gender. It doesn’t make you any less of a man-what?” her left eyebrow twitched up at the expression on his face.

“You always know what to say. I needed to hear that. Thanks.”

“Glad to have helped,” she withdrew from the hug.

“Are you nervous about it-the liking dresses thing, I mean?” Her eyes searched his.

“Kind of…” his voice trailed off, searching for the right words.

“When I first figured out I was a boy, I wanted to wear all the boy clothes. I still liked dresses, but I guess I suppressed it, because I desperately needed to be respected and seen as boy. Now that I am, I want just to be me.”

The grin on Anna’s face caused him to pause.

“What?” he asked, not sure he wanted the answer.

“It’s just nice to see you finally becoming comfortable with yourself,” she said.

She glanced at the stairs leading to the stage, “Have you told your parents yet? We should also tell Mrs. Gillset that you’ll be the angel.”

“I’ll tell my parents tonight. Can we wait to inform Mrs. Gillset until after I’ve spoken with my parents. I want to get their opinion first.”

“Okay. We’ll tell her tomorrow. Wait-do you need to make any adjustments to the dress?”

“Oh, absolutely. I need to get to work!” Nate noticed he felt lighter, freer.

Nate was quiet on the ride home with his mother. He went outside briefly to pick a couple of pears off the tree, those would be desert. He helped set dinner out on the table and munched down on some steak while gathering some courage.

“How are your costumes coming?” His father stopped slicing up his steak for a moment.

“Good. I finished all the costumes. One of the actresses is very sick, she was the one playing the angel.”

“Oh, that’s terrible. Has Anna found a replacement?” His father asked.

The question hung in the air for a few minutes before Nate answered.

“So, I asked if a boy could play the angel, Anna said gender wasn’t any issue. And that all the actors and actresses didn’t want to play the character. I thought maybe I could be the angel?”

His mother eyes twinkled; his father grinned.

“That sounds like an excellent idea! I told you our boy would be an actor one day!” his father said while looking at his mom.

“Didn’t you make a gorgeous white gown for that character?” her eyes shone.

“Oh, I remember now. It looked…what’s the word?” his dad looked beseechingly at each of them.

“Ethereal?” his mother suggested.

“Ethereal!” his father exclaimed, “That dress was one of your best pieces yet! Are you going to wear the dress? Do you even have time to make something else?”

“Yeah, so I recently figured out that I actually really like dresses. I’m still a boy, but I like to wear dresses as well.”

Nate glanced at his parents faces, they beamed.

“We support you, darling,” his mother said immediately.

“We always will,” his father added, “Especially when you take that phenomenal skillset of yours and start making your dear old dad some clothes.”

“He makes clothes for plays, dear,” his mother muttered.

“My life is a play, Sandra,” his father promptly responded.

Nate choked on his food; his parents’ heads snapped towards him.

“I’m fine,” Nate sputtered, forcing down some water.

After he finally recovered, dinner went smoothly. The next morning brought another session with the pear tree.

Dear Mr. Pear Tree,

I told Anna and my parents. Now I just have to tell my Theatre teacher, and hopefully the play goes well. Mrs. Gillset should be fine with it. It is just a costume after all. Aren’t all angels depicted wearing robes? It should be fine. It’ll be fine.

He sighed. Maybe it would be, maybe it wouldn’t. He couldn’t pretend like he didn’t love the way the gowns looked and how they swished when twirled. On the way to school, his stomach felt like mush, a mixture of surreal excitement and overwhelming anxiety. The day dredged on. The only spark of fun was art class, he could show his teacher his latest drawings.

He scampered down to the basement; Anna wasn’t there yet. He gazed for several long minutes at the dress, which was displayed on the nearest mannequin. He had to alter almost the entire costume to actually fit it. Nate’s head jerked up as Anna entered.

“Why are you just staring at it? Put it on so I can see!” She exclaimed.

He delicately unzipped the piece from the mannequin and ducked behind a curtain. He exited a minute later; Anna’s hands flew to her mouth. She squealed.

“You look amazing!”

“Thank you!”

Anna grabbed his hand and pulled him to the nearest mirror. He stood there, mouth agape. The white satin looked elegant against his frame; the tulle of his sleeves connected to another layer in the back to appear cape-like. He honestly looked like an angel.

“I take it you’re going to fill the role for the angel, Nathaniel,” a light voice wafted past them.

Nate and Anna both turned around sharply at the same time.

“Yes, I am,” Nate recovered quickly.

