Clara and the Solar System

"Thank you Clara," Dawn says to me, as she dabs at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, prim and proper as always, "that was delicious."

"Yas queen, you slayed that recipe," agrees Justice. "So, come on Dawn, come out with us tonight. It's Friday!"

"Oh no, I couldn't," Dawn protests.

I don't join in as Justice tries, and thankfully fails, to persuade our rather introverted friend and flatmate to join us. I feel selfishly relieved: if she had, I wouldn't be able to enjoy myself as I'd feel responsible for her, and would spend the whole evening basically babysitting her, and I wouldn't get to have any one-to-one time with Sol.

Justice winks at me, the little shit-stirrer, over Dawn's head as we clean up. She knows exactly what she's doing. Thankfully, she fails.

"Thank you Justice, but no," Dawn says, firmly, as we finish the washing up. "I am going to bed. Enjoy your evening ladies."

"Goodnight Dawn," I say fondly, holding out a hand to her, then pulling her in for a hug, which makes her blush. She's still so unused to affection. She squeaks when Justice sandwiches her from the other side.

"Sleep well pookie!"

Justice and I hit the Hatchett for Keke's birthday drinks, me with my Nikon around my neck, as always.

"Clara! Give us a hug!" yells Keke, and I happily oblige.

"Happy birthday Keke!"

I hug Haile too. "Alright big guy?"

"Fo' sure. How's you?"

"All good, thanks."

"Sol comin' down?"

"I hope so."

Our friends have been welcoming and understanding of the relationship between Sol and me. I would have been shocked if they hadn't been. I mean, most of them were there.

It's just as well, as it's been hard explaining it to our families. His family are in denial about it; they are quite traditional Chinese, so me being a white woman has not gone down well. My family are trying to be supportive and open-minded, but they are so partisan it's problematic, clearly concerned I'm going to get hurt and worrying about the future. Yeah, it's not like I don't worry about those things too, but I don't need my mum casting doubt all the time. And suggesting I was just with Sol in order to try to replace Chen was uncalled for. The hardest thing was explaining how we met. Because it doesn't start with me and Sol.

It starts with Xīyáng.

Xīyáng

I remember that I was pouring the bubbling water into my cafetiere when the girl started snoring lightly on the sofa, little sonnorant puffs, like Jimbo when he'd been a puppy. Kind of cute.

I'd thrown back the curtains, hoping the daylight - weak though it was on yet another overcast day - might stir her circadian rhythms into wakefulness. But no. The kettle boiling hadn't done anything either. Nor had the radio, though I hadn't put it on especially loud. I remember thinking that maybe I should have turned up the volume.

It was Sunday, and I didn't have anywhere in particular to be until lunchtime, but I wanted to get out for a walk, catch the rowers on the water, and didn't want to leave her there unattended. Justice and Jim were both awol, and it had just been me in the flat. She hadn't struck me as the type - all slight and short - to burgle me blind, or freak out when waking in a strange place, but still.

The washing machine started its spin cycle, and I recall wondering if that might bring her round. I'd gotten fed up with the smell of vomit coming from the bin bag of her clothes, and had chucked them in. We were going to have to arrange to meet up again anyway so she could return the clothes I'd put her in. They weren't favourites by any means - I was fairly certain her stomach was empty but hadn't wanted to risk it - but I still wanted them back.

She looked so young there, supine on my couch. Her face was attractive, totally the kind of face I would go for... If she was male that is. I blame my dad's obsession with Wuxia. When I'd been half helping, half carrying her up the steps to my flat, I'd wondered if she was a guy, but stripping her of her vomit soaked jeans and t-shirt had dispelled that idea. Of course, the fairly obvious asexual flag on her t-shirt meant she wouldn't be on anyone's radar anyway, whether I swung that way or not. Which I didn't. Still don't.

Her smooth forehead wrinkled into a frown and she shook her head and batted weakly at something. Was she stirring? No, just dreaming it seemed. Not pleasantly either. She whined and moaned and yelped something in a language I thought might be Chinese, but I didn't want to assume. I thought she was, but she might have been from a neighbouring country. Then she twisted and writhed, before curling up tightly under the duvet I'd thrown over her, whimpering.

It was surely a kindness to wake her.

"Hey," I said, loudly, but below a shout, "my name's Clara. You've been sleeping on my sofa."

She came round with a startle, eyes wide and glazed. She staggered upright, nearly tangling in the blanket. "I need to..."

I thought she was heading to the bathroom at first - she should know where that is, she'd spent enough time in there the night before - but she stumbled for the front door.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait," I said, intercepting her.

"I have to go," she muttered.

"Sure, okay, fine, but let's swap numbers first, so I can get my clothes back."

She swayed on her feet for a second, then seemed to notice what she was wearing for the first time, and also her bare feet. "Clothes?"

"Yes, you are in my clothes. You vomited all over yours. And my bathroom. And me. Repeatedly. I'm doing a laundry load now. So let's swap numbers, and find your shoes, and we'll meet up later to swap them back once yours are out of the machine."

She blinked at me, her eyes unfocused. I mean, it was entirely possible she was still drunk.

"Listen, my name's Clara. You were passed out drunk at the Shilling last night, and nobody seemed to know who you were. So I brought you back here. You vomited. A lot. Then I put you to sleep on my couch."

"Did we -"

"-no," I cut her off. "I'm not into girls. Nothing happened. I had to undress you and dress you again, true, but nothing sexual happened."

This had seemed to relax her slightly. "Thank you," she said.

"Do you live nearby?" I ask.

She nodded. "In student housing on Frogmore street."

"Oh, super close then. Look, shall I give you my number? Sorry, what's your name?"

"Um it's... she-yang."

"She yang?" I tried my best. She smiled back at me. "Nice to meet you. How do I spell that?"

"X-i-y-a-n-g... Oh, sorry, I don't have a phone with me."

I narrowed my eyes at this. Admittedly, I hadn't seen one, but I assumed she had it in her small, strappy handbag. Which she had nearly left behind.

"Can you... can you write yours down and your address, and I'll get your clothes back to you?"

The washing machine beeped to a halt.

"Okay," I said, and found some scrap paper to write down my name, number and address. Then I got her clothes out of the machine and found a bag-for-life for her to take them home in.

