The evening was a minefield of old pronouns and new silences. Some friends were effortlessly graceful. Others overcompensated, saying “man” and “dude” so many times it felt like a parody. One person, a woman named Chrissy who had always been a little too loud, cornered him by the guacamole.
She looked at him, really looked. “You know what I see? You’re not a different person. You’re just… in focus. Like someone finally adjusted the lens.”
Chrissy opened her mouth, but Samir appeared like a guardian angel, a plate of burnt veggie burgers in hand. “Hey, Chrissy, didn’t you want to tell me about your Reiki certification?” he said, steering her away. Over his shoulder, he gave Leo a wink.
Leo felt the old, familiar heat rise in his chest—the urge to apologize, to explain, to shrink. But then he remembered his grandmother’s hands on the welding torch. He remembered the letter in his drawer.
