Home is where you truly see me, and sometimes that’s just the kitchen table at 7:13 a.m. I’m half-awake, staring at a mug, and my friend Zora slides a plate of toast in front of me. She doesn’t say anything about my hair being lopsided or my shirt inside out. Just that soft, side-eye smile, like she’s seen all of me before breakfast and found nothing alarming.
It’s a small thing, but Zora always puts the apricot jam at the edge of my plate. Not on top, not spread around, just there, waiting. She knows I like choices in the morning, tiny freedoms before the day gets loud. She doesn’t ask if I need sugar or if I slept. She doesn’t need to. The room feels like it’s holding its breath, like it knows this moment is enough.
Sometimes I wonder how many ways we say “I see you” without ever saying it. Zora’s way is toast and jam, and that’s more than enough. No speeches, no big gestures, just a plate, a glance, and a little space to be exactly how I am. It’s a kind of quiet magic that feels like it belongs to us—Black, queer, and unbothered by the world’s rush.
I think about that small morning when the day gets heavy, and I remember that belonging can be as simple as someone remembering how you take your toast. It’s not a grand declaration. It’s just someone making room for you, jam on the side, so you can start the day as yourself.
Some mornings, home is just a plate of toast, a little apricot jam, and someone who already knows you before you’ve said a word.