Ziggythealien

Trans girls who love each other even when we don’t “pass,” who kiss each other’s cheeks even through dysphoria tearing at them internally, who still flirt like lovesick fools mid-breakdown—there’s something sacred about that.

Like, yes, I’m going to grip my trans girlfriend’s shoulders and look her in the eyes and say, “You’re beautiful.”

And if she rolls her eyes and says, “But my voice—” I’ll kiss her right then and there to shut her up.

Because it's not just love.

It’s two girls choosing each other in a world that told us to hide.

It’s soft hands wiping each other's mascara tears and going, “You’ll get there, babe. Let the estrogen cook.”

And if that doesn’t work?

Then I’m pulling her into my lap, stroking her hair while she grumbles, and whispering all the sweet, sinful things I love about her until her pout fades and she’s melting into me.

Because she deserves to feel adored—even when she’s spiraling.

Especially then.

This is trans romance:

Messy, mutual, playfully horny, tender as hell.