“Wonderful. Beautiful dress. You will be wearing that for the play, yes? It would be a shame to waste such a beautiful piece.”

Mrs. Gillset cocked her left eyebrow up.

“Yes! Yes, I will be wearing it.”

“Splendid,” their teacher said before making her way back upstairs.

Nate and Anna looked at each other.

“Well, that went well,” Anna laughed.

“Yeah, I would say it did,” Nate joined in.

The dress rehearsal went surprisingly smoothly. Almost all of the other actors commented on how nice Nate’s costume was during their breaks. By the time Nate got home, he was exhausted. He laid on his bed and passed out.

The next day brought the end of the week, and the first night the play opened to the public. Nate had woken up early and sat in front of the pear tree for a while. He took several deep breathes before starting.

Dear Mr. Pear Tree,

Everything went well with Mrs. Gillset. None of the company had any issue with me being the angel. I actually got a load of compliments! Now I just have to focus on getting through school today and remembering my lines. Wish me luck.

The school day flashed by. Nate was far too nervous to pay attention in any of his classes. When the sun dipped below the horizon, people began piling in. He ducked his head behind the curtains. Anna gave him two thumbs up.

“You got this!” She whispered.

Nate heard his teacher introduce Anna, who then talked about the play for a bit before giving the signal to dim the lights.

Nate stood alongside the main actor; he did look ethereal compared to the regular workday clothes the actor was wearing. Nate took a deep breath, centering himself.

It was his time to shine.

The lights shone down on them, illuminating him for all eyes to see. His parents cheered. A few people gasped in the audience. A few murmured what Nate was sure were not nice comments. He brushed the noise off like stray water droplets on his skin. He continued his monologue; he was needed to narrate the events of the play. When he finished, the room had fallen completely silent, enraptured with his performance.

For most of the play, he either waited in the wings or was standing to the far side, pronouncing important shifts in the story. He tried not to fiddle with the long sleeves during the break. He didn’t hear any further comments during the second, third, and final act. His voice projected to the back of the theatre as he pronounced the end of the play. Deafening silence met him moments after he finished. His parents as well as Anna’s mothers were the first to stand up and applaud. They were quickly followed by the remainder of the audience. The applause brought a welcome warmth to his heart. The rest of the cast joined him onstage and lined up together. They bowed in unison.

My sexuality has always been an elusive thing. In contradiction to my gender, that has almost never changed. I claimed the label Fluid after coming out to my father about 50 or so times. The first coming out was as asexual, but then I began to doubt myself. There wasn't much representation, and still isn't, for asexuals- especially not for asexual men. My father was the one who suggested I try on the fluid label, see how it fit. For a long time, it was the best one I could find. Looking back, I realize the source of my confusion derived from the changing of my romantic attraction, not sexual. My romantic orientation is like a pin ball that has just been released and is ricocheting off every possible surface. Every surface, in this analogy, is a different gender.

The rare moments I did feel I was asexual "enough" were quickly overtaken by the fog of uncertainty. Was my asexuality due to past trauma? Would I still be ace after I started transitioning? Can I be asexual and still want to have sex? Many more questions and fears would swarm my head. Feelings of worthlessness, because the only word I heard in context with asexuality was the word "broken." So often, Asexual people were, and still are, considered mentally ill. Sex is considered an innate part of being human, the desire for it natural. Asexuality, therefore, is considered unnatural. Those that repeat this harmful rhetoric clearly did not bother to even google the basic definition for this sexuality. Asexuality is the lack of sexual attraction, whether people on the ace spectrum have sex is entirely up to them and does not necessarily have a connection to their sexuality.

Aces can still want to engage in sex or generally desire it. We simply are not sexually attracted to the person(s) we engage with. Sex can be healing as well as destructive. As a trans man, my relationship with my body has never been great. I view it as a house in desperate need of remodeling. Sex can be gender affirming for those of us who have had to put in some serious work to love ourselves.

Besides the struggle between my brain and body, I am also Autistic. As an Autistic man, I didn't want to be vocal about my lack of sexual attraction. I felt that would further the stereotype of Autistic people as children, and therefore considered without sexual desire. There is a relatively high number of autistic people who fall on the ace spectrum, but that did not relieve the pressure. I love how my brain works, how I exist in this world, but I do not want to further harmful stereotypes that seek to degrade me and my community. It took me a long time to finally realize the best way I could help my community is living authentically.

