I read this in the exact moment of transition. I wrote some of your words on the back of my notebook; I wrote a text, and got a response that was less than I hoped for. I read more of you.

I stepped into my bedroom to cry and put on socks. I came back and read more, re-read some, felt the sting of disappointment, and hoped for the relief of acceptance.

It's not here, yet. But your words give me hope that it will be. When I stop wishing for it.