And, with a mumbled thanks and a promise to return the clothes, she left.

Three days later, I got back to the flat to find my clothes returned, washed and folded, along with a selection of clearly homemade Chinese food in tupperware and a thank you note. As a vegan, I couldn't eat most of it, just the spring rolls, but Justice swore it was delicious.

"Yeah, this lil' Chinese girl, guy, couldn't really tell, dropped them off," said my flatmate as she hoovered up the chow mein.

After that, I started to see her around occasionally. I had a contract to take photographs for the social media feeds for The Queen's Shilling, The Hatchet, OMG and a few other bars on the Bristol queer scene. Getting that photo of Amanda and Carrie into The Guardian, linked with Amanda's coming out as bi on live TV, had made me popular with the queer crowd. I was even getting bookings for gay weddings.

And I started to see Xīyáng out sometimes. The first time was a little awkward.

"Hi, Xīyáng, how are you?"

I could see the lack of recognition on her face.

"I'm Clara, you crashed on my sofa a couple of weeks ago. Thanks for the food - it was delicious!"

"Oh yeah! Well thanks for looking after me. I'm glad you liked the food. It was the first time I'd cooked those dishes."

"Really? Well I couldn't tell."

"Yeah, I've been going to cookery lessons. Trying to meet people."

"Are you here with people tonight?"

She shook her head. We were outside the Hatchet. "No... I just... I want to make friends, but I don't know how. I thought buying people drinks might work, but that didn't go so well last time."

Her voice was really bubbly and outgoing, and she had a great big smile on her face. I couldn't really understand how she was struggling to make friends. I mean, if she was a student, surely she must have coursemates and housemates to hang out with?

So I introduced her to a few people I knew on the scene, like Haile and Keke, people I knew were kind and, as I thought they would, they took her under their wing a little. I worried she might be intimidated by them at first, but her face just lit up when she saw them.

Thereafter, she always came over to say hi and give me a little hug whenever she saw me, though usually I was working, so couldn't stop and chat. I suggested meeting up for lunch sometime.

"No, I'm never out during the day," was her response.

She also started making her own friends.

"There's an ACE group I found on Facebook," she explained, when she introduced me to them in the Shiling. I'd asked if they were her flatmates.

"No, my flatmates don't know this side of me."

They were nice people, the ACE gang, some of whom have since become my friends. Eoin, a tall Galway boy, and Rey, an enby Singaporean, were particularly fun, but none shone like Xīyáng. I mean, she was the centre of gravity of the group and whenever I encountered them out and about, my camera lens would always find her. Laughing, smiling, dancing. Whatever she did, she practically glowed.

But I never felt I knew her well at all. For one, I was usually working, so I couldn't ever talk for long. Two, it was nearly always loud - not ideal for deep and meaningful conversations. Plus, well, as much as I liked her and felt, in some weird way, responsible for her, I had other friends that I wanted to spend time with. Justice was always moaning that I never had time to go out with her in the evenings and, being straight like me, she didn't want to be in gay bars the whole time. Likewise, my friends from our first year in halls were all straight too, and I had to make the effort with them to keep Justice and I included. So, if Xīyáng wasn't interested in hanging out with me in the day time, fine, no biggie.

I had no idea then how big a role she would end up playing in my life and, by extension, my romance with Sol.

But that's getting ahead of myself. Because, before I met Sol, I met Dawn.

Dawn

If I'd been better at Maths, I would probably never have met her. Well, no, that's a lie, but if I'd met her later so much confusion might have been avoided.

It all came when I screwed up a Geography essay. Again.

"I'm worried about you, Clara," my tutor Dr Kepple said, her face frowning with concern, "these errors in your statistical analyses are concerning. I mean, they just lead you to false conclusions. In the coursework, at least I can catch them while you've time to make changes. If you make errors like this in the exams this summer, well..."

She leant back and splayed her fingers wide. It was obvious what she wasn't saying.

I sighed. It was true. I was out of my depth when it came to Maths. I hadn't done it for A level, had scraped a 6 at GCSE, and, now I was having to crunch serious data, I was struggling to stay afloat.

"What do you suggest?" I asked. I half hoped she'd tell me just to drop out. More and more, photography was becoming my obsession and while, originally, I'd enjoyed nature and landscape photography and had been thinking of ways to combine that with my degree post-graduation, increasingly portraiture was my passion. On top of the gig as social media snapper, I had five wedding bookings lined up, Amanda had managed to get me some work with her agent doing headshots, and this boutique wedding jeweller in the Clifton Arcade had commissioned me to do a shoot for her new collection. I was seriously thinking of just quitting my degree... but then I only had 6 months left of it. Surely, I should stick it out, if only for a 3rd?

"Well," Dr Kepple said, "this isn't that uncommon. There's usually two or three students in your shoes each year, especially those who take Dr Andrews' course. What I've always recommended - and it has usually worked - is finding a tutor amongst the Maths' students. Go stick a poster up with your email on."

And that's how I meet Dawn.

After emailing back and forth and agreeing on an hourly rate that was affordable, we met in a study room at the Union.

"Are you sure we haven't met before?" I said for the third time, unable to believe that this wasn't the same person I let crash on my sofa. At this point, I'd only run into Xīyáng once since vomitageddon.

She shook her head, a small movement. All of her movements were small. "I don't recall meeting you before. Though it is possible we have passed each other on campus." Her voice could cut glass.

I had to bite back a comment about her having a double out there. I didn't want to come across like one of those white people that can't tell Asians apart. Because I can. Well, usually. But, at that stage, if I had seen Dawn and Xīyáng next to each other in a line up, I'd feel hard-pressed to say who was who. Now that I know them both properly, I can tell them apart instantly, but more because of their mannerisms and the way they move. Looks wise, they are still so similar, for obvious reasons.

Not that anyone would ever catch them together. I couldn't imagine Dawn, with her bland, patrician clothes and old lady glasses, out clubbing. I figured that, as a second year, she must be the same age as me, maybe a year younger, but she dressed like a 50 year old member of the WI.

She was a good teacher though. By the end of the first session, I felt like I had a handle on statistical significance, and by the end of the second I'd got the difference between sample variance and sample covariance and she'd helped me to see when to apply each. She was so closed though. It was only after the third session that I worked out that we lived near each other as we both walked out together.

