We were in the park, sitting on a bench.
He looks at us, squinting an eye, and walks toward us. He asks to sit on the bench
.
"sure, we're leaving anyways."

"i have a question!" he shouts out

his eyes fix on me. they're so dark they look abyssal.

"Are you a male or a female?"

It's like the entirety of my year is summed up with this one question. Countless existential crises, bouts of dysphoria, a purging of my past self, change so fast it hurt, and attempts at understanding myself through art, all caused by my tumultuous relationship with my own gender. Who am I? I don't know. And here's this kid, the day before I leave Manchester, asking me as if there's a clear answer. I wanted to say I'm male, I'm female, I'm in between, I'm something beyond and I'm nothing at all.
"Female!" Lauren says, offended and protective.
I don't say anything.
We begin to walk away, and he runs up to us.
"Can I bum a cigarette?"