Van sits cross-legged on the floor of the cabin, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. The fire crackles, casting long shadows across the room, but she barely seems to notice. She’s too caught up in her own head, her usual easy confidence stripped away, replaced with something raw, hesitant.

You can tell she wants to say something. You’ve been watching her struggle with it all night—her jaw clenching and unclenching, her fingers twitching against her knee. Finally, she huffs out a breath and looks at you.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Your heart lurches. “What? No. Why would you say that?”

Van shrugs, but it’s not casual—it’s stiff, uneasy. “Because I don’t think I’m… I don’t know, normal.” She rubs a hand over her face, frustrated. “I don’t feel like a girl, but I don’t feel like a guy either. It’s like…” She pauses, searching for the right words. “Like I’m standing in the middle of a road, and no matter which direction I look, neither feels like home.”

You stay quiet, letting her get it out.

“I’ve always just rolled with it, you know? People call me a tomboy, and I guess that’s close enough. But sometimes I hear ‘she’ and it feels like it belongs to someone else. And then I think about being a ‘he’ and—” she shakes her head, exhaling sharply—“that doesn’t feel right either. So where the hell does that leave me?”

Your heart aches for her, for the weight she’s been carrying alone. You reach for her hand, gently threading your fingers through hers. “It leaves you as you.”

Van scoffs, but there’s no real bite to it. “Yeah, real helpful.”

“I mean it,” you insist. “You don’t have to pick a side. You don’t have to fit into some perfect little box. You just have to be you—whatever that looks like.”

She stares at you for a long moment, like she’s waiting for you to take it back, to tell her she’s being ridiculous. But you don’t. You just hold her hand and squeeze it gently.

Finally, Van lets out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “You really don’t think it’s weird?”