Coming out to Janelle

The nachos are demolished. Trivia is over. Priya is arguing with Wren about whether The Princess Bride counts as an 80s movie (it does, 1987, you could recite the release date in your sleep). The patio hums around you—laughter, clinking glasses, the crackle of the fire pit—but all you can hear is the blood in your own ears.

You turn to Janelle. Her knee is still warm against yours. Her braids catch the string-light glow, gold hoops swinging as she tilts her head toward you.

"Can we go talk? Just us?"

Something shifts behind her eyes. Not surprise—more like recognition. Like she's been waiting for this.

"Yeah. Of course."

She slides out of her chair and catches Priya's eye. "We'll be back. Five minutes."

Priya opens her mouth, closes it, and gives a thumbs-up that is far too knowing.

You weave through the patio tables and out through a gap in the wooden fence to a small clearing beyond. The Lantern's parking lot stretches to your left, gravel and truck bumpers visible in the fading light. To your right, a stand of birch trees catches the last amber of the sunset. The noise from the patio dims to a murmur—voices, not words.

Janelle leans against the fence, arms loosely crossed. She doesn't fill the silence. She just waits.

Okay. You can do this. You've done this before. Twice.

"I don't know how I feel about you," you start, and immediately wince. "That came out wrong. I mean—I just met you. We've known each other for like two days. So I don't... I'm not trying to make this about that."

Janelle nods slowly. "Okay."

"But you were honest with me. Earlier. In your room. You told me something real about yourself, and I respect that so much. And I want to be honest with you too."

Your hands are shaking. You press them against your thighs.

"I'm trans."

The word hangs in the air between you like something physical. Janelle's lips part. Her arms uncross slowly, dropping to her sides.

"I'm... in the middle of it. Like, the very beginning. I only figured it out a few days ago. I'm not on hormones or anything yet. I have a therapist appointment on Tuesday. I'm just—" You gesture vaguely at yourself. The sage jacket. The breast forms beneath the fitted tee. The messy bun. "I'm in the middle of this huge change and I don't have everything figured out yet. But I wanted you to know. Because you were honest with me."

Janelle hasn't moved. Her expression is frozen in something you can't quite read—eyes wide, mouth slightly open, the gold hoops in her ears catching light as her head tilts just barely to one side.

You run out of words. The silence stretches. A truck rumbles past on Route 9, headlights sweeping briefly across the birch trees.

Say something. Please say something.

Janelle's chest rises with a slow breath. Her fingers curl, uncurl. She's staring at you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle—not hostile, not disgusted, just... processing. Taking it apart and putting it back together in real time.

She doesn't say anything.

The patio noise swells briefly as someone opens the fence gate, then fades again. A cricket starts up somewhere in the birch trees. The string lights behind you cast long shadows across the gravel.

You stand there, exposed, waiting for whatever comes next.