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Your name is Annop Boonchuy.
You are 4 years old.
In the years to come you will understand, beyond the teasing by your classmates over its “foreign” sound, why your full name never feels quite right.
You will understand why, even though it’s a girl’s name, why shortening it to Ann feels right when it’s shouted across the playground by your best friends.
You will understand why, when the teacher divides the class into boys and girls, beyond being separated from Marcy and Sasha, why standing grouped with your fellow boys feels wrong.
But for now, you are Ann Boonchuy, you are 4 years old, and your biggest concern is your footing as you run around the jungle gym, hand in hand with your best friends. All that’s on your mind is how much fun it is to be with them, the still summer-hot September air whipping past you. Your only worry is how badly Marcy is hurt when the ever-clumsy girl fails to see the ledge of the sandbox, tripping and tearing her hand from your grasp.
Tears are forming in Marcy’s eyes, and though Sasha waits impatiently to get back to the fun, you want to make sure Mar-mar’s ok. Kneeling to meet the crying girl, you ask if she’s ok while you check her over for injuries as best as a kindergartner can. Your best friend shakes her head and points to her knee—sure enough, she has a small scrape, not bleeding, but enough to hurt.
But it’s ok, you know what to do.
Copying an action that your mom has done for you a thousand times before, you lean down and place a kiss on Marcy’s knee.
“Feel better?” you ask, flashing the girl a toothy grin.
Wiping the tears from her eyes and giving you a small smile, she nods. In minutes, you, Sasha, and Marcy are running around the playground again, Marcy’s fall already forgotten.
It’s not until you’re back inside that it comes back to haunt you as the teacher pulls you aside with a serious look on her face. “Annop,” she says, the look on her face causing you to shrink, “one of your classmates told me that you and Marcy were kissing outside. Now I don’t know where you learned that, but boys and girls your age shouldn’t be doing things like that. Go sit in the timeout chair and think about what you did.”
Guiltily you sit on the chair, watching as the teacher talks to Marcy next, your heart twisting that she’s in trouble now too because of you. In the years to come you will understand that someone fibbed to get you in trouble. You will realize that your teacher jumped to conclusions and her punishment was out of proportion. You will look at this memory with nostalgic bitterness and laugh about it one day.
But for now, you are Annop Boonchuy.
You are 4 years old.
And you just learned that kissing your friends is wrong because you are a boy.
Your name is Anne Boonchuy.
You are 10 years old.
And you are a girl.
Some days it’s easy.
Easy, like the day you came out to your friends. Marcy’s understanding, excited look in her eyes as she immediately looked up hormone treatments for you, explaining all the ways your body would change to become your home in detailed glory. The way Sasha screeched with glee as she brought you to her closet, dressing you up in all the clothes you’ve ever wanted to wear. All of it, everything they did, made you feel right .
Easy, like the day you told your parents. Their loving, patient eyes as they let you explain, not quite fully understanding yet, but willing—wanting—to learn. The way your dad pulled you close to him and called you his daughter for the first time, his words filled with nothing but love. The way your mother did the same, lighting up as she told you how excited she was as a mother to bond with her daughter. The way they gave you a new middle name—Savisa—both to make sure your Thai heritage still shines through, and to support you in the creation of the new you. All of it, everything they did, made you feel right .
Some days it’s hard.
Hard, like the first day you wore the girl’s uniform to school. The way your classmates looked at you with everything from amusement to disgust. The way you knew they whispered behind your back, the newest freak to gossip about just for being who you are. The way some of the worst of them still called you “ he” when they thought you were out of earshot. All of it, everything they did, made you feel wrong .
Some days are the hardest you’ve ever had. Days like today, with the bullies being especially brave, a group of boys cornering you in a quiet hallway while you’re alone. You cringe at the way they tear into you with every word they know will cut down to your soul, trying to tarnish the precious, delicate sense of who you are. That shining part of you, that your friends, your parents, hold so dearly in their hands, now slashed and bruised with every word they say.
