Mell runs his fingers through my hair as we lay on the couch together. I’ve gotten comfortable enough to cuddle with him over the past two weeks since we first kissed. His shirt is off, having shown me his new poppy tattoo on the left side of his chest near his heart that he got to match with his mother, and I’m resting my head against the right side of his body so I don’t irritate the healing tattoo. “Your hair is growing out more,” He notices, “At least since I first met you.”

He’s right. Although it’s not long it’s starting to edge past my ears. It's sort of shaggy and unruly though and I can tell my ballet instructor isn’t a fan of how it looks, so I smooth it back with gel before each practice. “I don’t like how the wig feels so I’m trying to grow my hair out,” I say, propping myself up on my elbow to see Mell’s face better. “Is it okay?”

“It’s cute,” Mell says with a reassuring smile. 

I smile back at him and lean in for a kiss. My chest tightens as he leans up to meet my lips, still getting used to the feeling of someone actually appreciating me for me in a romantic way.

“I think I might try coming out to my parents,” I say as we part, and Mell raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing, I think that’s a great idea. Just unexpected,” Mell explains, “Weren’t you going to wait until you were more sure of your gender?” 

I hum in thought, chewing at the inside of my cheek. I don’t like leaving my parents out of the loop at all. They’ve always supported me so I feel like I’m doing them a disservice by not saying anything. “Yeah… But it’s eating away at me mentally. I feel like they should know.” I nervously pick at the skin around my nail on my thumb. My nails are painted a light blue now, a way I’ve found to play with gender expression in a way I’m comfortable with. 

I’ve been dressing more feminine as well outside of dance or visiting my parents and it’s been more comfortable for me. When I’m around my parents I’ve been wearing my usual skinny jeans, t-shirts and sweaters when it’s colder out, but around Lola and Mell I’ve been wearing things like dresses, skirts, and women’s activewear to the gym. Everything feels better done in a more typically “woman” way except for the wig so far, but I can’t grow my hair out too long while I’m doing ballet semi-professionally so I still wear the wig sometimes.

Mell runs his thumb affectionately along my jawline, causing me to shiver. “I support you,” He says encouragingly. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“I’ve asked Lola to come with me,” I admit sheepishly, “I don’t want your first meeting with them to be something so heavy. Plus we just started dating.”

“That’s fine,” Mell says with a grin, “I get it.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and lay back down so I can snuggle against him once more. It’s not that I don’t want Mell there with me but my parents know Lola and they know her journey with gender. They also really like her, so I feel like things will go over much smoother with her there than with Mell there. 

“Suel-ki!” My mother opens the door and comes forward for a hug. “Welcome home,” she says in Korean. She smiles up at me. She then looks at Lola and rushes to give her a hug as well. “Nice to see you, Lola,” She greets my friend happily. 

My parents don’t really hug anyone outside of the family so Lola has always felt touched by the gesture. She gets misty-eyed every time my mother hugs her. After they part, Lola bows to her. “Nice to see you too, Mrs. Lee.”

“Hi, Eomma,” I say, trying to hide my nerves, “Can we come in?”

“Of course,” my mother says in a chipper tone, “Come on in. Appa is in the living room. What did you want to talk about today?” She asks the last part in Korean as we step into the living room where my father waves to us. I translate it for Lola. She’s been trying to learn Korean to better communicate with my parents but has been having a hard time.

Lola bows to my father as well as we take a seat. He smiles at her. “Is everything okay?” He asks, knowing I wanted to talk today but not about what. “Is ballet going alright?”

“Yeah,” I say anxiously, picking at the nail polish on my fingernails. 

This brings Eomma’s attention to my nails and she hums in question. “You painted your nails?” She asks.

“Yeah,” I say again, “I think they look nice.” Lola looks between the two of us with a confused expression on her face so I wag my fingers at her. “She’s asking about my nails,” I clarify. “Eomma, can we stick to English so Lola can understand better?”

“Are men your age painting their nails now?” my mother asks, switching to English without responding to my question. She takes my hand in hers as she takes a seat next to me on the couch. “Hmm, I like the blue.”

I shrug. “Thanks…” I say, “Some men do, but that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Appa crosses one leg over the other and leans back in his chair. “What do you mean?” He asks. 

I look at Lola and she gives me an encouraging smile and a nod. “Go ahead,” She says quietly. 

I take a deep breath. Eomma and Appa both look at me with concerned expressions on their faces. “Um…” I start, trying to fend off the looming panic attack, “I think I’m a girl.”

They both look confused like they don’t understand what I meant so I repeat it in Korean then say, “Like, I think I’m like Lola.”

“Are you sure it’s not just a passing feeling?” Appa asks in Korean. “Lola had to quit ballet. Are you going to quit ballet?” He sounds concerned, like dance is more of a priority for him than my coming out and gender journey. My heart sinks into my stomach.

“I don’t know,” I say in English, “I don’t want to but I want to feel comfortable and safe in my own skin.”

Eomma looks like she doesn’t know what to say. “We support you,” She finally says, but she sounds hesitant. “We just want to make sure you know what you’re doing. You don’t want to ruin your career over this, do you?” She says that last part in Korean so Lola can’t understand. As much as they love Lola, my parents think she threw away her career and opportunities when she came out and quit dancing. I’ve also heard them talking to each other before, around the time Lola came out and started her transition, about Lola in regards to not understanding why she “chose” to be a woman, but they’ve always been supportive of her despite their inability to understand. Or at the very least they refer to her by her proper name and pronouns.

“No, I don’t but…” I run out of steam mid-sentence and just sigh heavily instead of finishing it. “I should go home.” I get up off the couch. My head is spinning and I’m incredibly upset by the way our conversation went. I feel like they care more about my career prospects than about my comfort in my own body.

Eomma looks hurt. “You don’t want to stay for dinner?”

I shake my head. “Lots to think about. Not feeling well.” 

“Oh, okay,” she responds, disappointed, like she doesn’t understand that she just destroyed me emotionally. 

“Thanks for having us over,” Lola says politely and bows as she stands as well. “We’ll be over for dinner another time.” 

Appa stands and walks us to the front door. “Come by again soon,” He says with a kind smile. He gives me a hug and Lola a firm handshake. 

“What do you want for dinner?” Lola asks me as we arrive back at the apartment. “I’m gonna order in since we were planning on being with your parents for dinner tonight.” She already has her phone open to the Grubhub app.

“I’m not really that hungry,” I mumble. I take my shoes off at the door and start heading to my room. 

Lola catches my arm as I walk past her. “Hey,” She says softly, “It’s gonna be okay. And you need to eat something, so just tell me what you want.”

I shrug listlessly. “I dunno, pizza?” I ask flatly. “Order any kind you want.” I shake my arm out of Lola’s grasp. “Let me know when it’s here. I’m gonna go to my room.”

“Lane– Lanie–” Lola stumbles over my name, making me feel even worse. I don’t hear the rest of what she says as I enter my room and close the door behind me. 

I lay on the floor and stare up at the ceiling. Laying on the floor isn’t enough. I will myself to melt into the floor and seep into the apartment below me as a puddle but of course that doesn’t happen. Instead, tears prick at the corners of my eyes and roll down into my hair. I wipe my eyes with a sniffle and examine my fingernails. Maybe I should take the nail polish off.

I get up and decide to get the nail polish remover from my bathroom. Maybe if I remove the nail polish I can also somehow remove the need to transition as well as the idea that I’m a woman. I scrub harder at my nails than I need to. The polish comes off my nails fast but I continue to scrub at them for a couple more minutes anyway, like I’m trying desperately to scrub away all thoughts of being transgender.

It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work.