Felix Ever After Quotes

I’m not flaunting anything. I’m just existing. This is me. I can’t hide myself. I can’t disappear. And even if I could, I don’t fucking want to. I have the same right to be here. I have the same right to exist.

It's easier, sometimes, to love when you know it's a love you can't have.

It's easier to accept hurt and pain, sometimes, than love and acceptance.

But, just because we loved each other, doesn't mean we were meant to be together. And just because you loved one, doesn't mean you can't love another.

Even if a creator made a character to be straight, they put those characters out into the world, right? So those characters are mine now. And I say that Steve and Bucky are gay as hell.

I see at least one thing a day that makes me wonder if the straight people are all right.

It can be easier, sometimes, to choose to love someone you know won't return your feelings. At least you know how that will end. It's easier to accept hurt and pain, sometimes, than love and acceptance. It's the real, loving relationships that can be the scariest.

Do you ever feel like you’re only ever watching? I ask Declan. Never really participating. Never really doing. Just always watching.

No one else gets to define who I am. Only me.

It’s almost like I was looking for the pain and the hurt, because it was easier to live with the idea that, even though I want love, I’m not the kind of person who deserves to be loved.

What does it feel like, to love someone so much that you’re willing to publicly bare your heart and soul with a black Sharpie?

For trans and nonbinary youth: You're beautiful. You're important. You're valid. You're perfect.

I look at the moon, and I can’t help but think of everyone else on the planet who’s looking up at it, too, and how alone I am, even though we’re all here on the same Earth. I think about the fact that we should all be connected, but we’re not. We’re too preoccupied trying to hurt each other. It makes me think of how hypocritical I can be, and the mistakes I’ve made, and the ways I’ve hurt people, too.

Yeah. I don’t know, I always feel like I can’t figure out how to just stop watching and actually join.

Just because you don’t understand my identity, doesn’t mean I’m not real. That I don’t exist.

It could've been easy to say I was hurt because I'm trans, because someone singled me out for my identity, but there's something weird about that - something off, about suggesting that my identity is the thing that brought me any sort of pain. It's the opposite. Being trans brings me love. It brings me happiness. It gives me power.

It's easier, I think, to love someone you know won't love you - to chase them, knowing they won't feel the same way - than to love someone who might love you back. To risk loving each other and losing it all

The longer I sit here and sketch, the better my art becomes; and it helps to look at the people around me, instead of seeing who I assume them to be.

You’re not your grades. You’re not your test scores or your college application or even your portfolio.

I want to be in love. I’ve never, you know—felt the kind of passion great artists talk about. I want that. I want to feel that level of intensity. Not everyone wants love. I get that, you know? But me—I want to fall in love and be broken up with and get pissed and grieve and fall in love all over again. I’ve never felt any of that. I’ve just been doing the same shit. Nothing new. Nothing exciting.

I want to see what a new self-portrait would look like, after I've stood up for myself.

I mean, I WANT to be in love. That’s something I’ve always wanted to feel. What’s it like, to be in love and have that other person love you, too? Is it another level of friendship? Another level of trust, vulnerability, always telling that person your thoughts and feelings, sharing every little thing with them so that you’re so in sync that it’s like you’re one person? Is it like every time you see them, your heart goes wild, and you can’t think because you’re so effing happy? Is it like whenever they’re away, you feel like you’re missing a piece of yourself? Does knowing someone loves you fill you with confidence, because you know you’re the type of person who deserves love? And what’s it like to break up with someone you love? What’s it like to decide to try again, and let yourself fall in love with someone else? To decide to take that chance you might get hurt, but still want to try? I don’t know. But I want to.

It’s like every identity I have . . . the more different I am from everyone else . . . the less interested people are. The less . . . lovable I feel, I guess. The love interests in books, or in movies or TV shows, are always white, cis, straight, blond hair, blue eyes. Chris Evans, Jennifer Lawrence. It becomes a little hard, I guess, to convince myself I deserve the kind of love you see on movie screens.

I’m always amazed by the depths of your bullshit.

When someone hurts me, I either obsess over how to convince them I’m worthy of their love or obsess over how to destroy them.

What’re you afraid of? Everything. I’m scared I’m not living my life to my full potential. I’m scared I’m wasting my life when I’m meant to be doing something else, something more . . .

