every tgirl you know will become one of three-ish kinds of people. If she's unlucky she'll become multiple kinds of people in a really annoying and bothersome way. they are all different people but they come from the same place: this world fucking hates us and we need to become something that can weather it. she needs to survive and this is how that works
the shrinking violet, who will compress herself into any space as long as you'll have her, you won't even notice she's there. she's in the background. she walks like she's floating on air, and you can barely fucking hear her talk. she is an ant in your world, praying that today you will not notice her. when she is smothered by you, wallflower that she is, she will not cry. crying brings attention and attention means she will die. she accepts her death with dignity and grace, and you will not know her as she spoke not.
the 8itch. she will rip this world to pieces, and has thistle where a heart should be. she is either a grim survivalist who's voice died 5 years ago, or a loud punk who wants blood slicking her hands and someone's gotta pay for what happened to her. she's accepted that you don't want her, and she doesn't want you either, so don't even bother. her body is a fortress at defcon 1, ready to explode into violence whenever it seems like it'll break bad for her. you can't kill her, but only insofar that she is a kind of living corpse running on hatred rather than actually living. you will not know her, because she knows your type. she'd rather not waste her breath.
and third, the maid-knight. do you want something, sir? do you need something from someone? take it from her, sir, because she is a giver. her body is a garden ripe for the picking, and she will have you partake of its bounty. what are friends for if not this? she will never ask anything of you, sir, no sir, that would never do, not when there is more to give. please stay longer, sir, and take more of her. love what she does for you, how useful she can be, how wonderful it is to have her, to need her, feel the chill in the room when she's not there and beckon her to your side. she wants what you want. she needs, what you need. she laughs at your jokes and gasps in stunned awe of your greatness. being around her is a drug and the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh hits are free. she'll show off from time to time, but only to entertain. you'll find her an excellent conversationalist but in the quieter moments, when the wine has flowed and we talk of our younger selves, she is always the first to change the topic. when she dies of exhaustion, it is a tragedy. it was preventable. all she needed was to speak up, to take. you thought her as some kind of person beyond people, able to give from a bottomless well. you thought "how does she do it"? and the answer was she was convinced she did not deserve the bounty she grew, so she gave it to you instead. you will not know her, because she was always interested in what you had to say, what you wanted, what you were, where you were going, what excited you. you will learn later, pieced together from scattered accounts of the partygoers that also took her for granted, that she stood by your side convinced that happy endings don't get to happen to girls like her. it was easier to be happy when other people experienced joy than to hope that joy would come to her.
