"Do you know me, Dean?... Really know me... You have opinions about my opinions... about my experiences, about my choices, about my blood. Some people hate what I am, some people praise it. Some people use it to shame me... but I feel you watching... always.... and nothing I do goes unseen, so while I feel your stares, your disapproval, your sigh of relief, If I lived by them I'd never be able to move. Would you like me to be Better? Stronger? Different? Human?... would you like me to be quiet... Do my words provoke your anger? Do my expressions? Am I my father? An abomination? The body I was born with? Is it not what you wanted? If I do what I was taught, I am not a human. If I try to do what's right, I am a failure... Though you've never seen my childhood, you still judge it and judge me for it... why? We make assumptions about people based on their story. We decide who they are. We decide what they're worth. If I do more, if I do less, who decides what that makes me? What that means?... is my value based only on your perception? Or is you're opinion of me not my responsibility."

For the first time, Dean was frozen, listening to your words, the exhaustion behind them. He was angry, of course he was, but he listened.