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Marisol didn’t feel like an impostor anymore. She felt like a note in a chord—small, but necessary. She had spent so long trying to fit into a world that wasn’t built for her. But here, in this makeshift sanctuary of paper and light, the world had been rebuilt. And in it, she was not just tolerated. She was seen. She was held. She was home.

But it could have been.

Marisol’s chest tightened. She felt the familiar itch of impostor syndrome. They’ll know you don’t belong. They’ll hear your voice. They’ll see your hands. ebony shemale star list

Alex touched her elbow. “Welcome to the festival,” they said. Marisol didn’t feel like an impostor anymore