Bloom

Static

The alarm is a low thrum against my bedside table, not a jarring screech. I set it that way on purpose. Mornings used to feel like a jump scare, a rude awakening into a body that didn’t quite feel like mine. Now? It’s…manageable. Just a signal to start the day.

I smack the snooze button anyway. Five more minutes. Five more minutes of pretending I’m still lost in sleep, away from everything. Away from the expectations, the glances, the tiny little misgenders that still sting even when I pretend they don’t.

But five minutes turns into three, then two, and then my brain is fully online, scrolling through the usual anxieties. What will today bring? Will Mr. Henderson call on me in history? Will anyone notice the new binder I ordered? Will I finally be brave enough to submit my photos to the school art show?

I heave myself out of bed. The floorboards are cool under my feet. My room is small, definitely messy, but it’s mine. Covered in prints I’ve taken, landscapes mostly, but a few portraits of Maya, my best friend. She tolerates being my muse. Barely.

I pull on a worn band t-shirt and some jeans. Comfort is the priority. It’s not about hiding anymore, not exactly. It's about…feeling safe. Grounded. Like I can actually breathe.

Downstairs, the smell of coffee and toast fills the kitchen. My dad is already up, reading the newspaper. He glances up when I walk in, a small smile touching his lips.

“Morning, Kai,” he says. His voice is still a little rough around the edges, especially early in the day.

“Morning,” I mumble back, grabbing an orange from the fruit bowl.

He knows I’m not a morning person. He used to try to make small talk, ask about my plans, but we both realized it usually ended in awkward silences. Now, we exist in a comfortable quiet, a shared understanding that sometimes, just being in the same space is enough.

“Big day today?” he asks, folding the newspaper.

“Just senior year starting,” I say, carefully peeling the orange. “Feels…weird.”

“It does,” he agrees. “Seems like yesterday you were just starting high school.”

It doesn’t feel like yesterday. It feels like a lifetime ago. A lifetime of figuring things out, of trying to fit into a mold that wasn’t meant for me. A lifetime of pretending.

“You excited about photography class?” He tries again, a subtle shift in topic. He’s learning, slowly. Learning to ask the right questions, to navigate the conversations that used to feel impossible.

“Yeah,” I say, actually meaning it. Photography is the one thing that feels truly mine. It's where I can express myself without words, where I can capture the beauty I see in the world, and where I can finally feel…seen.

I grab a piece of toast and head for the door. “Gotta run. Don’t want to be late.”

“Have a good day, Kai,” he calls after me.

“You too.”

The walk to school is crisp and cool. It's early September in the Pacific Northwest, and the air smells like damp earth and pine trees. I love this time of year. The leaves are starting to turn, the light is soft and golden, and everything feels…possible.

I pull my camera bag over my shoulder. It's heavy, but in a good way. It holds my Canon, a few lenses, and a stack of film. I still prefer film. There's something about the process, the anticipation, the imperfection, that digital just can’t replicate.

I pass Mrs. Davison’s garden. She's out there every morning, tending to her roses. She always waves, and always calls me “sweetie.” It used to bother me, the misgendering, but Mrs. Davison is genuinely kind. And honestly, I'm too tired to correct everyone all the time.

As I get closer to school, I see Maya leaning against the brick wall, scrolling ...