"Oh, where do you live then?" I'd asked, as we crossed the Triangle.

"I'm in Unite house," she'd said, "on Frogmore Street."

"No way. I live right by there. My flat's just at the bottom of Park Street, by the steps down."

"Hey, look," I said, after dodging around a family group, "if we both live so close, why bother trekking all the way up to the Union for these tutoring sessions? I could come to your flat or you could come to mine? We could work there."

She halted suddenly. "I'm not sure. I've never been to another person's residence before."

"What?!" I yelped, shocked, "you mean you've never been to a friend's house before? Really?"

"No."

I blinked. "Really? You've never had a friend invite you round? Ever?"

"No. I don't have any friends."

"Hold up," I said, "what? What about your flatmates?"

"They aren't friends. They needed a fourth flatmate for the lease; I answered their advert. They are nice enough, but I keep to myself."

The strange thing was, she didn't sound bitter or upset. There was no hint of self-pity in her precise, clipped BBC vowels. I seemed to be more upset about this on her behalf than she was. But then, I knew a thing or two about being excluded, about being an outsider. Growing up an English girl in Northern Ireland had been exactly as awkward as Derry Girls made it look. When the show came out during my A Levels, everyone started calling me James. Of course, I wasn't allowed to be offended, because it was "just a joke".

Yeah.

"Right, well time for a 'first' for you then, Dawn. What are your plans now? Do you have time to stop at my flat for a cup of tea and some cake? I baked yesterday. Vegan lemon drizzle."

"But we just finished our session? We are not due another one until next week?"

"I'm not inviting you up as my tutor," I said as we turned down Park Street, "I'm inviting you up as somebody I hope will become a friend."

The way she'd looked at me then - confused and yet yearning - made me want to just hug her. But I didn't. She'd seemed so closed off, that I wasn't sure she would have taken it well.

And when she replied, I was really glad I hadn't. "You aren't a sexual predator are you? This isn't a trap to get me into your bedroom?"

"No, I'm not into women," I replied, stifling a smile.

"Oh." There was a brief pause as we walked down the hill. "Okay then, yes, I will come up for tea and cake."

"Great!"

We walked on down in silence, side by side mostly, but sometimes having to part around groups trudging up the slope.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"What's that?"

"How do you know you aren't into women?"

"Well..." I began, wondering what to say. Should I have told her it was personal? That this wasn't really something you just asked somebody? Should I have asked why she wanted to know? I settled for honesty in the end. "I tried it once, it... it left me feeling uncomfortable."

"Once?" she said, "that's not a lot of data points."

"No, I guess not."

"Have you ever had experiences with men that have left you feeling uncomfortable?"

"Err... yes?" Sad truth.

"Well, is it possible then that you simply haven't found the right woman?"

While she quite possibly wasn't wrong, I needed to know where Dawn was going with this. "Dawn, are you into women?"

She was silent.

"No judgement, Dawn. I have no pro-"

"I'm not sure. I'm not sure I'm into anyone. That's why I was asking. I wanted to know how you had come to that conclusion."

"Are you ace?" I asked.

"What does that mean?"

"Asexual." God, this had got really deep for a conversation with somebody I'd met three times.

I remember her blinking at me. "Somebody without sex?"

"Yes," I explained, "as I understand it, people who identify that way don't feel sexual desire, or do, but far less frequently, or only in specific circumstances."

"Oh." We walked on for a moment. "That's really... there are people like that?"

"I believe so. I met one a few weeks back," I said, thinking of her double, Xīyáng.

"That... that is strangely comforting."

Inwardly, I sighed with relief. I was worried I had offended her, or else she was clumsily hitting on me and I would have to let her down gently.

So our Maths tutoring sessions moved to the kitchen table in my flat. I introduced her to Justice, whom Dawn took to weirdly quickly.

"No, but seriously though," I hissed to Justice once Dawn had left a few weeks later, by which time we had both run into Xīyáng twice more while out, "they must be twins. They must be!"

"Icl, you white people all look the same to me," Justice deadpanned, "maybe you're twins."

She was joking, of course. I think.

"You got her lore?" Justice asked.

"Dawn's only got a brother, according to her." She had begun opening up a little to me over a hot drink after our sessions had finished, telling me about her family back in Swindon. I had even made her laugh a couple of times.

"That's just tweaky then. Some Dickens-level plotting."

I suggested to Dawn that she join the Bristol ACE group on Facebook, though first I had to explain to her about Facebook as she'd apparently never come across it, which I found pretty hard to believe. She wasn't keen though.

"They meet up in bars and clubs? I don't think I would feel comfortable in such places." Had been one of her objections.

"Have you spent much time in bars and clubs, Dawn?" I'd asked.

"No."

"Well, that's not many data points, is it?"

It had taken her a while, but then she'd got it and started laughing.

Justice even got in on the act, surprising me by moderating her language accordingly. "Come on Dawn, come out with us! It'll be fun, we'll look after you."

(I made sure to take the piss out of Justice later.

"Justice! I didn't know you could actually speak English!"

"Mmmm, that's giving racist. You called Karen now, hg?")

But we never did persuade Dawn to come out. Still haven't.

The closest I got was when I finally persuaded Xīyáng to come for a meal, for my birthday. To try to make her feel more comfortable, I decided to have it at our flat, and I invited Haile and Keke, whom she knew, plus their friend and my ex, Chen, two friends from Halls (Si and Megan), Justice of course, and our lesser-spotted flatmate Jim, who was usually over at his girlfriend Louise's as she had a double bed.

"Go on Dawn, please come," I'd pleaded.

"I don't know, I'm not good at social situations."

"That's okay," said Justice, "you can sit between Clara and me, and we'll help you out."

She never made it - she sent me a text claiming to be feeling ill. I was tempted to walk around and persuade her to come anyway, but I didn't know which flat she lived in.

(In reality, I was more upset at Chen not coming. I know we'd split up, but I'd hoped he'd actually meant it when he'd said we could still be friends.

Yet, despite the double disappointment, the party was a success. Xīyáng was the life and soul, all bubbly and sparky, making us all laugh with literal translations of the Chinese names for European countries. Apparently, the word for Belgium has the same sound as "time to compare profits" while Ireland sounds like "love your orchid". She also brought some delicious vegan gyoza and siu mai that she'd made from scratch, knowing that they were my favourites. Louise and Jim, who hadn't met her before, thought she was hysterical.)

