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“Emilia?” she said. “You looked like you were about to speak.”
Emilia’s mouth was dry. She had not looked like she was about to speak. She had been about to watch Yvette’s wrist while she wrote on the board. Still, her brain fumbled for the Berlin article and caught it.
“The arrests for cross-dressing,” she said. “The state pretends it’s about public order, but the wording shows it’s more about respectability. Who gets to be seen as a proper citizen, and who gets framed as disorder just by existing in public space.”
A few heads turned toward her. Her neighbour shot her a grateful look. Yvette’s expression warmed by half a degree.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s the exact tension. It’s not just about ‘crime,’ it’s about whose presence is treated as inherently disruptive. And whose isn’t. Excellent.”
Excellent. That word sank deeper than it should. This was ridiculous. It was just feedback. Yvette said “excellent” to other people. But Emilia could feel heat rising in her chest that had nothing to do with the subject.
“You can build on that in your essay,” Yvette added. “If you want.”
“If I manage to keep it coherent,” Emilia muttered. Yvette heard that. A corner of her mouth moved.
“You will,” she said. “You have the material. You just need to trust your structure.”
Then she turned away, already addressing another student about something else. The room’s focus followed her.
Emilia’s pen lay on the page, unmoving. Trust your structure. It sounded so ordinary. It wasn’t ordinary in her head. Her head had already taken the sentence and turned it into something else: trust your body, trust your desire, trust what you know. She hated herself a little for that, then hated herself more for the way the hatred was threaded with a low thrum of pleasure.