You’re almost used to this now, standing small and weathering the storm, until one of them says something that cuts too deep.
“You’re just some freak pretending to be a girl so you can creep on hot girls like Sasha, aren’t you?”
You feel your chest tighten, your limbs go numb and cold, the ever drumming mantra of wrong wrong WRONG drowning out every thought. It’s almost so loud that you don’t hear your saviour arrive, threatening your bullies with social ruin. It’s not until she touches your hand, the burning electric shock of shame causing you to flinch away, that you realize Sasha is there.
She reaches for you again, and again you flinch away, because what if everything they said was right? What if you’re just another boy, leering at Sasha and Marcy, snaking your way closer to them with a lie about who you are?
When you pull away you notice a brief look on Sasha’s face that almost resembles hurt before it ices over, her cool but caring composure standing firm before you. She tells you to follow her and you can’t help but do it, because even if you are wrong, being around Sasha still feels right.
She brings you to a quiet corner of the library where you find Marcy, her grin upon seeing you fading as she sees your solemn face. Just like with Sasha, as she tries to take your hands you flinch away, your shame still burning within you.
“What happened?” Marcy asks.
You fail to answer so Sasha speaks up for you. “Some assholes cornered her. I dunno what they said to her but, well…”
Their worried gaze fills you with dread, you know they won’t let up until you give them an answer. Instead you ask them a question: “Do you guys…do you ever feel weird when we hold hands and hug and stuff? Y’know, since I…used to be a boy?” The words feel like sandpaper as they leave your throat, both from the fear of their response and the admission of how different you are.
Sasha’s face contorts into a familiar offended anger and for the first time in your life you see Marcy get truly angry . “Anne, what did they say to you?” Marcy whispers, the sympathy in her voice containing an underlying rage.
“T–They said I’m just a boy…pretending to b–be a girl so I can get closer to you guys,” you say as the tears begin to fall, your heartache distracting you so much that you almost don’t notice Sasha and Marcy pulling you into their arms.
“Anne, I don’t care what those idiots said, me and Marcy say you’re a girl and that’s what matters.” Sasha’s firm voice anchors you, a warm blanket guarding you from a cold world.
“Exactly!” Marcy says with a confidence you trust implicitly, “those bullies were just saying things! You’re not a boy because thinking of doing stuff like this with boys makes me feel gross and since I don’t feel gross doing them with you, you’re very clearly a girl. And since you’re a girl and our friend holding hands and hugs are ok!”
Then Marcy does something that, in the years to come, you will think about far too often. Holding your face in her hands, she leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s quick, but the soft feeling of her lips lingers there long after she pulls away. And with that kiss something stirs in you that day—something that won’t come to fruition for a few more years.
Then just as casually she does the same to Sasha, cupping your other best friend’s face just as gently and placing a kiss on her forehead before leaning back and declaring, “Kisses are ok too! Me and Sashy do it all the time!”
“Wh–Marcy!” Sasha shouts, oddly flustered.
Marcy takes no notice, her confident reassurance continuing as she says, “Point is, it’ll always be ok for us to do this stuff because friends don’t like each other like that!!”
Warmth radiates from where Marcy kissed you, spreading to the rest of you as she tries to reassure you with her words. They don’t uncoil the knot in your chest, you doubt anything ever will, but as Sasha continues to hold you close, as Marcy distracts you with her rambling, something close to peace settles within you.
Even still, those boys’ words haunt you, the lingering fear about how the world sees you taking root in your heart. That fear will sit in the back of your mind for years to come, making you overthink every hug, every hand hold, every moment of physical affection.
You will cling to Sasha and Marcy, their promise of friendship the only thing keeping the shame at bay.
Because your name is Anne Boonchuy.
You are 10 years old.
And you’ve just learned that people will think your touch is wrong just because you’re trans.
Your name is Anne Boonchuy.
You are 12 years old.
In a week you will turn 13 and skip school, following Sasha’s lead.
In a week you will find yourself in an alien world, far from home, scared, and alone, brought there by a music box, stolen from a thrift store at Marcy’s insistence.