Second of all,” he says, “it doesn’t matter what they think. It only matters what you think. Do you think you’re worthy of respect and love?” My mouth is still open, but now, no sound comes out. “I think you are,” he tells me, still watching me—totally unashamed to be staring.

I feel like I’ve been physically attacked. Like someone took control of who I am. Took that control away from me.

The straights say that we’ve got an agenda to turn people gay,” Marisol says, “but then will try to force toddlers on each other and say it’s so cute and they’re destined to get married. Seriously.

What’s it like, to be in love and have that other person love you, too? Is it another level of friendship? Another level of trust, vulnerability, always telling that person your thoughts and feelings, sharing every little thing with them so that you’re so in sync that it’s like you’re one person? Is it like every time you see them, your heart goes wild, and you can’t think because you’re so effing happy? Is it like whenever they’re away, you feel like you’re missing a piece of yourself? Does knowing someone loves you fill you with confidence, because you know you’re the type of person who deserves love?

If the world was perfect, maybe we wouldn’t need labels. But the world isn’t perfect, and labels can really be a source of pride—especially when we’ve got to deal with so much crap. I’m really freaking proud to be a lesbian.

But it took me a little longer to figure out that just because I love her, doesn't mean it's a good kind of love. It can be easier, sometimes, to choose to love someone you know won't return your feelings. At least you know how that will end. It's easier to accept hurt and pain, sometimes, than love and acceptance. It's the real, loving relationships that can be the scariest" -Dad

I’m not pretending to be a boy. Just because you haven’t evolved to realize gender identity doesn’t equal biology, doesn’t mean you get to say who I am and who I’m not. You don’t have that power. Only I have the power to say who I am.

A lot of people who use they/them pronouns don’t feel like they’re a boy or a girl, which is something that could maybe, possibly, describe that niggling feeling—that being seen as a girl definitely isn’t right, but being seen as a guy isn’t totally right, either.

It's easier to accept hurt and pain, sometimes, than love and acceptance. It's the real, loving relationships that can be the scariest.

It feels good to me, to know I’m not alone. That someone else has felt the same way I’ve felt, experienced the same things I’ve experienced. It’s validating.

Now that I know he’s Ezra’s new maybe-special friend, I pay a little more attention to him than I would have before. He kind of reminds me of a golden retriever, with his floppy blond hair and blue eyes. The first time I saw him in acrylics class, I kind of immediately hated the guy. He’s the sort of person the world adores, just based on the way he looks, a little like the way people obsess over men like Chris Hemsworth and Chris Evans and Chris Pine and all the other famous Chrises, plus Ryan Gosling, claiming that they’re liberal and that they aren’t racist and that they’re feminists, but not really thinking about why they’re so obsessed with white men, and why they don’t love any people of color the same way.

I used to hope that he’d decide to change his mind—that he could accept me, because I was his son. And then I’d laugh at myself. Like, how fucking arrogant is that? Expecting my dad to love me more than he loves God.

He’s created his bubble of privilege, where no one is allowed but people like him, and because of that he doesn’t understand the world around him—doesn’t want to understand the world around him, because it’s too scary for him, too challenging. I start to feel a little sorry

But it was a tough lesson to learn, realizing that I couldn't wait for her to decide she would love me again. It wasn't healthy. If I fall in love again, it'll be with a woman who loves me also - not someone who I have to convince to love me. It's easier, I think, to love someone you know won't love you - to chase them, knowing they won't feel the same way - than to love someone who might love you back. To risk loving each other and losing it all" -Dad

Live. Live them for the people who didn't get to enjoy being a teenager. For the people who never lived past being a teenager.

It's hot as hell—the kind of heat that sticks to your skin, your hair, your freaking eyeballs.

I never hated you. I could never hate you.

The question of if I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing in this lifetime. The thought sends a spike of fear through me.

My memories are peppered with little pieces of evidence that I’d always been trans, even before I knew what trans was.

I want to be in love. I've never, you know- felt the kind of passion great artists talk about. I want that. I want to feel that level of intensity.

