Lena had known for years, but the knowing and the saying were two different continents separated by a sea she wasn't sure she could swim.
"You one of them?" he slurred, stepping closer.
Lena collapsed against the brick wall, shaking. Marisol put a hand on her arm. "You're okay, chica. You're safe here."
The knowing happened in quiet moments: trying on her mother’s heels in the basement at twelve, the strange, electric rightness of it. The saying—that was a cliff she stood at the edge of every morning, staring down at the churning water.
"I'm scared," Lena said. "I don't know how to be her yet."
Lena swallowed the sea. "Me. My name is Elena."
"You're always watching," Sam said, nodding toward the stage. "But you never get in the water."
The weeks that followed were not a montage. There was no magical makeover, no triumphant walk down the street to swelling music. There was the tedious, terrifying work of becoming. There were doctor's appointments and letters of recommendation. There was coming out to her boss, who was awkward but kind. There was the phone call to her mother, which ended in tears—both hers and her mother's—and the words "I need time."