I wake with the garret window of my small flat splashing light all over my face like some kind of celestial cumshot. The sun’s got the wall, the sheets, not to mention in my eyes — it’s a real mess and no mistake. I groan (less artfully than the kind of sticky starlet that’d be in that kind of scene) and fumble the covers back up over my head. 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman needs a wife, a bedroom window needs a real blackout curtain and not this shitty attempt at blinds, and a trans girl needs her fucking phone. I feel blindly for it under the sheets, operating on a level beneath instinct, and bonk start by touch, sliding into Silvia’s DMs to wish her a happy good morning —