"Who are you?"
Sometimes I know the answer with every fiber of my consciousness. Sometimes, it's... weird to look back and see someone use my voice to answer with that same level of confidence, and not have any connection to that answer.
The question is terrifying when the answer is complicated. Who am I? I could be me, or I could be him wearing my face. I could be so deeply in tune with my partner that we don't worry about where one ends and the other begins until someone asks us to. (and then, no one understands. No one seems to grasp that it's painful to separate just to identify ourselves. It hurts to rip into a more defined two just so people can say one's name.)
The worst case scenario: there doesn't seem to be an answer at all. Who am I? Do I exist? The name you called me seems foreign. I have no identifying likes, or interests, or pronouns. I try to find some answer, and the only identity I seem to have is that I don't have an identity.
And no one seems to believe when we can only answer who we're not.
