I fell in love with a girl at the beginning of the Fall 2021 semester. She was everything I wanted: beautiful beyond expression, funny in a manner that only we understood, and kind in the same way that siblings have one another’s back. I could describe her forever, but I digress because of how our narrative ended.
It was post-Halloween when our relationship started to become distant. It was the type of distance that subtly occurs until you cannot do anything to save the relationship. It was devastating as it dwindled ever-slowly right in front of me. The relationship fully concluded with emotionally-driven denied phone calls and swollen eyelids.
In the midst of my heartache, I traveled four hours to visit my mother because I did not know where else to go with my sorrow. The love my mother holds for me serves as my healthy crutch. There was only one issue: My mother did not know I was queer. How was I supposed to tell her I was suffering without telling her the contents of my suffering?
Nevertheless, I sat across from my mother, who was watching me cry over “friendship drama” because I could not scrounge up a better lie. Halfway through the conversation, I could tell my mother was genuinely confused from my exaggerated tears and blood-red facial hue.
With the cue of an odd look on my mother’s face, I said, “Can I please make something more clear, mom? She and I were more than friends.”
This act was a whim, but a whim I have been patiently waiting for.
“Yes, I had a feeling. I was just waiting for you to tell me when you felt ready,” my mother said in response as she wiped away her happy tears.
A confession was all I needed to shift my loneliness to liberation. One sentence, one moment. Obviously, my coming out does not change the fact that I was dumped by a girl who I felt would be in my life forever. However, I am no longer obligated to endure my loss in secret.