In a week this pain will feel distant, ephemeral, nostalgic.
But for now, your name is Anne Boonchuy, you are 12 years old, and you are finally able to give an ache you’ve felt for years a name.
It started quietly, like a whisper, in the way your heart beats ever-so-slightly faster. In the way Sasha flutters her lashes, tossing her silken hair over her shoulder, its flowery scent filling you, making your breath hitch. In the way Marcy’s brows furrow, eyes darting with whip-smart precision, her focused passion for everything she loves making you wonder how it would feel for her to look at you like that.
Slowly it got louder, like the rising of the wind, gently but insistently pulling you towards them. You feel it when the sunlight hits Marcy just right, making her eyes and hair light up with a warm, golden glow. You feel it when Sasha's voice is soft and low, filling your ears with its gentle timbre, making shivers run up your spine and making goosebumps line your arms.
Soon it became too loud to ignore, a howling that demanded to be known. You know it in the way you cling to them when you hug, the feeling in your chest as you hold them begging you to not let go. You know it in the way your fingers linger at Marcy’s side when you save her from her clumsy mishaps. You know it in the way your heart races when Sasha casually leans on you, an act played out a thousand times, suddenly weighing heavy on your mind.
It builds and builds, imperceptible, until, a week before your 13th birthday, it’s a tempest that crescendos to a gentle dream.
You dream of them.
You dream of lips you’ve felt pressed to your forehead, your temple, your cheek a thousand times before; you dream of them meeting yours, the softness and care you’ve felt from them now offering something more.
You dream of Sasha and the gentle expression she saves for you and Marcy. You dream of her holding you, so close you can feel her heart. You dream of her leaning in, a fire lighting between you as her lips meet yours, and you realize as you feel it burn how long you’ve wanted this.
You dream of Marcy, her soft, nimble hands, usually devoted to art and games, cradling your face. You dream of her eyes, rich brown and normally darting distractedly, focusing only on you. You dream of her pulling you in, the first breeze of spring engulfing you as her lips meet yours, and you realize as you breathe it in how long you’ve wanted this.
Then you wake up and your whole world crumbles, lead lining your gut, pulling you under as you touch your lips. The warm spring sunlight greets the rising ice in your veins as realization dawns on your waking mind. As it settles in you, you begin to feel sick with shame.
Because the feeling of want doesn’t go away when you wake up.
Because friends don’t like each other like that.
Because you are a girl ( not a boy NOT A BOY ), but an insidious voice in your head asks if this proves every horrible thing that’s ever been said to you is true. After all, doesn’t this prove what your tormentors have always said you are?
And as you think about what would happen if they find out how you feel, the ice in your veins reaches your heart. How could they possibly still want to be your friends knowing you think of them like that ?
So a week before your 13th birthday you decide to bury this new discovery and pray that one day it’ll disappear.
Because your name is Anne Boonchuy.
You are 12 years old.
And you’ve just realized you’ve fallen for your best friends.
Your name is Anne Savisa Boonchuy.
You are 14 years old.
And you have been changed forever.
In another world you found a new best friend and brother—a life changing bond that helped teach you what it truly means to be a friend.
In another world your friendship with Sasha and Marcy was tested, broken, and forged anew.
In another world you learned to better love your friends, your family, and most importantly, yourself.
You are the hero and saviour of two worlds—you fought for one and died for the other. You are finally proud of who you see in the mirror: a beautiful, brave, and confident girl , and nothing anyone ever says can change that fact.
Still, even if change made you the girl you are today, that doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt. You felt it when you had to leave Amphibia behind. You’re feeling it now as you stand in LAX sharing a teary hug with your best friends. This was inevitable, you knew this as soon as you got back, but in the weeks you spent together this day always felt so far away.
But now the day is here, and holding your first friend, a girl you’ve just learned to truly love, you can’t help but mourn the time you’ll lose together. Marcy’s eyes glisten in the afternoon light as you break from the hug, her face as tear-stained as yours. Sasha’s is even worse, looking just as heartbroken as when she said goodbye to Grime. Being together finally feels right, and for a moment you’re tempted to never let Marcy go, but the wiser part of you knows that you must.
