HRT and Hope

There is an odd comfort that comes after years of deprivation. A knowing. A stillness in the absence of what once was. At some point, the hunger stops gnawing—it just sits there, a dull weight you get used to carrying. I still crave her, but I’ve learned to live in the absence, to stop reaching for something that isn’t there.

Now she’s starting HRT. Finally. Change is coming. Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it means everything. I have wanted her to do this for so long, begged for it in my own quiet way as a possible bridge for the canyon that has been carved between us. And now that it’s happening, I should be grateful. I should be relieved. But all I feel is this slow-burn anxiety, coiling in my gut.

I want to believe it’ll bring her back to me, that she’ll want again. Want me. But hope is a cruel bitch—it lifts you up just to drop you harder. Six years of distance don’t disappear overnight. If she opens that door, do I remember how to walk through it? Without all the awkwardness and mental hurdles? And if she doesn’t, can I handle the weight getting heavier?

I love her. That part is simple. But there is a difference between love and longing. One is steady. The other is wild, desperate, and dangerous. And when they meet at a crossroads like this, I don’t know which one’s gonna break me first.