By Scyrella Bernardi

— The door is open, why won’t you leave? she asks, her voice so quiet and little like her. I look out the window. It’s so high I can barely see the ground. I turn my head in her direction with a tight smile.

— We have a lot to talk about.

— I don’t like talking.

— But you like listening. That’s all I’ll ask of you.

Her face is in a frown, wishing to have her answers, but too cautious to ask them. I still have doubts myself. 

— Who’s the lady in your necklace?

— My lover.

She is even more confused now, perhaps wondering how I made that choice. My brain was never one to be controlled. I always looked more at the girls and never understood the social cues. My brother bought me a bracelet with the lesbian flag and I take a deep breath every time I put it on. I always wear it on my ankle, but I hope someday I’ll feel brave enough to put it on my pulse. The hidden disability cord, however, is still in the drawer. I cannot find it in myself to put it on my body yet.

— But there’s no princess with princess in the happily ever after. Will we be sad forever?

— No. There is, they just don’t tell these stories.

— But why? 

— Well… 

I take a deep breath. 

— It’s because princesses marry witches. Or fairies, or mermaids, or warriors. Maybe their lady-in-waiting, if they have the luck of looking at one that also looks at them.

— So you kiss girls like you kiss Mother? she giggles, tilting her head with curiosity.

— No. We kiss girls like Mother kisses lovers.

I smile sweetly at myself, my eyes full of tenderness. She didn’t need another pair of orbs filled with rage.

— And girls are like Mother’s lovers? Our voice is now cautious; she stops moving, staying on her tippy toes, like a rabbit entering a cave. Did it find a nest or a bear? It all depends on how the parents’ day was. 

— No. Girls are not like Mother’s lovers. Girls are gentle and kind. They smile widely at the sun and say “hello” to the moon.

— They don’t burn or punch?

— No, they only hold it gently.

— Skin soft like feathers?

— Some skins are more rough and thick than others, but they all hold a tender touch. There’s no violence in love.

— There’s no fear?

— Only of your heart exploding with feelings.

I would give her the sweetest pieces of my orange, I wouldn’t pull the knots in her hair or tell her that her body with such a big heart wasn’t fit for ballet. I never knew her, but I know now. She loves the fog, even if she feels overwhelmed with the amount of clothes that she needs to wear. She enjoys orange flowers and bitten leaves. She thinks it’s fun to imagine a little bug seeing a pretty flower and going there to take some pollen, or a little insect biting the leaves with their tiny teeth. She is afraid of mirrors, but she also enjoys talking to the girl within it. She knows they make quite a duo.

— The door is open, but at the end of the stairs, there’s a dragon.

A madman, she means, a beast.

— That’s why I’m here. 

— To give me the key?

— No. To reach you how to fly. 

I hug her with my wings and fly in her embrace.

–

Stella “Scyrella” Bernardi is a Brazilian eighteen-year-old who is majoring in sciences but is passionate about languages (to understand how the brain loves, not how it works). Scyrella has AuDHD, is hellenic polytheistic, and is a lesbian. She also has a twin brother who works (against his will) as her beta-reader.