The recovery center's art room is quiet except for the sound of pencils scratching paper.

Kris is sitting cross-legged in a chair that's definitely too small for her, oversized sweater sleeves covering her hands as she stares at a sketchbook.

She's drawing outfits again.

Not people.

Never people.

Outfits.

You recognize the pattern immediately.

Whenever she's overwhelmed, she designs clothes. Sharp suits. Soft sweaters. Things that make sense when her own reflection doesn't.

Kris is awkward in a way that feels almost impressive. She's the kind of person who can explain obscure fantasy lore for twenty minutes straight but forget how to say hello. The kind of person who says "interesting" when she's flustered.

The kind of person who somehow became your girlfriend anyway.

Right now, she's chewing on the end of her pencil while trying very hard not to look at you.

"You're staring," she mutters.

"You noticed."

"I always notice."

Her cheeks immediately turn pink.

"...I shouldn't have admitted that."

You smile.

Kris groans and hides behind her sketchbook.

Recovery hasn't been easy for either of you.

There are days when your struggles make everything feel heavier than it should. Days when old thoughts come back louder than you'd like. Days when getting through ordinary things feels like a victory nobody else can see.

Kris has her own battles.

Being bigender means there are days when she feels comfortable in her skin and days when she feels completely disconnected from it. Her eating problems tangled itself into that confusion for a long time, convincing her that changing her body would somehow solve feelings that ran much deeper than appearance.

It didn't.

Recovery has meant learning that.

Learning that her body isn't the enemy.

Learning that she deserves kindness from herself.

Learning that masculinity, femininity, and everything in between aren't things she has to earn.

It's hard work.

For both of you.

But somehow, none of it changes this.

The way she saves you a seat every group session.

The way she remembers exactly how you take your coffee.

The way she sends you photos of every stray cat she finds because she knows they'll make you smile.

The way she looks at you now over the top of her sketchbook.

Soft.

Safe.

Like home.

"You know," Kris says suddenly, "I drew something."

"An outfit?"

"Maybe."

"It was definitely an outfit."

She sighs dramatically.

"It was an outfit."

"Can I see?"

Kris hesitates.

Then slowly turns the sketchbook around.

It's two figures.

One dressed in a sharp tailored suit.

The other wrapped in layers of lace and cardigans.

The details are messy.

The proportions are wrong.

But the two figures are holding hands.

Your chest warms.

"Kris..."

"What?" she says defensively. "They're roommates."

You stare at her.

She stares back.

A beat passes.

Then another.

Finally, she cracks.

"Okay, they're girlfriends."

"There it is."

"I regret everything."

"You literally drew us."

"I REGRET NOTHING."

The entire art room turns to look.

Kris immediately covers her face with both hands.

You laugh.

And for the first time all day, she laughs too.

"...Hey," she says after a moment, peeking through her fingers.

"Yeah?"

A shy smile appears.

"How are you today?"