During my last year of college, I finally began the work to better myself. I suffer from PTSD, and had never expected to live long, so I hadn't bothered to try hard to get better. During my journey of healing, I finally started on Testosterone. This made me much more comfortable with myself, and provided some much needed relief. My relationship with my body became better as it began to change. The only real unexpected change from the new flood of hormones was the increase of my sex drive. I read the piece of paper my doctor had me read over and sign, describing all possible changes due to taking testosterone. I knew logically this would occur, but that is very different from actually experiencing it. This specific change made the difference between libido and sexual attraction apparent. As best as I can describe it, sex drive (or libido) is like feeling hungry. It is a need that has to be filled some way. Sexual attraction is like being hungry for a specific food. I had been very depressed for as long as I could remember before starting T. I had not realized how much my depression medications and mental illness had suppressed my sex drive.

Once I figured out the difference between libido and attraction, It became much easier to accept my asexuality. No more were the creeping doubts that had plagued me in the past. For the first time, I felt almost whole. The work and time I had spent healing myself had certainly not gone to waste. My depression lessened; the words that had felt like knife wounds now fell off like drips of water. I no longer cared if I seemed stereotypical to some Ableist people. I am a living, breathing, human being, I could never be the card board cut out they seemed to so desperately want.

With my newfound self worth and desire to learn more about asexuality, I went on youtube and found a couple of people I greatly related to. I learned asexuals can want a sexual relationship and our feeling towards the act of sex itself can be divided into three general categories: Sex repulsed, Sex indifferent, or sex favorable. I swing between sex indifferent to sex favorable most days. I am sex favorable for other people. This simply means: good for you.

The most recent time I said "I am asexual" out loud was in a small room in my home, nobody around. Nobody to hear my small triumph. Though I had said it to people before, come out to some friends and family, I still wasn't entirely sure that label fit. I still felt afraid to claim it. This time, it felt like a relief. A burst of joy blossomed inside my chest. It pushed out all the uncertainty and left a lovely warm feeling. I felt the warm, glowing rays of the sun shimmering over my heart for a moment.

I do not have a label I am entirely comfortable with containing my romantic feelings yet. But then, labels do not need to be forever.

In conclusion, to all my fellow aces this pride month, you are not broken. You are beautifully whole.

The static in my head seizes,

a cacophony of chaos wrapped around me,

my mind sprung loose and detached.

The noise gets louder,

screams from long ago break through the newly healed fissures,

seeping past the tall walls I have built,

creeping into my conscious.

The humming of the old lights adds to the wreckage,

making the screams into an unintelligible wave,

rolling over me,

again and again.

My hands grasp my head,

applying pressure,

the chaos dulls a bit.

A loud thud on the floor above lands me back,

she is screaming,

cursing,

spitting.

My hands shake,

I see the wounds reopen,

scars spanning my palms.

The air in my lungs is not enough,

the space is too small,

my body shrinks,

hating the space I fill.

My bones remember the ache,

my eyes see very well in the dark,

my mind remembers the safety I found in hidden corners.

A voice brings me out,

the nightmare shedding its skin,

letting the light shine through.

A gentle touch reassures me,

guiding me to a safe harbor.

I look down at where our hands meet,

mine trembling,

like earthquakes rock its delicate features.

His are steady,

warm,

comforting.

I remember to look at the details of my hands,

the rivets engrained in my skin,

cracks all healed,

none visible to the outside world.

I take a small moment to rejoice in this,

this quiet time,

safe from the yells and curses,

away from the agony my bones used to know.

I glance at my project,

my hands begin to stop shaking.

I hold my project,

feeling the weight of it,

memorizing all the details.

My hands are not the seismic structures they were,

they made something beautiful.

I made something beautiful.

The flickering ember we search for, that elusive sensation of exhilaration. Where do we find it? I’ve never had much of an issue finding topics I am passionate about. The first time I saw the ocean, I was intrigued by what lays in its depths. I learned all about the animals of the sea and then moved onto the ones that occupy the land. I have come back to the wonders of nature time and time again. My interests were never considered normal, many of those around me called them “obsessions.” I woke up in the early hours of the morning to research about ancient Egypt and read about the stories of their Gods. I have been intrigued by civilization, from the social norms to their dress codes. I was never interested in any of the topics my friends adored. Mine were always obscure topics that many people found repulsive or taboo in nature. In High School, I became interested in the history of prostitution in Spain and then went on to research about codpieces and further onto Elizabethan dress codes. My interests all evolved out of my delight for seeing the patterns in life, how they changed and warped through the centuries. The best way I have found to find a spark is research about a little bit of everything. Go back to your childhood or previous years, look at topics you enjoyed and think about why you liked them. For me, I have always loved hidden knowledge, the darker aspects of life and shining a spotlight on them. You may find a passion or two by looking through Pinterest or other sources of inspiration. Passions burn bright and fade, you will inevitably mourn the loss of one ember before it is replaced by another. Society has attached such a strong visual to passion, something one must have to be fulfilled. In reality, lacking passion is altogether quite common. It is rare to see an individual who is always passionate, for passion is a fickle muse.