If this sounds like I was obsessing over Dawn, I honestly wasn't. We saw each other twice a week for Maths tutoring and she usually stayed on for a chat and, on a couple of occasions, an early meal. But, as much as I wanted to help bring her out of her shell, I had my friends plus other commitments: my degree course, my photography, my role as treasurer for the University photography society, and my volunteering for Student Community Action (I led a team who went into schools running workshops on recycling and how to build wildlife gardens). Plus the Christmas holidays and all the family-related drama that inevitably brought. I had to explain, again, why I couldn't have the gravy and why I was vegan, and also deal with the fallout from those nude photos of me. At least I could point to the portraits Chloe Ngata had commissioned from me as something positive that had come from them.

But Dawn was never really far from my mind. I even got her a Christmas present; a blazer in her style from a charity shop. It only cost me a fiver, but she reacted as if I'd gifted her the sunrise.

"Clara! This is lovely. Thank you so much. I feel like my words are inadequate to explain what this means to me."

She gushed so much over it that I ended up feeling bad for her. Clearly, nobody in her life had ever put any thought into a present for her.

She wasn't a 'project' or anything. I wasn't trying to make her over or change her. But I enjoyed spending time with her. She was very dry and quite intense, but incredibly honest too. That was something I appreciated.

When she hung around after the tutoring sessions, they often seemed to turn into impromptu counselling sessions. (I'd previously volunteered for the Samaritans, but I'd given it up after a particularly hideous call in which a guy killed himself while on the phone with me, which had left me needing counselling myself.)

"I feel like I should try to explore relationships," she said on more than one occasion.

"Is that because you want to, or you feel you ought to?" I'd ask.

"Definitely the latter," she'd answer, with no hesitation. "My mother constantly asks me why I don't have a boyfriend, and she is even talking about getting a marriage broker back in China to find me a husband, which I do not want, especially as I don't speak Chinese."

"Well, what would make you happy, Dawn?"

This gave her pause, as if it wasn't something she had particularly considered before.

"I think... well, success makes me happy. I like achieving things. Working with you, Clara, actually is very satisfying and I appreciate that you want to spend time with me after our sessions."

"Aw, bless you! I enjoy spending time with you too, Dawn. We're friends."

That had brought a smile from her.

"How does one be friends with somebody? What does one do?" she'd asked.

"Well, you find things you like doing together," I'd suggested, which had worried her as she couldn't think of anything she would enjoy doing with me though she did agree to pose for some photos for me, which she didn't seem to mind. (I got out my Hasselblad, too delicate to use in the clubs, and shot some slide film to cross process. The final results were stunning - she glowed, with a soft halo of light around her.)

"Okay then, well, being friends with somebody means that you take an interest in each other's lives. Ask them questions and genuinely listen to and respond to the answers. Find out about each other."

Bless her, she was so unused to this that she missed the cue completely and I had to prompt her.

"So, go on Dawn. Ask me something?"

The panic in her eyes would have been funny if it hadn't also been sad. "Er... um..." she was totally at a loss, "er... nice weather we're having, aren't we?"

It was so ridiculously British, especially with her RP accent, that I had to laugh.

"Yes," I managed, wiping my eye, "though not for long I suspect. That's a strong westerly blowing out there, so that means a cold front will be moving in. I suspect it'll be raining within a couple of hours."

"How do you know?"

And despite the most British of starts, that did at least get us talking about me and she did manage to show an interest. I explained why I was studying Geography, mostly because I loved being outdoors and was passionate about the environment. Before photography became a potential career for me, I'd seen myself working in conservation. I still might. Or I could do both. I was undecided, but certainly I was making headway as a photographer at the time, for all that I had my concerns about how the kind of photos I was taking at that point just fueled consumer culture.

"How though?" she'd asked, "I mean, they are just digital files and the energy expended to create and store them is negligible, especially when compared to physical photos."

"True, but when you have millions of people uploading their entire galleries to multiple social media sites, not thinning out the poor shots, the energy needed for storage adds up. I saw an estimate the other day that around forty zettabytes of photos were being stored."

"Oh wow, that is a huge number." Well, being the Mathematician, she'd know.

"Yes. Plus, photography is so closely connected to fashion and advertising, and the whole point of both industries is to encourage excessive consumption. Did you know that..."

And I got on my high horse about fast fashion, the dumping of second hand clothes in wetlands in Africa, the exploitation of garment workers in sweatshops, the pollution and damage caused by the entirely unnecessary (in my opinion) cosmetics industry.

But far from rolling her eyes or mocking me or yawning, which is what most people do (except Justice, who would do all three, then tell me that she loved me), she leant forward, engaged, and asked me questions as if, well, she was genuinely interested.

Obviously, in the interests of modelling what good conversation between friends is, I asked about her.

One of the things that surprised me is that she didn't speak Chinese and seemed to have no interest at all in Chinese culture. Her dress sense was very Western, and so was her diet, as far as I could tell. She drank tea the British way, liked coffee too, especially lattes, when I know many Asian people struggle with lactose, but it didn't seem to bother her. When I cooked for her, I asked her what kind of food she ate, and was surprised when she listed the most stereotypical British meals you could imagine: fish fingers and chips, baked beans on toast, jacket potatoes, sausage and mash, shepherd's pie. Like, seriously, I'd never met anyone under the age of fifty who ate Shepherd's pie with any regularity. She ate my vegan version with no complaint.

"Don't your parents mind?" I'd asked. She'd already told me that they ran a Chinese restaurant in Swindon.

"Oh yes, they did at first, but they prefer me to eat than starve, so they gave in long ago. I can be quite stubborn."

"I hadn't noticed," I replied, somewhat dryly, but I think she missed the irony, as she proceeded to tell me how she even refused to attend Chinese New Year celebrations.

This was both mildly disappointing and also kind of a relief. I have a complicated relationship with Chinese culture. I grew up watching Hero and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon with my dad (and, yeah, Mulan and Kung Fu Panda too). I used to love the food too, though since going vegan, there's not much available to me in most restaurants.

