Violet had always found girls beautiful. They were all pretty eyes and nice smiles and kind hearts. Often, she would find herself looking at these girls and admiring their beauty. As a child, she would even sometimes wish she was born a boy, simply because it meant she could date that pretty girl she saw at the shopping centre.

Then again, all girls did that. They would complement their friends, jokingly flirt with them, hype up the fitness girlies and body-positivity women on social media. Women’s gaze, they would call it.

It was normal. That’s not normal.

It wasn’t until she was fourteen did she notice boys as well. Obviously, girls were easy to look at, but she could admit that objectively men were attractive as well.

They could have pretty eyes and nice smiles and kind hearts, just like girls could. They could treat her well if she found the right person, and she would be happy enough.

Still, Oliver’s words rung clearly in her mind, their presence flashing like a neon sign above her head. “You don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not.”

Media says she should like boys. They’re attractive after all. They’re hot and funny and sexy. They exert masculinity – the perfect contrast to a woman’s feminine side – and never fail to provide for the family.

That’s what she wants. That’s what she should want.

Now, she sat on her kitchen countertop, scrolling through photos of her and Oliver on her phone: their first date. The day he asked to be her boyfriend. Their second date. When they met each other’s family for the first time. After they said they loved each other. The first holiday together. Their first day at university. After

She smiled appreciatively, grateful for all the happy moments they had together. “You treat me the same as you treat any of your other friends.”

Violet and Oliver hadn’t spoken since the breakup, but weeks later – after she was finally able to drag herself out of bed for the day and think about him without falling to tears – she was still unable to get his final words out of her head.

She did like him. They’d been dating for four years – too many to dedicate to someone who you didn’t even care for. Then again, you care for your friends and spend years of your life finding ways on how to make them happy.

Still, she tried not to ponder on the word that had been trying to penetrate her mind. The word that she didn’t want to say out loud. The word that if she admitted described her, would change her whole life.

She was too old for a change of heart, for a change of identity, for a change in preference. She was twenty-two for god’s sake.

I’ve been confused lately, about some of the things Oliver
said before he left. He said that I didn’t truly love him, and
that I shouldn’t pretend to be someone I’m not. But I don’t
think I could ever pretend to love someone. I’ve had some
words in my head. Ones I can’t even muster the strength
to write down. When will I be brave enough? I don’t even
want to question if they’re truth. Sure, I’ve always adored women,
but doesn’t everyone feel that way? Doesn’t everyone feel
their stomach tingle and a warm blush spread on their cheeks
whenever a pretty girl talks to them? Doesn’t everyone
wonder what it would be like to date the same gender?
Aren’t those just normal human things?
Wondering, questioning, imagining?

Obviously she believed that people could be whatever they wanted. Love is love and nobody should be oppressed or discriminated against. But either way, that wasn’t her. It couldn’t be her, because if it was, she would know by now. She would have teenage experiences and female crushes and probably would have experimented in her teen years.

And still, that word that was circulating her brain was not allowed in, because it was impossible. Honestly, Violet didn’t even know why she was thinking about it. She was supposed to be mourning a breakup with her first boyfriend. And then, in a few months, she could talk to new people and hopefully find her second one.

She had experience, she knew how to flirt, and she could kiss well. Wasn’t that all a woman needed to appease a man?

………………………………………………….

Three days later and she was sat on her couch, diary in hand.

It has been over twenty-four hours since I last cried over Oliver.
I think that’s progress. I’ve showered and brushed my teeth
every day this week, and even managed to return my mum’s
phone calls. I still can’t say the words in my head, but I
been thinking about researching. But still, I can’t go twenty-
two years without even questioning my identity. I’ve literally
had queer friends who’ve spoken about their same-sex crushes,
and I haven’t questioned myself. I don’t think I’ve ever had a same-sex crush.

Her mind trailed back to her parents, the lingering smell of muffins, and the constant scent of artificial rose burning in the air. She loved them – they supported her every endeavour, held her as she cried about bad grades and lost friends, and learnt the best way to help her when she was stressed.

However, it was her maternal grandparents that made her feel unsure. The forever pungent stench of cigarettes and alcohol that escaped their mouth with every word. The sandpapery feel of their hands as they hugged her just a little too tight, squeezing around her waist and mentioning about how she should lose some weight. The way they would constantly push into her privacy, opening the door without knocking and pulling of her headphones when she was trying to study.

It was nice that she had graduated and bought her own apartment, so she didn’t have to worry about a random intrusion, but the thought of them still haunts her mind.

They weren’t cruel, the weren’t nasty, and they weren’t abusive. They were just traditional and old-fashioned, with long-outdated believes and the common attitude often owned by all elderly folks.

And like all elderly folks, they weren’t afraid to express what they thought.

Violet’s grandparents believed in traditionalism and gender roles, in the man-and-women marriage that God ordered from people, and supported the political parties that oppressed against the woke or outspoken.

She should count herself lucky that her grandmother believed in feminism at the least, yet she could never seem to hide the look of uneasiness that appeared on her face every time they spoke those thoughts out loud.

“What’s your problem?” Her grandfather would ask gruffly, glancing at her mother briefly as though for permission.

“Nothing,” She would mumble, avoiding eye contact and trying to smooth her features into something less readable.

“Do you disagree?” Her grandmother said, voice gentler, yet still as pressing.

“I just think people should be able to live in whatever way makes them happy, and love whoever they want.” Her face flushed, embarrassment boiling in her veins. Her mother looked at her with concern, enough worry to place a gentle hand on her knee but too afraid of her parents to speak up. Her father would be in the kitchen, cooking their lunch and blissfully unaware of the tension through the blasting music in his headphones.

“God didn’t say that” her grandfather would say shortly. “And if God doesn’t want it, then we don’t want it either.”

Violet nodded feebly, embarrassingly, not willing to entertain the conversation that occurred every time her grandparents came over.

Maybe that’s why she’s so afraid.

Maybe that’s why she can’t bring herself to utter the words.

Although her grandparents where never a big part of her life, there were always idiots with stupid opinions they would force on other people. The homophobes, the racists, and anti-feminists: bigots, to be exact.

Sure Violet herself didn’t have any of these hateful opinions, but it’s difficult not to eat food that’s been forced down your throat since the day you were old enough to understand. Even the people she loved and respected unintentionally added to the stigma.

It was all, “when you get married to a pretty boy,” and “wait until you have children,” and “make sure you use condoms and get tested.” In fact, there was never any consideration for anything else.

What about the people who didn’t want to get married to a pretty boy? What about the people who didn’t want to have children? What about those who don’t even feel those types of romantic or sexual attraction?

Maybe it was the stereotypes that had been feeding the internalised hatred, the twisting feeling in her gut that made her feel sick the second the thought about a girl in a less-than-friendly way.

She wasn’t homophobic, but sometimes the things that you’ve been surrounded by can still influence the way you think.

This whole thing was going to take some time getting used to.