Read Bloom free: the opening chapter

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 through her phone. Her bright pink hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and she's wearing a t-shirt that says “Smash the Patriarchy.” Classic Maya.

“Took you long enough,” she says, looking up as I approach.

“Morning to you too,” I say, rolling my eyes. “What are you doing here so early?”

“Waiting for my queen, obviously,” she says with a dramatic flourish. “Plus, I needed to stake out the best gossip before first period.”

I laugh. Maya is my grounding force, my protector, my partner in crime. She's known me since middle school, seen me through everything, and she’s always been fiercely loyal.

“Anything interesting?” I ask.

“Let’s just say someone had a very public breakup over Instagram last night,” she says, grinning. “It’s going to be a good year.”

We walk into school together, dodging the rush of students. The hallways are chaotic, filled with the usual mix of laughter, chatter, and awkward teenage energy. I try to blend in, to become invisible. It’s a habit, one I’m still trying to break.

---

First period is history. Mr. Henderson is a good teacher, but he has a habit of calling on me when I’m least prepared. I try to shrink into my seat, hoping to avoid eye contact.

No luck.

“Kai,” he says, his voice booming across the room. “Can you tell us about the causes of the French Revolution?”

My mind goes blank. I remember reading the chapter, but the details are fuzzy. I stammer, trying to formulate an answer, but the words just won’t come.

“Um…well…it was about…uh…inequality?” I manage to say, feeling my cheeks flush.

Mr. Henderson raises an eyebrow. “Can you be a little more specific?”

I want to disappear. I want the floor to swallow me whole.

Just then, a voice cuts through the silence.

“He means the economic hardship and social injustice caused by the rigid class system,” says a voice from the back of the room.

I turn to see Leo Maxwell, a classmate I’ve noticed in art class. He’s looking directly at me, a small, encouraging smile on his face.

“Thank you, Leo,” Mr. Henderson says, turning his attention back to the class. “Perhaps Kai could elaborate on that?”

I take a deep breath, and with Leo's help, I manage to pull together a coherent answer. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.

After class, I find Leo packing up his books.

“Thanks,” I say, feeling a little awkward. “You saved me back there.”

He shrugs, a blush creeping up his neck. “No problem. History isn’t exactly everyone’s favorite.”

“I’m Kai, by the way,” I say, extending my hand.

“Leo,” he says, shaking my hand. His grip is warm and firm. “I’m in your photography class.”

“Right,” I say, feeling a flicker of something I can’t quite identify. “I think I’ve seen you around.”

“You have,” he says, smiling. “I’m always admiring your work. Your photos are really… honest.”

Honest. It's a word I don't often hear associated with myself.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

The bell rings, signaling the start of second period. We both gather our things, and start to walk towards the door.

“I’ll see you in class,” Leo says, pausing in the doorway. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” I echo, watching him go.

A small smile spreads across my face. Maybe senior year won’t be so bad after all. Maybe, just maybe, it could even be…good. But there's something else there, a knot in my stomach. A worry that this small moment of connection will be fragile. That I'll mess it up somehow. That I'll never truly let anyone see the real me.

---

The first few classes blur together. Lunch is spent with Maya, dissecting the morning’s gossip and planning our weekend. It’s a welcome distraction, but even as I laugh and chat, I can’t shake the image of Leo’s smile.

Finally, it’s time for photography class. The room is a haven, filled with the scent of chemicals and the soft glow of darkroom lights. It's a space where I feel like I can breathe.

I set up my workstation, carefully unpacking my equipment. I’m working on a new project, a series of portraits of people I admire, people who are living authentically, who are embracing their true selves.

I glance up, and there he is. Leo, standing near the window, sketching in a notebook. He looks…lost in thought.

He looks up, catches my eye, and smiles. And in that moment, everything feels a little bit brighter. But a familiar wave of anxiety washes over me. Can I really let myself hope for something more? Can I risk being vulnerable again?

I raise my camera, framing a shot of Leo bathed in the afternoon light. The image comes into focus, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a surge of pure, unadulterated joy. I press the shutter, capturing a moment of quiet beauty. A moment of possibility. A moment of…first light.

But as I lower the camera, I see Mrs. Gable, the photography teacher, heading towards me with a concerned expression on her face. “Kai,” she begins, “we need to talk about your portfolio…”

“…we need to talk about your portfolio.”

My stomach drops. Not again. It’s always something with my portfolio. It’s never about the technical skill, because Mrs. Gable knows I’m good. I nail the aperture, the composition, the lighting. It’s always the subject matter.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“It’s just…it’s very consistent, Kai,” she says, carefully. “Very focused on…isolation. Shadow. Loneliness. It's powerful work, technically brilliant, but it's…heavy.”

I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “That’s kind of the point.”

“I understand artistic expression, Kai, I truly do. But this is a photography course, not a therapy session. We need to explore a wider range of themes. Joy, connection, beauty…things that aren’t shrouded in darkness.”

“But darkness is part of life,” I mumble.

Mrs. Gable sighs. “Of course it is. But you’ve been exploring it exclusively for the past year. It’s starting to feel…obsessive.”

Obsessive. That word stings. It’s not obsessive. It’s real. It's a reflection of how I feel inside. A way to make sense of the…everything.