With a deep breath Marcy takes the first step towards her new life. “I gotta go now,” she says with reluctant finality.
“Text us when you land nerd,” Sasha tries and fails to say playfully, her voice nothing but a hoarse whisper.
“I’ll miss you,” is all you manage to say once you find your voice again, though you want to say so much more. You love both of them as more than friends and you’ve finally accepted it—you trust your friendship will survive no matter how they feel. But with coming back home and Marcy’s inevitable move the time never felt right to tell them, the need to explore your new dynamic as friends being far more pressing in your mind.
You know you want to tell them…one day, but for now it’s time to say goodbye.
“Remember,” you say as you find your words again, “we’ll always be friends, even with the distance between us. We’ll always…we’ll always love you Mar-mar.” Sasha nods in agreement with your words.
And with your words you see fresh tears begin to form in Marcy’s eyes. “I love you guys too,” she squeaks as the first tear falls.
And maybe it’s your newfound confidence.
Maybe it’s you hating to see Marcy cry.
Maybe it’s the honest desire to express your feelings with actions instead of words.
Whatever it is, your next action surprises even you. As the final boarding call for Marcy’s flight is announced, you wipe away Marcy’s tears, you lean down, and place a soft, loving kiss to her cheek. You meet Marcy's eyes as you pull back, a look of soft affection and wonder on her face—it’s quickly replaced with a burning blush as Sasha mirrors your actions.
Some quick goodbyes and a final teary hug mark the last time you’ll see Marcy in person until she visits again. Already you can feel her absence as you and Sasha hold each other by the window, watching her plane disappear into the blue.
Change is difficult, but it’s how you grow.
And you know that one day Marcy will make her way back to you.
You swear that one day you’ll tell them both how you feel.
And maybe one day you’ll give both of them more than just a kiss on the cheek.
But today, you are Anne Savisa Boonchuy.
You are 14 years old.
And you can finally say without shame that you’re in love with your best friends.
Your name is Anne Savisa Boonchuy.
You are 18 years old.
In the past four years you’ve only grown more into yourself. You wear your colours proudly on your sleeve: the blue, pink, and white flying proudly alongside the pink, white and orange. You know who you are and what you want to be.
There are still people who want to tear you down, to try and tarnish that gleaming sense of self, but the love in your life will always drown out the hate.
Despite all this, even you get nervous sometimes, and you’re feeling it now as you weave through the crowd.
Because you are Anne Savisa Boonchuy.
You are 18 years old.
And you want to ask Sasha for a dance at senior prom.
You see him, short hair freshly styled, maroon suit standing out among the crowd. His confident voice rings out across the floor, clear and bright despite the booming bass. He’s standing among some friends he’s made over the past four years; much like you he has a group he can call his own. But as he sees you approaching he gives you that warm, earnest smile that always makes you feel like you’re coming home.
“Hey Boonchuy,” he shouts out to you, still sounding warm despite the volume.
“Heya Sash,” you reply, heart beating through your chest, “do you—do you wanna dance?”
Just as Sasha is about to speak one of his friends bounds up behind him, her eyes falling on you like daggers. “Oh my god Sasha! Is this Anne ? I know you’re like, bisexual and all that but are you really gonna dance with someone like them?”
With her words Wartwood’s Commander re-emerges before you, an icy mask falling across his face as he says, “Katie. What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, like, y’know, they used to be a guy, right?” Katie says, looking like she’s explaining the obvious.
“What the fuck?!” Sasha’s icy mask suddenly thaws, revealing the fire underneath, “I’m literally genderfluid! I thought you were cool about this shit!”
“Yeah but you didn’t used to be a man so…”
Throughout all this you watch silently, hurt, but unmoved. Words like hers are ones you’ve learned to not take to heart.