Yet, as I entered my teens and learned more about Chinese politics, especially their treatment of Tibetans and Uyghurs, not to mention pro-democracy campaigners, the more I lost my illusions. Plus, the role of Chinese traditional 'medicine' in maintaining demand in rhino horn and pangolin scales and tiger bones and even donkey skins (I read an article the other day about how demand for donkey skins in China had led to a population collapse across Africa) just goes against everything I stand for. My disinterest grew to aversion.

But, of course, no country is perfect - I know there are very valid reasons why the English are deeply unpopular in Ireland and elsewhere. Plus, the government is not the people, so I'd been actively trying to put my prejudice aside, and look for the good.

I often wondered if that was what had drawn me to Chen in the first place. And I wondered if that was what was driving me to befriend Dawn and Xīyáng now. Whatever. It didn't really matter. Chen and I hadn't worked out, Dawn and I were friends (in fact, as far as she was concerned, I was her best friend), and Xīyáng and I were also kind of friends, for all that I really didn't know much about her, not even what she was studying. At least she never seemed to drink much these days after getting so wasted that first night we met.

In fact a couple of times before that fateful night, and getting towards the point where both Dawn and I felt I know longer needed tutoring, I'd sworn I'd seen Xīyáng observing me. I'd lower my camera and find her eyes on me, even as she danced with Keke or sat with Eoin and Rey.

It didn't creep me out. In a strange way, it felt like she was looking out for me.

If I had known better at the time, perhaps I might have guessed that something was up.

Sol

It was Valentine's Day, appropriately enough, when I first met Sol. I was in the Hatchet beer garden, taking photos of vaping couples, using the smoke and my flash to create fun effects. Slowly, I became aware of this handsome Chinese man leaning over the fence. He was smartly dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and chinos, with a wide shouldered overcoat. He seemed to be watching me.

Giving him a quizzical smile, I moved over towards him.

"'Ello dere Clara, Xīyáng tought yuh'd be 'ere. I be Sol."

His accent almost made me do a double-take: he sounded like he was from the Caribbean.

He offered me his hand over the fence and I took it. His shake was warm and firm, and something about him was so familiar that I instantly felt at ease.

"Nice to meet you... Sol?"

He nodded.

"Have we met before?" I asked. He looked familiar, but again that just could have been because I'd been binge watching Joy of Life around that time.

"No," he replied, the vowel long, "doh I 'ave seen yuh around. Tought it be time ta intraduce meself, doh I doan get out much."

His accent was messing with my head, for all that his voice was lovely, warm and soothing. "Well, lovely to meet you. How do you know Xīyáng?"

"Ah, well, I not known 'er long, but she tinks a lot of yuh." His gorgeous eyes flashed with mischief.

That wasn't really an answer. I wondered if he actually was from the Caribbean; I knew from my unit on migration that the Chinese diaspora is one of the largest in the world.

"Anywey, I know yuh be working, but I was in de area and just wanted to give yuh dis." And from one of the pockets of his overcoat he pulled out a little red box. "A lil' tank you for all you be doing for Xīyáng and Dawn. Open it up now."

Taking the box from his hand, I opened it up to find an ink stamp and a usb stick.

"Dis one," Sol said, indicating the dark wooden stamp, "dat has yuh name in Chinese characters 克萊拉 ké lái lā."

"Thank you," I said, genuinely overcome. I was aware of the significance.

"And on 'ere, yuh 'ave de file, in case you wan use it as a watermark for yuh photos."

I was floored. It was such a thoughtful personalised gift.

"Thank you! Oh my gosh, I don't know what to say."

"Well, yuh doan need ta say nuttin'. 'Appy Valentine's day Clara."

With that, he turned and walked away. It took me a moment to realise.

"Hey, Sol, wait!"

But he kept walking, and it took me a while to get through the crowd in the pub and out the front door.

By the time I made it onto the pavement, he was nowhere to be seen. I tore madly round the closest corner, desperate to find him, to hug him, to get his number, visions of scenes from romcoms in my head.

Instead, I slipped in a pile of dogshit and landed hard on my coccyx, nearly braining myself with my camera for good measure. Once the shock had worn off, I burst into tears. The best-looking man I'd met in ages, one who had given me the most thoughtful, personal Valentine's gift I'd ever received, had just vanished like smoke, leaving me with a bruised bum and a stinky shoe.

My life sucked.

But, I'd thought to myself, as I limped smellily home to clean my shoes and rub some arnica on my arse, at least he knows Xīyáng. I can get his number from her.

* * *

It wasn't that easy. Firstly, Xīyáng was hard to track down. She didn't reply to my texts on the matter or social media DMs, and she seemed to vanish from the social scene for a couple of weeks. Neither Eoin nor Keke had heard from her either when I asked them.

Then, when I finally ran into her in The Shilling, she was irritatingly unhelpful.

"No, I don't have his number. I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a phone." Xīyáng was maddeningly disinterested.

"Well, okay, do you have his email? Is he on Facebook?"

But again the answer was negative.

"Look, Xīyáng," I yelled over the DJ, "is something the matter? Is there a reason why you don't want me to contact Sol?"

She sighed, and dragged me to the toilets, where it was a little quieter.

"Look, Clara, I like you. You're lovely and you deserve to be happy with somebody. So, can you just believe me when I say that Sol isn't right for you? He's a nice guy, sweet, caring, but.... Well, he isn't what you want."

"Are you kidding?" Looking back, I wonder at myself being so eager, but I'd been so frustrated the previous few weeks that I think I'd built Sol up to be some idol in my mind, and Xīyáng being so obtuse and obstructive was just making me double down. "You just described my perfect man! Kind, caring, sweet. Please, he's totally my type!"

She rolled her eyes and stamped her foot. "He's really not! He's not even a man, you know?"

A girl using the mirror sucked her teeth loudly and gave Xīyáng some serious side eye.

"So?" I replied, "Is he trans?"

"Mmmmm," replied Xīyáng, who then seemed to notice the way the crowd around us was listening in, with several of the girls now looking deeply unimpressed with her, crossing their arms and raising eyebrows. "Yeah, kind of. Let's go with that."

"And?" I replied, "why would you think that would bother me?"

"Ayyyy!" called one of the girls, while two others started snapping their fingers.

