Just because two people are close doesn’t mean they have to date.

Just because there’s connection doesn’t mean it needs to be sexual. Deep friendship is real love, too.

My childhood self would never believe I’m a trans man. But somewhere deep down, I always knew something was off. I never fit into the roles forced on girls — the friendships, the expectations, the uniform. None of it felt mine.

At 16, when I first felt desire, I needed a name for it. Why was I only drawn to women? Studying in an all-girls school felt like being trapped in the wrong script. I was a ghost in those corridors — silent, invisible, and deeply lost.

Those years weren’t childhood. They were survival.

My family was abusive, and for the longest time, survival was my only goal — not identity. I never questioned my sexuality; I didn’t have the space to. Then COVID hit. My family shifted, and for the first time, I was alone — and free.

That silence gave me room to breathe. To think. To feel. At 17, I began digging into who I really was. That’s when the word lesbian first made sense. That’s when I began to truly see myself.

I cried the night I realised I was a lesbian. A friend, half-joking, said, “Please be bi, but don’t be a lesbian.” I hadn’t even come out — they just assumed from how close I was with a girl.

That sentence still haunts me. Be bi? Choose a man instead?

Back then, even I wished I was bi — just to be treated a little better by the world.

But not anymore. I’ve made peace with who I am. I’m not ashamed of loving women. Not now. Not ever.

I came out as a lesbian in 11th grade. Some supported me. Most didn’t care. My family? It was like I didn’t exist. I kept coming out to them, again and again — but they refused to listen. They said I was possessed. That someone had done black magic on me. “Whatever you are, just stay quiet,” they’d say.

One of my interviews went viral. That’s when they finally saw it — and I broke. I said in the video, “I am suffering because my family isn’t supporting me.” After that, the suicidal thoughts came back. Truth is, I’ve been passively suicidal since my teens. I still am.

And now, I’ve realised I’m a trans man.

The journey just got even lonelier — but at least now, I know who I am.

When I first came out to myself as a lesbian, I felt the need to prove it — so I started dating. Both relationships were long-distance, and both ended in betrayal. But what hurt more was the realisation that I was never romantically or sexually attracted to them.

I cared. I worried. I loved — but not the way the world told me love should feel. I kept trying to fit into this romantic ideal sold to us by movies, books, and songs.

Now I know: it was love.

Just not the kind they showed us.

I was always the one who listened, who cared. But I never felt romantic or sexual attraction. That scared me. “Kya main zindagi bhar akela hi rahunga?”

“If I can’t sexually fulfil someone, why would they stay?”

In a world where hookup culture dominates—queer or straight—being asexual and aromantic felt like a curse at first. But slowly, I’m learning to love myself. To build bonds that aren’t transactional, but real.

Being aromantic doesn’t mean I lack romance—it means I don’t feel romantic attraction. And being asexual doesn’t make me cold. But try telling that to people who either ghost me or bombard me with invasive questions:

“How would you satisfy a partner?”

“Wouldn’t it be like having sex with a robot?”

Each comment chipped away at my worth, made me question if I was even dateable. That’s what acephobia does—it doesn’t just erase you, it convinces you you don’t deserve love.

But I’m unlearning that now.

Love doesn’t have to look like theirs to be real.

Both my relationships ended because of this. Once, I even forced myself to sext—just to make my partner happy. It gave me a panic attack. That’s when I knew—I can’t and I don’t want to. And that doesn’t make me any less worthy of love.

Society teaches us that love must look a certain way—romantic, sexual, exclusive. But I’ve unlearned that. I’ve spent years waiting to feel that spark. It never came. And I’ve stopped chasing it.

I don’t need one person to pour all my love into. I want to care deeply for many people in my life. I want to love in my way. My love—quiet, steady, platonic—is not lesser.

Just because two people are close doesn’t mean they have to date. Just because there’s connection doesn’t mean it needs to be sexual. Deep friendship is real love, too.

I’m aromantic. I’m asexual. And I’m finally at peace with it.

In many ways, my journey is just beginning. But it’s getting harder—gender dysphoria hits me more often now. I’m not ready for a transition yet. Maybe in 10–15 years. Right now, I simply can’t.

The world is harsh. Transphobia comes from every direction. But I’m standing my ground.

For the first time, I’m at peace with who I am.

I’m a queer trans person. And I’m finally happy being me.