Sasha, however, looks close to apoplectic as he says with a vicious tone you haven’t heard from him in years, “Get the fuck away from me and my friends.” With a final huff he gently grabs your arm and drags you off towards the dance floor.
The lights dim and the music slows by the time he stops moving; as he turns to you that fire has faded back to a warm, caring light. “I’m sorry. Fuck, you think you know a girl and suddenly…ugh.”
“Ehh, I’m used to it,” you say as you smile and wrap your arms around his neck, “I’m thinking more about how you stood up for me.”
His arms wrap around your waist as you sway to the music. “I know you can stand up for yourself but…I still wanna watch out for you, y’know?” he says bashfully, his face just inches from your own.
“It’s sweet,” you say as you feel heat rush to your cheeks.
A dance was all you expected from Sasha when you approached him, but now, light low, no space between you, you begin to want something more. As you look into his eyes, you glance quickly towards his lips, a silent question that he answers instantly.
With fluttering eyes and a slight tilt of his head he closes the distance, soft lips meeting your own with an unspoken want. The kiss is nothing like you imagined it would be, but you quickly learn you prefer reality much better. You feel him take the lead as he deepens the kiss, pulling you closer. You respond by running your hands through his soft, short hair, dropping all walls and letting yourself want .
Because in this space, wrapped in Sasha’s arms, protected, cherished, loved , there is no doubt in your mind that what you feel is right .
You spend the rest of prom together, dancing, chatting, and kissing the night away. And as you lie in bed that night, exhausted but happy, you can’t help the giddy feeling that rises in your chest.
Because you are Anne Savisa Boonchuy.
You are 18 years old.
And you just had your first kiss with Sasha Waybright.
Your name is Anne Savisa Boonchuy.
You are 23 years old.
You have been on hormones for years and they have made your body into a home. Your friends sometimes joke that your self-confidence borders on vanity, but they all know your self-love is well-deserved.
You wear your title of “Frog Lady” with a quiet pride, basking in the euphoria the name brings you. Alongside your title, you still wave your flags, your identity on display on the lanyard around your neck. You wear them to be the hope that you wish you had had when you were a little girl, a promise that it’s possible to be trans and happy.
Your body, mind, and heart work together as one, guiding every step you take with confidence and grace.
Well…usually that is. You get the feeling as you nurse your drink, your semi-lightweight status hitting you with full force, that your steps right now wouldn’t be quite as graceful. You lean on the person next to you and feel a warmth rush to your cheeks, though you get the feeling it isn’t just from the drinks.
Because your name is Anne Savisa Boonchuy.
It’s your 23rd birthday.
And you’re celebrating it with your two best friends.
Marcy wraps an arm around you as you watch Sasha saunter off for another drink. You lean into them, the closeness of your first friend being something you missed dearly.
As your eyes linger on the bar towards Sasha, Marcy pulls you closer. “She’s so hot,” they say casually, verbalizing part of what you’ve been thinking all night.
You see an opportunity for a bit of petty revenge, so looking up at Marcy you say with mock surprise, “What happened to ‘friends don’t like each other like that,’ huh?”
They look confused for a moment before realization dawns on them. “Oof, I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,” Marcy says scratching their head with embarrassment, “to be fair I was 10 and super in the closet.”
Trying to bring some levity to the situation you give Marcy a soft smile and say, “I know Mars, I was just teasing.”
Marcy remains serious though, deep in thought, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to solve a puzzle. They finally turn to you, an apologetic look on their face as they say, “Sorry if what I said made things harder for you. I know how…complicated things get with physical affection as a lesbian. On top of you dealing with all that transphobic bullshit—”
“Hey, Marcy? I forgive you,” you whisper, touched by Marcy’s apology. That part of you hasn’t hurt in ages but you appreciate it all the same. “Like you said, you were 10 and in the closet.”
“And a hypocrite!” Marcy says with a laugh, the lighter air of the conversation returning, “Sasha and I were doing ‘practice kisses’ while I was trying to ignore my massive crush on her!”
“Wait,” you say as you begin to connect the dots, “was Sasha your first kiss too?”