Every age brought its specific terror. As a boy, Felix had lain awake, afraid the house would burn down. As a youth, he’d dreaded bullies. Later, it was conscription into the army. Or the fear of not learning a trade. Or never finding a wife. After school, his career. After his son was born, he feared everything. His secret dream was to face down such a horror that it would leave him inoculated. He’d never suffer fear of anything, ever again. These

but if I’m honest with myself, I can feel jealousy sprouting in my chest. What does it feel like, to love someone so much that you’re willing to publicly bare your heart and soul with a black Sharpie? What is it like to even love someone at all?

Felix shrugged. “To me, girls are meant to be pretty companions, not rebel comrades. They’re good for washing our clothes and preparing meals after a long day.” He flashed Jonas a grin. “And, of course, they’re excellent for warming beds.” Jonas eyed him with an edge of amusement. “You might want to keep that opinion to yourself when you meet Lysandra.” “She’s not pretty?” “Oh, she is. Extremely pretty, in fact. But she’ll hand your arse to you on a rusty platter if you ever ask her to cook your meals or wash your clothes. And especially if you invite her to warm your bed.” “If she’s as pretty as you say I might try to change her mind.” Jonas’s grin widened. “Good luck with that. I’ll be sure to bring flowers to your grave.” Felix

Maybe it's not something you should think about. Maybe you should just do it, whatever it is you're too afraid to try. Just do it. Just say yes.

It had never really crossed my mind I guess to think about doing self portraits. They've always felt a little narcissistic to me and I'm not exactly the guy who wants to, or is even able to, stare at myself all day. I never take selifes and I barely like glancing at myself in mirrors. Dysphoria has played a huge part in that. It's what Dr. Rodriquez first called the feeling I have when I see myself and I know I don't look the way I'm supposed to. The discomfort I used to have in seeing my hair long and a chest that wasn't flat. I've been lucky enough to see most of the changes I want to see, but I'm still the shortest guy of all my classmates and sometimes I can feel strangers' stares as they watch me, questioning my gender. "Self-portraits are empowering," Jill says. "They force you to see yourself in a way that's different than just looking in a mirror or snapping a picture on your phone. Painting a self-portrait makes you recognize and accept yourself, both on the outside and within. Your beauty, your intricacies, even your flaws. It isn't easy by any means," she tells me then shrugs. "But anything that reveals you, the real you, isn't easy.

He takes my hand, fingers brushing together, like he never wants to let go, and I don’t want him to, either.

I honestly don't care that much about labels. I mean, I know they're important to a lot of people, and I can see why—I'm not knocking them. It's just...I kind of wish we could exist without having to worry about putting ourselves into categories. If there were no straight people, no violence or abuse or homophobia or anything, would we even need labels, or would we just be? Sometimes I wonder if labels can get in the way. Like, if I was adamant that I'm straight, does that force me into only liking girls? I don't know.

Is it possible to not have an identity? To exist, without any labels to say who I am and who I’m not? Maybe that’d feel good for some people, but for me, I’d feel anchorless – drifting with no one to say if what I’m feeling is real – if this emotion is something that I’ve made up in my mind, or if it’s something that others have felt, too.

It's all right. It'll never be perfect. I know I have to get over the desire for anything I create to be perfect. But it still sucks when I know it could be better.

But something like this--I want to, no, need to put the photo out into the world, into the universe, as if the second that pictures exists somewhere besides my phone is the moment I'll start to exist, too.

My dad won't look at me. I don't know if he even knows how to look at me. He can't see me for who I really am--only who he wants me to be.

How do we find and cultivate pride for each other and ourselves when we're in a world that seems like it doesn't want us to exist?

I probably always will love her,” he’d said. “But it was a tough lesson to learn, realizing that I couldn’t wait for her to decide she would love me again. It wasn’t healthy. If I fall in love again, it’ll be with a woman who loves me also—not someone who I have to convince to love me. It’s easier, I think, to love someone you know won’t love you—to chase them, knowing they won’t feel the same way—than to love someone who might love you back. To risk loving each other and losing it all.

