Chapter Text
March 7th.
The figure sat in their chair, scribbling away in their journal. “March Seventh.” They uttered and sighed. “Would feminine pronouns and terms even work for me?” Their whispers were heard by the plushies and pillows on their monochromatic bed.
The person with the messy hair and red under eyes uttered a remark to themself. “Pfft. My birthday as my own fucking name?” Sarcastic giggles slipped beyond their chapped lips. “What a joke.”
Before scoffing at the name they picked out, they felt like they bled enough to make a river.
Now, all they feel is regret at making fun of the date.
“Let’s try this again.”
Setting their black pen down on their terrifyingly disorganised desk, they grabbed a pink coloured pencil with multiple bite marks etched into its wooden surface. Pressing the writing instrument down into the paper, they wrote.
I am March 7th. I use she/they pronouns. I am a transgender woman.
Sure, any English professor would sneer at the sentences. But now these words felt like gold to them.
March 7th.
Curling up in the chair, ‘March 7th’ grasped their camera, with tears flowing down their face that was painted with a smile.
The night heard the click of the camera, and a polaroid slipped into her hand.
Grabbing a sharpie, March scribbled down a string of messy text.
Finding out I was March Seventh.
Pages flipped between the soul’s fingers. Words jumped out of the paper into his eyes.
Dan Heng sighed again and again, flipping between terms and sexualities.
His brain was- no, seemed silent. Only concentration lingered in his head like a spirit haunting a basement. It was as if his care for the High Cloud Quintet went silent for once. The care for his friends shutting up and shifting to another room.
Asexual: Asexual means not experiencing any sexual attraction towards other people.
Dan Heng’s breath hitched at the word and the definition. Another term jumped out to his eyes in an instant.
Aromantic: experiencing little or no romantic attraction to anyone; not having romantic feelings.
The student eyed the page, whispering to himself. “I don’t think this one clicks.” He extended his hand to his plain black pencil case, grabbing it, bringing it to his lap, unzipping it, then finally pulling out a teal highlighter.
Dan Heng’s fingers grasped the cap and pulled it off. Gazing at the tip of the marker, lost in thought.
The end of the pen drew a long stripe, covering the definition of asexual with transparent blue-green ink.
He shut the book and slid it back into its place, snug and sound with the other tomes he has on his colossal bookshelf. Turning himself away and placing himself onto his bed.