“Yeah—wait was she yours?”
Just as you’re about to reply, the first kiss in question returns, beer in hand, giving you a confused look. “Did I miss something? Why—why are you two looking at me like that?”
“We just found out you were both of our first kisses, Sashy ,” Marcy says, drawing out the old nickname with a sly tone and smirk.
“Yeah Sasha, is there something you wanna tell us?” you join in on Marcy’s teasing, leaning on the table and giving Sasha a look .
Casually, almost infuriatingly so, Sasha sits back down in the seat across from you and shrugs. “I’ve probably been in love with both of you since we were kids, is that really a surprise?” Nonchalantly taking a drink from her beer, Sasha continues to look at you, watching as both you and Marcy’s jaws hit the table.
“You’re just…putting it on the table like that, huh?” you say, part of you convinced you’re dreaming.
“Yup,” Sasha says, looking at you and Marcy intently, “I figure we’re all here, it’s as good a time as any, you two wanna go out with me?”
“So…you’d wanna date…both of us?” Marcy says hesitantly, giving you a sidelong glance as they say it.
With a slight roll of her eyes, Sasha leans back and says, “Actually, I was hoping you two would finally confess to each other too. The flirting in the groupchat is getting kinda ridiculous.”
With that, you and Marcy’s heads snap to each other, a mirrored wide-eyed look between you.
“Do you actually…” Marcy begins.
You nod. “Do you?”
“Yeah.”
As the pieces of a dream you’ve had since you were 12 begin to fall into place, your heart begins to hammer wildly. You look to your oldest friend, someone you’ve loved for as long as you can remember, and they stare at you with an intense look, their world narrowing down to just you. You know what you want and you’re unashamed to want it, so for the first time in your life you speak it out loud.
“Marcy, can I kiss you?”
The word “yes” has barely left their mouth when you pull them in, completing the circle of kisses between you, Sasha, and Marcy. You feel complete as you feel them pull you closer, their hands cupping the small of your back. You’d go on forever if you could, but the need for air inevitably pulls you away.
When you break the kiss Sasha is staring at you, wearing a smug look as she lounges back with her beer. Wordlessly you and Marcy round the table, taking turns pulling her in, wiping that expression off her face.
In the morning you will wake up intertwined with both of them, the first of many mornings where you’ll wake up in their arms.
You will learn each other’s habits, both new and old, again, the threads of your lives steadily weaving back together.
Your hearts will beat together, finally in sync after so many years apart.
Because your name is Anne Savisa Boonchuy.
You are 23 years old.
And you are finally— finally —dating your best friends.
Your name is Anne Savisa Boonchuy.
You are 24 years old.
You wake up to mid-morning light and the sound of quiet conversation. It doesn’t surprise you—you were always the latest riser. You open your eyes to Sasha and Marcy, sitting up in bed, coffee mugs in hand as they wait for you to wake.
They respond instantly once you make a groggy sound to let them know you’re up, putting down their coffees and wrapping you in their arms. Taking turns they each give you a morning kiss, languid and indulgent, you enjoy every second.
“We all have the day off,” Sasha says as he pulls away from the kiss, “what do you wanna do today?”
“If I said let’s just stay in bed and cuddle for a few more hours would you say yes?” you ask, grinning with eyes half open.
In response Marcy wraps themself around you, peppering your cheek with kisses. “I’m down, how ‘bout you Sashy?”
With an affectionate scoff Sasha takes his place on your other side, running his hand through your hair. “You guys are lucky I already went for my morning run.”
You stay like that until noon, basking in the warmth of Sasha and Marcy’s embrace, no walls of shame stopping you from giving them affection.
You think back to your younger self and how she hid her love away, afraid that it was wrong to want because of who she was, and think about how happy she would be to see where she is today.
You wish you could take that scared young girl—that girl who had been told everything about her was wrong—and hold her tight, telling her that everything will be ok.
Because you are Anne Savisa Boonchuy
You are a trans girl.
And you are loved.