"Stop cock-blocking!" called another.

Xīyáng looked uncomfortable, but then rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. "God, I knew the Valentine's present was too much. Fine! I'll get him to email you!" More finger snaps from the crowd, "but, look, don't get too invested, okay? I really like you Clara, and I don't want you getting hurt. And you will."

* * *

Two days later, I got my first email from Sol.

Hi Clara

I'm sorry. It shouldn't have been me who gave you that present. It was wrong of me to do that. I should have known that it would get your hopes up.

Anyway, thank you again for being the wonderful, caring, talented person that you are.

Take care

Sol

I was gutted and thrilled at the same time. Look, I'm not some poor never-been-kissed nerd: of course I'd had boys and men call me wonderful and talented before. But I really didn't want to let this guy, even though I'd met him for less than a minute, disappear into the ether.

Besides... How did I know that this was really Sol? It was a gmail account, but anyone could have set that up. Could Xīyáng have set up a fake email account? I don't think she would, but then I didn't know her really well either.

But I thought I'd check.

Dear Sol

Is this really you? Or is it somebody trying to put me off because they think I'm not allowed to make up my own mind about somebody for myself?

Sol, if this is you, give me some proof. Here's my number 078XXXXXXXX. Give me a call. Let's face time or something.

We met for a minute. I'm not getting ahead of myself, honestly. But I did like you, it's true. Please don't decide for me whether or not it'll be a good idea for us to be friends. Please don't rob me of that right. Let me decide that.

Give me a call.

Clara x

The next day, I had a reply.

Dear Clara

This is me, I promise. Here's a photo, attached, in case you don't believe me.

I'm sorry, you're right, I shouldn't get to decide for you. And to be completely honest, and to be very selfish, it would do me good to have a friend of my own.

I can't call you at the moment I'm afraid, and I'm very busy, but I would love to email you. Perhaps you could tell me about what you've been up to.

Best wishes

Sol

I tried not to email back too quickly! I think I held out for about half an hour.

Dear Sol

Today has been great, actually. Several of my photos ended up in the Evening Post, which I got paid for. Plus, I've been booked for another wedding, a straight one this time (lol!) in September. I'm really thinking that next year I should just go pro as a photographer; maybe see if there's a non-profit in the environmental sector I can volunteer for to keep my CV ticking over and give me options.

But tell me about yourself. Where are you from? And, can I ask, where does your accent come from?

Also, how do you know Xīyáng? Sorry if I'm being nosey, but there's just so much I want to know.

Love

Clara x

And that might have been it, the sum total of our non-relationship: an email exchange, a back and forth of ideas and compliments and reassurances. It went on for weeks. But every time I suggested getting together in real life, he'd deflect or just ignore the suggestion.

Yet, rather than raise the red flags it should have done, it just led to an ever increasing yearning on my part that I was, possibly delusionally, beginning to believe was reciprocated.

Especially when he wrote things like:

You looked so elegant this evening. But more than that, so kind. I loved how you brought that shy boy to life, made him feel like a star with your camera.

Then make no reply as to how he knew this, or how he'd seen me, just some gnomic reference to being out with his charge, and seeing me taking photos in the street.

It should have freaked me out. It should have said stalker. But for some reason it didn't. I know, I know, I'm too trusting. Yeah.

But I couldn't let go.

He said he was a full-time carer, to a young girl who had been badly traumatised by a racist and sexual assault, which was why he could rarely come out. He also said that's where his accent came from - the girl found standard English accents distressing, as it reminded her too much of her tormentors - so he had 'borrowed' (his word) the accent from his favourite teacher, and now it had become a habit.

Or he would ask me about my photography, asking how I had achieved particular effects, who my inspirations were, why I had gone for certain compositions. He had a basic social media presence now, though his only 'friends' were me and Xīyáng, and followed all my streams.

It was lovely. I hadn't had anyone except Justice take such an interest in me or my work since, well, ever. Maybe I should have been worried, given how little I knew about him, this was some kind of scam.

But scam me for what? If it was sex he was after, well I was down with that! Something Justice was quick to point out when I asked her if I should be concerned.

"Girl, what you got that's worth capping you for?" She'd had a bit to drink that night, so was really on one. "This delusionship got you cooked, ait. You all glowed up on his rizz, so if he's just tweaking to rail you, no cap you'd jump him now. It's all good, so sybau."

Sadly, any physicality seemed like it was far from the cards. I hadn't found a way to work into an email a question about whether he was trans or not. (I mean, how do you just drop that in there?) But I'd thought long and hard about it, and decided that it wouldn't bother me, regardless of where he was with his transition. I mean, this was all hypothetical, but that was how I wanted to feel about it.

He was single; in fact he said he'd never had a girlfriend (his choice of word - so I least I knew he was interested in women). But he politely declined all efforts on my part to persuade him to meet me again.

Thus, it seemed, I was doomed to yearn for him from afar, this quasi-perfect just perfectly unavailable man, perhaps permanently.

Or I would have, had I not met Chénxī and found out the whole truth.

And what a complete clusterfuck that was.

Chénxī

Frogmore Street is a funny place. It's gritty and grimy, with an unnerving tunnel that passes under Park Street dividing it from Frog Lane. The steps down from Park Street stink of piss and it's covered in graffiti (including Banksy's famous "Well Hung Lover"), yet for all that it's very friendly and trendy. It's the centre of the Bristol queer scene, with OMG and The Queen's Shilling, along with The Hatchett. Yet it also hosts The Academy and the back end of the Bristol Beacon, the two biggest live music venues in Bristol, and therefore also kind of the centre of the mainstream music scene. Most of the time, there's no agro between those two worlds.

Most of the time.

That particular evening some boomer band - I'm not going to give them the oxygen of publicity by naming them here - were peddling their British brand of American pie nonsense and misogynistic nostalgia at the Beacon.

Most of our gang were there. Haile and Keke were having a vape break in the street; Justice was chatting up somebody's token straight friend; Eoin, Rey and Xīyáng had wandered over to the crowd outside the Hatchett to talk to somebody Rey knew, cans in hand.

I was taking photos of club-goers in the queues for Basement 45 and the Shilling, when the band's pissed-up, Union Jack wearing fans started streaming down the hill to the car parks on Frog Lane, post gig.

