On the Bus
I met L. on the bus home from work. He saw me first and said hello. I was too tired to really notice the people around me. We exchanged greetings and started talking about what we'd done over the summer—the kind of conversation friends have between bus stops.
But it was a conversation that drew every eye in the aisle. Not because of what we said, but because we looked different saying it. His voice, his words, revealed something his appearance didn't. To the world watching, we were a puzzle that didn't fit.
M.
What Can I Say?
It's hard to talk about my friendships with some of these young people. I can't even explain it clearly to myself.
Spending hours with them—joking, playing, laughing—that part is beautiful. But then it gets harder. Because being together isn't just about that. It means facing real life. It means answering hard questions you can't dodge, questions that demand a straight answer.
When we talk about deeper relationships, work, dating, marriage—that's when I freeze. Inside I'm angry and I want to scream, to let out all my rage and my refusal. But I can't say it out loud, and I won't accept it on anyone else's behalf either.
Sometimes I don't know how to answer what they ask me. I find myself leaning harder into talk about friendship, about life as something we all share. But I know that's not enough for some of them. In those moments I feel helpless. I can't go on, because I can feel that I'm letting both of us down.
A Friend