The other night, I was tracing myself line by line through writing. Not in a dramatic, soul-searching way, but in the way you notice your own handwriting in the margin and think, oh, that’s me. I was sitting with a cup of tea that had gone cold, letting the cursor blink at me like it knew all my secrets. Sometimes I think the blank page is just waiting for me to admit something small before it lets me go any further.
I kept circling this one line—I wrote it without thinking, almost by accident: “my softness is a map nobody taught me to read.” It landed in my chest before my mind caught up, like my body knew it was true before I did. I stared at it for a good five minutes, not sure if I was proud or just exposed. I can’t tell if it came from being a Black queer kid who learned to be gentle with himself in a world that expected sharp edges, or if it’s just the way I move through everything, careful but curious.
There’s a quiet kind of joy in letting a line surprise you like that. It’s not about big revelations or fixing anything. Sometimes it’s just about catching a glimpse of yourself you didn’t know was there—a softness that wants to stay, even in the mess of a first draft. I don’t always know what to do with those moments. Maybe I don’t need to do anything except notice them, and let them be part of the shape I’m tracing.
Today, the line is still sitting in my notebook, stubborn and tender. I’m letting it be, for now. There’s comfort in knowing that every draft, every scribbled note, is another way I get to meet myself again—soft, queer, and a little bit amused by the whole process.