The first cut is the hardest.

A lock of hair drifts to the floor, deceptively light for the weight it carries. Your fingers tighten around the scissors, breath hitching as emotion swells in your chest. The years of uncertainty, of questioning and longing, all converge in this single moment.

You try again, but your vision swims, tears blurring the mirror’s reflection. Your hands shake. The next cut should come easily—but you can’t see, can’t steady yourself enough to continue.

A warm presence settles behind you, finding residence at your shoulder.

“May I?”

In the mirror, Gale’s reflection appears beside yours, his gaze soft with understanding. He doesn’t move to take the scissors from you, only offers his hands.

“The first step is always the hardest,” he says gently. “And you don’t have to take it alone.”