Vesna Kurtovic

That night, I walked home alone, the air thick with the scent of the sea, but my mind still replaying the moment over and over. The shock in their eyes. The silence that followed. My mother’s forced smile, too tight, like the fabric of a dress that doesn’t fit. My sister’s hand tightening around her boyfriend’s, as if I had announced something dangerous. My uncle clearing his throat, looking at his plate as if he had just discovered something deeply fascinating about mashed potatoes.

I am twenty-two years old. I was born and raised in Split, in a very conservative family. That number feels both too young and too old at the same time. Too young to have everything figured out, too old to be excused for not knowing who I am. But I do know. I am a lesbian. I have known for a long time, even when I tried to ignore it, even when I pretended that maybe I just hadn’t met the right man yet. The truth has been pressing against my ribs for years, and last night, it finally broke free.

I don’t regret it. Not for a second. Even though my phone has been suspiciously quiet all day. Even though my mother’s last words before I left were, “We’ll talk about this later,” in a tone that promised nothing good. Even though I know there will be difficult conversations ahead, that I will hear words that will sting. I don’t regret it.

Because for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m standing in my own shadow. The air tastes different, lighter.

Later that night, my sister texts me. Just one sentence: “Are you sure?”

I stare at the screen, my heart aching in a way I can’t explain. I think about responding with sarcasm, something like, “No, I just love causing family drama for fun.” But instead, I type, “Yes.”

A few seconds pass before she replies. “Okay.”

It’s not much. But it’s something.