I didn't see how it started, but I heard the voices raised in anger, and I turned, the viewfinder still held to my eye, my finger still on the button.

Eoin, Rey and Xīyáng were surrounded by a bunch of older, chunky-looking men. Shouting and finger pointing was taking place, though my three friends all seemed totally clueless as to what their imagined offense was. Instinctively, I took a photo just as one of them gave Rey a slap, sending them to their knees.

It all went Pete Tong pretty quickly after that. Racial epithets flew - Rey's family are from Singapore - then pretty promptly bodies were flying as Haile barrelled in, just as a man was aiming a kick at Rey's supine form.

Haile wasn't the only one to react - Keke and Justice were up in their grill too, as well as other people from the scene, whose faces I recognised, even if I didn't know their names.

But as I clicked away, hoping to have evidence should this go to court, my eye was drawn Xīyáng. At first I thought she was crouching down to help Rey, but then I realised that she was screaming, her hands on her face.

Then my veins ran cold as I saw the blood seeping out from under her fingers.

Rey was pulling at her hands as I reached her, and I immediately helped, both of us hanging onto a wrist, trying to pull her arms away, but she was screaming and squirming and kicking. One of her feet caught me in the ribs, another knocked the lens cap off my camera. She'd dug her fingernails right into the flesh of her cheeks, and blood was running down her neck.

"Eoin! Justice! Help," I yelled. "Xīyáng, calm down! It's me, Clara."

But when Eoin approached, her struggles intensified. She was screaming in Chinese and I didn't understand a word.

"Eoin, back off!" Rey screamed, "she thinks you're going to attack her!"

"Xīyáng, calm down, you're hurting yourself, you're hurting me." She'd just whacked me in the chin with her knee, as I attempted to sit on her legs. Her face was covered in blood. "Xīyáng! Xīyáng! It's okay, it's okay, stop fighting."

She started to weaken and gabbled something in Chinese. Rey looked at me puzzled.

"What?" I said to him, as she went limp and Justice caught her head before she hit the pavement.

"She just said that her name was Chénxī?" says Rey, "but... that's stupid. It means, like, the opposite of Xīyáng?"

Her body stiffened and, as I looked at her face trying to see how bad her self inflicted wounds were, her eyes flicked open and this glassy look came over them.

"Xīyáng?" I said, "are you okay?"

"No."

The hair rose all across my skin as goosebumps erupted over my body at the sound of that long vowel. A cold wave washed over me.

"Not Xīyáng. Clara, can yuh 'elp me inside somewhere, I doan want Chénxī comin' out again."

It was Sol.

Looking back, I think I disassociated for a while. I have only vague memories of Justice, Rey and I leading Sol up to my flat. I just sat, totally spaced out on the sofa holding his hand, as Justice cleaned the wounds on his face and applied disinfectant. It was like looking through a tunnel, seeing everything from a distance.

"Tank yuh Justice," Sol said, then turned to me, though he had to say my name several times now. "Clara? Clara? Clara? I got ta go now, okay. Be kind to Xīyáng. Dawn goan need yuh support too now, okay?"

Then his eyes went glassy, and suddenly Xīyáng was there sobbing in my arms.

At some point Rey went, then came back with the whole gang, but Justice just dragged them off somewhere, leaving us alone.

Eventually, I came back to myself.

"Xīyáng? Are you okay?"

"No," she sniffed, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. It wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Maybe not tonight," she sniffed, "but I should have told you sooner. About Sol and Dawn and Chénxī."

"Are you... all of those people?" I asked, as gently as I could, even as my stomach dropped and I felt like the floor under my feet was giving way.

She shook her head. "No. I'm me. But they are here too. But Dawn doesn't know."

It took about a week for me to get my head around it. Or rather, to see the corners of it. Because, if I'm honest, I may never completely get my head around it.

The next day, Keke and I called Carrie after Haile remembered she'd done Psychology.

"It sounds like it could be dissociative identity disorder," she said. "I've only studied it, never actually met anyone who suffers from it. It's usually caused by childhood trauma. The psyche basically divides, often multiple times into what are known as alters, to separate memories of the trauma from the working memory. So there will be one alter that carries the trauma, allowing other alters to function kind of normally."

"What, like that character from Doom Patrol? That's actually a real thing, not something made up for comic books?" Keke's voice was full of skepticism.

"Yep. It's a real thing. Google it. Look, give me a bit, there's somebody that Samantha knows who might be able to tell you more and may be willing to meet your friend, okay?"

She texted later with the email for a Dr Grace Alison, who kindly agreed to call me.

"During my career, I've known two DID systems - that's the terminology. This sounds like one. I'd have to meet them, but, speaking purely hypothetically," she'd insisted on that and there were no names shared - to diagnose somebody to somebody else would have been breaching all kinds of ethics, "from what you've described to me it sounds like there is one alter who fronts regularly. She is the one that deals with day to day life, often called the host. In order to do that, she needs to be unaware of the trauma or it would stop her from functioning and keeping the body healthy. Essentially, the mind is putting up what we call amnesia barriers. But then, from your description, there is a trauma-holder, who was obviously triggered enough by the incident the other night to front and self-harm. There is also usually a caretaker alter, and that sounds like the person you have been corresponding with via e-mail - you said he described himself as a carer for a young girl who had been traumatized?"

I confirmed this.

"Well, from my experience and from the literature I've read, it's not uncommon for one or more alters to be a different age to the biological age of the body. Perhaps, the trauma holding alter has remained the same age as when the trauma was experienced? You understand that I'm just hypothesising here? This isn't a diagnosis."

"Yes, of course. What about the fourth, er, alter. The fun, outgoing one."

"At this stage, I've no firm idea. Perhaps, as the body aged, certain desires started to manifest and a new alter was created to be an outlet for that?"

"But... that... alter... is asexual."

"Not all desires are sexual," she chuckled, kindly. "It could have been a desire for friendship, socialisation, cultural exploration. But," she continued, "it may be that one of the alters does have responsibility for sexual desire."

She paused.

"Speaking purely hypothetically here, if the female presenting alters are asexual, it's entirely possible that the trauma was sexual in nature. Possibly racial too, given the host alter's rejection of the body's ethnic and cultural heritage. So it may be that, as regards sexuality, the gender this is located in has shifted. If the female alters are not interested in experiencing sex as women, it may be that only the male alter has a sex drive. But it's impossible to know for sure, and in any case, such systems are often fluid and rarely fixed."

