Title: “Becoming April”
Alvin had always felt like a stranger in his own reflection. As a child, he often gravitated toward things others told him were “for girls”—the way sunlight danced on chiffon curtains, the soft cadence of lullabies, the quiet joy of painting delicate flowers in his sketchbook. Yet every time he reached for those moments, someone would pull him back.
“You’re a boy, Alvin. Boys don’t cry like that.”
So, Alvin learned to build walls. He buried April—the name that whispered to him when he closed his eyes—in a secret corner of his heart, only visited when the world was asleep.
Years passed. Alvin grew older, taller, and quieter. He went through the motions of life like a ghost in his own story. Friends saw someone gentle but distant. Teachers praised his discipline, never noticing the sadness behind his smile. He tried hard to be what was expected, but the disconnect gnawed at him like rust on metal.
Everything changed the summer after high school. On a trip alone to the coast, Alvin stood on a cliff at dawn, watching the waves crash below. The ocean didn’t care about names or pronouns. It simply was. And for the first time, he allowed himself to say it aloud.
“I’m not Alvin. I’m April.”
The wind didn’t laugh. The sea didn’t question. And in that silence, something inside her shifted.
April.
It felt right, like a long-lost melody remembered in a dream.
When she returned home, the transformation wasn’t instant. It was tender and terrifying. She started therapy. She wrote letters to friends. She tried makeup, bought her first dress, and cried in the changing room—not because of how she looked, but because of how she felt: real.
There were hard days—people who didn’t understand, who refused to try. But there were also unexpected allies: her younger sister who always knew, her best friend who said, “Finally, you’re here,” and her art teacher who framed one of her flower paintings in gold and wrote, To April: Keep blooming.
With time, April grew into herself. She enrolled in college as April Nguyen. She danced at Pride for the first time, hair loose and laughter loud. She became a mentor to younger trans teens, offering what she once needed most—hope.
And sometimes, when the world was still, April would visit the sea again. She’d stand on the same cliff, smile, and whisper:
“Thank you for waiting.”