“I just…I see the world differently,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sure you do,” she says softly. “But you also have a gift, Kai. A remarkable eye. And I want to see you use it to explore more than just pain. Think about it, okay? I want to see some brighter pieces in your next submission.”

I nod, feeling defeated. Another compromise. Another expectation to pretend I’m okay when I’m not. I want to explain, to tell her about the years of feeling like an outsider, about the struggle to find my place, about the constant fear of not being enough. But the words catch in my throat. It's too much.

“Okay,” I say again, and turn back to my workstation, pretending to adjust my lens.

The conversation leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I feel suffocated, like I’m trapped in a box, expected to conform to someone else’s idea of what my art should be.

I glance over at Leo. He’s still sketching, seemingly oblivious to the tension between Mrs. Gable and me. He looks so peaceful, so free. I wonder if he ever feels this weight, this constant pressure to hide parts of himself.

I raise my camera again, but the joy I felt earlier is gone. The image of Leo looks flat, lifeless. I lower the camera, feeling frustrated. I can't capture what I want to capture if I'm feeling like this.

The rest of the class passes in a blur. I go through the motions, developing prints, adjusting settings, but my mind is elsewhere. I'm replaying the conversation with Mrs. Gable, questioning my choices, wondering if she’s right. Maybe I am dwelling too much on the darkness. Maybe I need to try and see the world through a different lens.

But it’s not that simple. The darkness is a part of me, woven into the fabric of my being. It’s the result of years of feeling different, of being misunderstood, of hiding who I truly am.

---

After class, I head to my usual spot, a small coffee shop downtown. It’s my sanctuary, a place where I can escape the noise and chaos of the world. I order a black coffee and settle into a corner booth, pulling out my sketchbook.

I used to love sketching, but lately, I’ve lost the inspiration. My pages are filled with half-finished drawings, abandoned ideas, and scribbled notes. I stare at the blank page, willing myself to create something, anything.

My thoughts drift back to Leo. His smile, his warmth, his genuine curiosity. He made me feel…seen. It’s been a long time since anyone has made me feel that way.

I start to sketch his face, trying to capture the light in his eyes, the curve of his lips. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start. As I draw, I find myself remembering the moment I took his picture, the surge of joy I felt.

Maybe Mrs. Gable is right. Maybe I do need to explore different themes. But that doesn’t mean I have to abandon the darkness altogether. Maybe I can find a way to balance it with light, to show the complexity of the human experience.

I close my sketchbook, feeling a flicker of hope. I’m not sure where this is all going, but I’m willing to try.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the photos I took today. There it is, the shot of Leo. I zoom in, studying the details. His expression is thoughtful, almost melancholic. But there’s also a hint of something else, a spark of resilience, a quiet strength.

I decide to edit the photo, adjusting the contrast, sharpening the details. I want to make it pop, to capture the essence of who he is. As I work, I realize that this photo is more than just a technical exercise. It’s a reflection of my own journey, my own struggle to find beauty in the darkness.

I save the edited photo and upload it to my online portfolio. I hesitate for a moment before adding a caption.

First Light.

It feels…vulnerable. But also, strangely empowering.

---

My routine is a carefully constructed shield, a way to maintain control in a world that often feels chaotic and unpredictable. I wake up at 6:00 am, even on weekends, and start my day with a run. It’s not about fitness, it’s about clearing my head, about silencing the voices that tell me I’m not good enough.

After my run, I make a strong cup of coffee and spend a few hours working on my photography. I prefer to shoot in the early morning, when the light is soft and the streets are empty. It’s a time when I feel most at peace, most connected to myself.

School is…tolerable. I have a few close friends, Maya being the closest. She knows a lot, and doesn't push when I don't want to share. We navigate the hallways together, offering each other a sense of solidarity. But I mostly keep to myself, avoiding unnecessary interactions. I’ve learned that the less I reveal, the less I risk getting hurt.

Evenings are spent in the darkroom, developing prints, editing photos, and losing myself in the creative process. It’s the only time when I truly feel alive, when I can express myself without fear of judgment.

Weekends are dedicated to exploring the city with my camera, searching for hidden gems, and capturing fleeting moments of beauty. I’m drawn to abandoned buildings, forgotten alleyways, and the faces of strangers. I see stories in everything, and I feel compelled to document them.

I’ve been doing this for years, ever since I first picked up a camera. It started as a hobby, a way to escape the loneliness and isolation of my childhood. But it quickly became something more, a lifeline, a source of meaning.

It was also a way to avoid dealing with…things.

I grew up in a small town, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. It wasn't a welcoming place for someone like me. I always felt different, out of place. I didn’t fit in with the other boys, and I wasn’t quite accepted by the girls.

I knew, even at a young age, that something wasn’t right. That my body didn’t match my soul. But I didn’t have the words to explain it, or the courage to speak up.

So I retreated into myself, finding solace in the world of photography. It was a safe space, a place where I could be myself without fear of ridicule or rejection.

But it was also a prison. A way to avoid confronting the pain, the confusion, the uncertainty.

I’m starting to realize that I can’t run from my past forever. I need to face it, to acknowledge it, to learn from it. And maybe, just maybe, I can start to heal.

Maybe Leo can help with that. Or maybe that's foolish. A dangerous wish.

I finish my coffee and gather my things. It's time to head home, to lose myself in the darkness. But tonight, there's a glimmer of light. A fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, things can change.

The sample ends here.