None of you are intending on coming back, are you?” I finally managed to ask. “You never intended to see this through to the end.” “When you’ve lived a life as long as ours, Harley, the promise of death is the only thing to look forward to.” Esme shared a smile with Felix, who tipped his head ever so slightly in agreement. “This isn’t a battle we ever truly wanted to be a part of; it was merely a way to ensure our death would come at last.” “Couldn’t you have just asked them to kill you?” Frustration overtook my voice because I realized the danger they’d put us all in for selfish reasons. “The Ancient Elders will do whatever they can to keep themselves safe,” Felix answered. “You have to remember, we’re their personal weapons. They don’t want to see our demise.” “Don’t get us wrong, we still hate your kind,” Amelia assured me. “But when you’ve lived a life as long as us, sooner or later, you find yourself craving an end to it all.” “So comforting, Amelia,” I groaned. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sold on her hating hunters. Or at least, she hadn’t truly hated hybrids as much as she would have liked me to believe. After all, she’d given me a weapon to take down the Ancients myself. Still, I didn’t dare share our secret with the others.

I told my dad that I felt like Harry Potter, sleeping in the cupboard under the staircase. I was just joking, but I felt bad the second I said it. My dad’s really effing trying, I know that he is—and complaining about my new room, when he’s been working his ass off for me and my school, wasn’t exactly my shining moment.

We never talk about it. How he doesn’t like saying the name Felix out loud. How he’ll always slip up and use the wrong pronouns, and not bother to correct himself.

I don’t know, not only did a lightbulb go off in me, but the sun itself came out from behind these eternal clouds, and everything inside me blazed with the realization: I’m a guy. I’m a freaking guy.

Okay, enough self-pity for the day. Maybe one day I’ll actually go through and click send on every single one of these messages just to flood your inbox. But until then . . . Your son, Felix

We can all be assholes. We all fuck up sometimes. As long as we learn and grow and do better next time.

Two gay guys cuddling in the heart of Brooklyn shouldn't feel this revolutionary, but suddenly, it does.

Live them for the people who didn’t get to enjoy being a teenager. For the people who never lived past being a teenager.

After the Sixteenth Congress convened in December 1819, the debate over Missouri resumed. The speeches seemed interminable as well as intemperate. When Felix Walker of North Carolina was urged to sit down, he replied that he had to give his speech for the folks back home, “for Buncombe County.” Ever since, Americans have called a certain kind of inflated political oratory “buncombe”—or “bunk” for short.

All is not lost. In fact, as ever with Augustine, God uses our sin to move us toward salvation. The theologian for whom the fall is a “happy fault,” felix culpa, —since redemption will be sweeter after the fall than it would have been without it— argues that God can make use of our hard-headedness in teaching and being taught.

The real issue was me realizing that these were things society had assigned to girls, and while I didn’t even know what trans was, something about being forced into the role of girl has always upset the hell out of me.

It makes me wonder if I really am Felix, no matter how loud I shout that name.

I just want to prove that I'm good enough, too. That I deserve it. It's kind of like proving that–I don't know, proves I deserve respect and love, too, even if no one else agrees with me. Even if no one else believes it.

Austin smiles at me while Leah argues with Hazel. Now that I know he’s Ezra’s new maybe-special friend, I pay a little more attention to him than I would have before. He kind of reminds me of a golden retriever, with his floppy blond hair and blue eyes. The first time I saw him in acrylics class, I kind of immediately hated the guy. He’s the sort of person the world adores, just based on the way he looks, a little like the way people obsess over men like Chris Hemsworth and Chris Evans and Chris Pine and all the other famous Chrises, plus Ryan Gosling, claiming that they’re liberal and that they aren’t racist and that they’re feminists, but not really thinking about why they’re so obsessed with white men, and why they don’t love any people of color the same way. I love that I have brown skin. I love that I’m queer, and that I’m trans. But sometimes, I can’t help but think how much easier my life would be if I was someone like Austin.

Maybe this is just a good chance to focus on other things," my dad tells me. "Nothing wrong with focusing on yourself every once in a while.

I know that, as a trans person of color, my life expectancy is in my early thirties, just because of the sort of violence people like me face every day.

It could've been easy to say I was hurt because I’m trans, because someone singled me out for my identity, but there’s something weird about that—something off, about suggesting that my identity is the thing that brought me any sort of pain. It’s the opposite. Being trans brings me love. It brings me happiness. It gives me power

I honestly don’t care that much about labels. I mean, I know they’re important to a lot of people, and I can see why—I’m not knocking them. It’s just . . . I kind of wish we could exist without having to worry about putting ourselves into categories