Words swarm inside my head, creating a cacophony of chaos. The well-intentioned comments from my fellow classmates spin rapidly into the vortex:

“It’s so….mechanical,” she said when speaking of only my art, while everyone else was viewed as artistic.

“It’s alright, you’re just a bit odd.”

“You’re quirky.”

“Why are you making things more difficult?’

On and on they go, feeding into my mental image. The words that overpower everything: cold, robotic, and simply wrong.

The noises from outside add to the chaos, the too-bright colors of the world hurt my eyes. I descend into my sanctuary, looking for my escape. My gaze sweeps across my highly prized collection of Shadowhunter novels. It occurs to me that the third and final book in the most recent extension of the world is coming soon. After having read the first book, Lady Midnight, time seemed to slip out of my hands as school started up again. I pick up the second one, Lord of shadows, and hold the thick binding of pages in my hand.

“Looks like you’re it,” I inform the book.

I sit down to read and am enveloped into the pages. The ink turns into tiny grains of sand as I emerge on the beach. I am reintroduced to the cast, page after page. I remember their quirks and the humor I love so much. I am drawn to the kids of this particular institute. Ty, Livvy, and Kit are plotting once again. Seen through Kit’s eyes, I pay more attention to Ty. I remember it was mentioned in the previous book that Ty is Autistic. That thought flashes back in my mind as I read the first scene between them, Ty doesn’t look the other boy in the eyes.

Interesting, I think, I get that.

As more ink is spilled and more demons are dispatched I see more and more of Ty. His heart shines through all of the scenes. I unknowingly keep repeating the same phrase in my head, I understand that. After long segments without Ty present, I flip through the next several pages to read his parts.

The noise splitting my head had long since stopped and another feeling developed inside my chest, this time one of recognition. I read how Ty has counted all the windows of the building and therefore knows the exact number.

“I do that,” I express out loud to an empty room. After the sound of my words echo in my ear I realize the implication.

“Oh,” the small sound comes unbidden from my lips.

After much research and several visits to a psychologist, I officially receive my diagnosis. I come home and clutch the book to my chest.

“I’m like you,” I whisper into the pages.

The unbidden image of my own face pops into my head. Instead of the usual metal cogs and screws that fasten me together, I see the flesh and ever-beating humanity that has always been there, waiting to be seen.

My dad tells me of a time when you weren’t consumed by your illness. I look back at wedding photos and cry, because I see the woman I should have had as a mom. She looks radiant and happy, something I have never once seen in all my years of knowing you. I always wanted a mother, someone to hold me when I cry, not to be the cause of my sobbing. I hated you for a long time. For all the invisible people you listened to instead of me. For all the times you dragged me kicking and screaming away from my dad, away from love and into the darkness you thought was your sanctuary. You taught me how to be quiet, so quiet that not even your paranoia could hear me. You taught me how to hold in the pain of my body breaking against walls, push it farther and farther down until I no longer felt anything. My ears learned when to anticipate the end to your screaming nights. I thought I hated you, my tormentor, the hulking monster always pacing back and forth behind my door. I realized I don’t, I hate the disease that took my mother from me, I hate the voices that you can’t drive out of your head, and most of all I hate how preventable all our agony was.

I understand now that Schizophrenia is hard to anticipate, but yours shouldn’t have been. You should have received more help after your first episode, maybe then you would have gotten better. I understand now why you hate the medication you have to take, I see how it slows your mind, how it balloons your body, making you feel worse and worse.

I have been trying to piece together your life, what was the trigger? What events unfolded to turn your life so completely upside-down? I try to track your spiral downwards, to understand you better, but also so I don’t end up falling into that bottomless chasm. After years of trying to peace your life together, I have come to the peak. I will never know the series of events that led you down this rabbit-hole. And I also cannot forgot the things you did to me, the things that broke me so many times.

