Graduation day arrived thick with summer heat, the kind that clings to skin and makes emotions feel closer to the surface, and I arrived early, sitting alone in the fourth row of the auditorium, scanning the crowd of proud parents and restless graduates, my hands clasped together to keep them from shaking.
When the doors opened and the graduates began to file in, applause erupted, caps bobbing, gowns swaying, and then, in the middle of a sea of navy-blue robes, I saw him.
Ethan.
But he wasn’t wearing a graduation gown.
He was wearing a large, flowing scarlet dress, made of shimmering fabric that caught the overhead lights, its skirt billowing dramatically as he walked, unapologetic, steady, his shoulders squared and his chin lifted.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
The room reacted before my mind caught up.
Gasps rippled outward, followed by whispers, then laughter, then outright commentary that grew louder and sharper with each second.
“Is that a joke?”
“Why is he wearing that?”
“Is he trying to make a statement?”