"Hello?" 

But the voice stays silent. 

Chatty Cathy took a break I'm guessing...

I grab my charger and ensure the laptop is plugged in. Then I check the charger again to make really sure that the magnet didn't fake plug-in and I'll wake up to a dead battery tomorrow morning. 

I find the pair of scissors I'd smartly placed on the desk before trying to sort my apartment out. Then I hack into one of the boxes. No such luck, just books.

Damn, I should've marked these.

I try the next one, sighing in relief as a fluff of plush toys, blankets, and pillows all puff out at me. I didn't have the heart to try and vacuum seal them. I feel like I'd be an evil Grim Reaper sucking out the life essence of my pirate teddy bear if I tried.

I take out the thick comforter and the backup quilt from my college years, then arrange a little nest of blankets and pillows on the secondhand couch on the opposite wall. 

My stomach rumbles.

Shoot, still hungry.

I take up the scissors and start hacking at boxes again. And again. And again. Hoping to find my microwave...

Instead, the closest thing I find is my coffee maker. I sigh, untangle it, and then reach into the bag of preserved foods beside it. No, I'd have to find the can opener for that can of beans. No, I'm not feeling a sad popcorn dinner again. And then--

Bingo. Microwave ramen. Or rather, it's less appetizing cousin, coffee maker ramen. 

Feeling like I'm back in a college dorm again, I plug in the coffee maker and warm up some water, waiting for it to reach a boil. The water hisses when it's finally finished, and steam rises as I pour the packet and seasoning in after. Then I use the scissors to bend the ramen lid back down again. Waiting for sustenance.

GROOOOOOOWL.

I grab my stomach, wincing. Then eat the ramen when it's only half-cooked. Al dente, if you will. I end up crunching through most of the noodles because I'm impatient, and I lack virtue. Then I drink up the broth best as I'm able. 

I frown, already hating the way the salt coats my teeth. Back to the creepy bathroom again.

Thankfully, there are no new eyes in the mirror as I go to brush my teeth with my toothpaste and brush from my travel bag. Staring into my bleary gaze. I remember how critical of myself I was when I was younger, cursing myself for looking so unsure, questioning my very existence as soon as I walked into the room. But I had a reason for that. 

I had weird feelings toward my gender before finally settling on feeling kinship in being  gender-ambiguous, following in the footsteps of my elder Queer role models, to adopting the label of being butch or "masc" as the kids say. 

 I do my best to offer support from behind a computer screen by reposting and sharing stories of genderfluid artists and writers now. Any time I see some young teen empowered to start a drag story hour at their local library despite the naysayers? It warms my heart. Because they get to feel that power even if I never did. 

Even as so many things get worse in the world, I have hope the kids will be alright. Better than alright. They'll be our future. 

 I used to be scrawny, and I hated that because that made me feel weak and that made me feel so very, very afraid. I'd heard too much shit growing up from too many people who should've known better than to threaten the life of a growing kid-- and it's part of why I don't go out now. I'm scared of people's derision, and the very real danger that comes with that. 

At least, growing older, my shoulders filled out a little. From toothpicks to something more solid. A build able to carry boxes up those damn stairs. Someone I could live with-- even as I hid behind my computer screen, remote work, and online orders to avoid interacting with the outside world. Someone strong, even.

But all the muscles in the world won't protect you from the hateful voices inside your head, now will they, Kai?

I shut the light off and retreat to my nest of blankets and plush toys. Then, before I can have the chance to think better of it, I wrap myself in my ex's crochet star blanket. 

I sigh, blushing to myself. It still smells like her. Then, so irritated at my weak will that I have to punch a pillow, I grumble again to myself. Dammit, it still smells like her...

I can still remember the last time I saw her...

...and how she looked in somebody else's arms.