From my research, I have gleaned some information. The longer a person with Schizophrenia goes without treatment, the higher the chance they will become violent. I also found that most people with your disorder do not become violent, you are a part of a small percentage. With all this knowledge and more I still end up at the same spot: knowing that I can never love you as a child loves their parent. I can and do love you as a fellow human being, and wish you a better life, one free from the voices that drove you to insanity. One where your paranoia does not dictate your life and one were you are happy again.

Sincerely,

Gray

Last year was rough to say the least.

I hope this is a new beginning,

A fresh start,

For our nation as well as myself.

I hope this year does not coming in flaming anew,

But softly glowing.

I hope all the rifts in me fill through the coming days,

That I find peace and comfort in the sunrises,

Starting each day with a beautiful hallow of safety.

I hope all the colors flow steadily back into our world,

Lighting up the wonders we have so missed.

I hope I find comfort in the arms that have been aching to hold me,

And that they find their sanctuary in mine.

I hope we are kinder to our world,

Which has been knitting its wounds together in our absence.

I hope to not be watching the numbers skyrocket,

And be swallowed by the void of depression.

I hope that I no longer have to live in fear.

I hope this is a good year.

It was only a little bit ago that I first opened my eyes to the sight of my mother and four other siblings staring at me. I guess I’m the last one. The light is strong, so I close my eyes again. I slowly adjust to the light and sights around me over the next few days. There are so many smells, so many large things. My mom leads me and the rest of the family to our bed after dinner. We all snuggle in together, I breathe in the scent of my mom deeply as I listen to the thump-thump of her heart. I wake to another morning of my mother prodding me awake. Again, I am the last to wake up. I don’t like the morning, I’m always so sleepy. After a morning meal and play time with the very tall humans, I go back to sleep. The same process repeats for the next month and a half. I get better at walking and even learn how to jump on small wisps of flowers. 

The next day I wake up to find most of my siblings are gone. I blink slowly, sometimes it takes a minute for my vision to focus. Fear clutches at my heart as I see one of my only two sisters left being picked up. The tall human takes her away. I look up to follow their path, I lurch forward as I try to follow, but the large wall in blocking my path. I whine in distress as I lose view of her. My now only sister joins me at the border. She doesn’t seem as shocked or sad as I am. She learned faster than I did, even began running much sooner. She gazes up with her tongue hanging out in joy as a pair of arms grab her and heft her up. It occurs to me as I watch her ascend that this might be a good thing. I hear loud humans talking, nothing I understand, but their voices sound excited and happy. Maybe my sister is going home with them. Maybe all my siblings are going to their forever home. I hope so. 

I wait the rest of the day, in-between naps, to see if the human will come and get me next to take me home. Night falls rapidly. It’s only my mom and myself left. The taller human comes by everyday to play with me and feed me and take me outside to do my business, but I never leave. The routine is the same for a couple of months. I’ve grown a lot in that time. I’m given more freedom as the fence is taken away and  learn what the rest of my home looks like. My mother is always there to cuddle me when I’m sad. The human is always very kind to me. I just wish I felt that joy my sister did when she left. 

One day shortly after my training session, I hear the doorbell ringing. I stay where I am as I have been taught. I watch as two medium sized humans and a smaller one enter my home. I snap my attention to the smaller one, who is playing with a small cube in her hands. I perk up. It looks like one of my toys! This one might be a new playing partner. While the larger humans are distracted I make a bee-line for the small one, I reach her and look up into the large volume of hair that hides her face. I wag my tail earnestly. I’m still not very big, I barely reach her knee. 

A wide smile breaks across her face, I try to mirror it as best I can. She opens her hand and shows me her magic cube, it has a different kind of toy on each side. I lick her hand and wag my tail some more, which seems to make her happy. She drops to the floor and hugs me, pulling me into her. I rest on her lap, happy as I’ve ever been. I hear the taller humans stop talking suddenly as they notice us. The two walk to their smaller one quickly and bend down to pet me. They are talking in higher tones than previously, their excitement matching my new friend’s. I watch as her parents talk to my caregiver and soon the girl is hooking my leash onto my collar. I follow her outside. We walk down a dirt path and I see a large shiny thing with wheels. I clamber into the moving thing and bark happily at my small human. After a few treats I understand one word, “Sunshine.” My girl says the word with enthusiasm, she is as excited as I am. She pats my head before coming to sit beside me. I realize as the thing I am in starts to move that maybe I’m going to my forever home and this small human is mine.