She offered to try to meet Dawn/Xīyáng/Sol, but with Dawn oblivious, this was problematic. Sol had emailed me to ask me not to say anything, and Xīyáng had messaged the same on the group chat. When I saw Dawn next, she didn't even seem to be aware of the scratches on her face.

It was so weird. She behaved so normally, her usual polite, awkward self.

"How is your revision for your finals going, Clara?"

"Terribly." This was the honest truth. I'd been up late last night watching videos on DID and emailing links to Sol. I'd also sent him Dr Alison's email.

"Oh no, Clara, that's awful! Do you need help with anything?"

So I let her tutor me with the Maths, which was actually helpful, but it was so hard keeping my mind on the task. Partly that was tiredness, but mostly it was examining her, trying to see Sol in her and wondering why I hadn't seen it before. I still couldn't quite see her as anything other than Dawn. She/they/he was almost like a living, breathing trompe l'oeil.

"Do I have something on my face, Clara?" Dawn asked at one point, after catching me staring.

"No, no!" I tried to cover myself. Of course, she actually did have something on her face - the scabs from Chénxī's attack. But I didn't want her to notice. "Sorry," I said, yawning, "just tired."

"You need to sleep more."

"You're probably right. But I've been worrying about some friends of mine; Sol and Xīyáng. It's been keeping me awake."

There wasn't a hint of recognition of those names in her face, though she'd heard me use them before.

When she left, I felt empty. How could this work? How could I be friends with her, or with Xīyáng, knowing that within them was the guy I'd developed strong feelings for? Not only did it rule out any kind of romantic relationship with Sol, but it was going to complicate my friendship with both Dawn and Xīyáng. Not just mine either; all of our friendship group would be affected.

Then, eight days later, as I wallowed in despair, Sol knocked on my door in the middle of the day and brightened up my life.

* * *

Eventually, Sol broke the heavy silence as we sat side by side. "Can I ask yuh someting?"

We'd been talking about how Rey was, and Sol had been explaining to me what Dr Alison had said to him via email. But we'd so far avoided anything to do with us. And for the last few minutes we hadn't said anything at all, just slumped on the settee.

I turned my head on the back of the sofa to look at him - her - them. God, what a clusterfuck. "Of course."

"Yuh said ta Dawn once that yuh'd 'ad sex wid a woman but it 'ad left yuh feeling uncom-"

"Wait!" I interrupted, sitting up. "You can hear my conversations with Dawn? What about with Xīyáng?" This was blowing my mind. Which, given everything that had happened, I didn't think was possible.

"Yeah, dat's right. I be always listening in. Sorry if dat's a bit creepy."

"No. No, it's okay." I wasn't sure it was. But then, I also wasn't sure it wasn't. The idea that Sol had been watching me and listening to me those months since I'd met Xīyáng and Dawn was, somehow, strangely flattering. "But, wait, does that mean that they are listening in now?"

He - she - they - could be they, I realised! - shook his/their head. "Dawn never listens in. She can't. She doan know 'about de rest of us. Mebbe we goan 'ave to tell 'er someday soon, but right now she doan know nuttin' 'bout dis DID stuff." Sol paused. "Xīyáng can listen in if she like, but right now she ain't. She was, but she done gone now I ast yuh 'bout sex. She not interested."

"What about Chénxī?"

"Chénxī can... but only if I let 'er. She likes yuh. I often let 'er watch when yuh wid Dawn. But she ain't watching now."

"Where is she?"

Sol's eyes seem to turn inward for a moment. "She and Xīyáng 'anging out."

"Oh!" I'd been watching videos on this, from systems with DID. The internal architecture of the mind, the inner worlds they create for their alters, was stunning.

"Anywey," Sol said, "I wanted to ask yuh 'bout what yuh said ta Dawn. 'Bout 'ow yu'd felt uncomfortable."

I nodded. Yes, we did need to discuss this. Discovering the truth about Sol hadn't diminished my attraction to him, though it obviously complicated things. My mind, and it seemed, my body, had no issues accepting Sol as male, and desirable. But the reality was that he was an alter in a female body.

"So, I doan wanna make yuh feel embarrassed or nuttin', but could-"

"It's okay," I said, interrupting. "I can tell you."

I took a deep breath. Let it out. "It was last year, with a girl I'd known vaguely when she'd been a student here." I swallowed, wondering how much to tell him about what I'd been doing that night, or the very strange circumstances I'd met Suzy in, and how deliciously vulnerable I'd felt. "I'd... I'd been taking part in a photoshoot. It had involved being naked in public and... well, it had left me feeling quite turned on, to be honest."

I blushed and looked at Sol, but there was no judgement in his/their face, though I was very glad that he'd assured me the others weren't listening in.

"So... so when she put the moves on me, I was perhaps a lot more receptive than I would have been normally."

"But yuh didn't like it?" he asked, when I didn't continue.

"It was... okay. Physically, it was fun. She was very determined that I would have a good time. Very, very determined. Which also made me feel a bit pressured, to be honest." I paused, but he didn't prompt me this time. "But it wasn't just that... it was the situation. There were a lot of lesbian couples around that night, some of whom I knew and liked, others I knew of and admired. Which I think really contributed to me being open to it - like, I think I felt that if I'd turned Suzy down, I'd have been insulting them too, you know? Which is stupid, and it made me disappointed with myself. But more than that, it was the next day. I think that Suzy hoped that we might become like them, that she might be the one to trigger some "awakening" in me, like Carrie did for Amanda. And she was so... she tried to hide it, tried to smile, but I could see that I'd hurt her, could see that she didn't want it to be a one night thing. And that made me feel really shitty, you know? I felt... well, I felt bad. And then I felt kind of bad that I felt bad, and then that coloured what had happened the night before. So... yeah."

He nodded and waited and offered his/their hand, squeezing reassuringly when I took it.

"What about you?" I asked.

"What 'bout me?"

"Have you.... Had relationships? Experiences?"

"No!" His response was quick. "No, de others ain't interested in dat, as yuh know. And I... well, I been around a while now, but I've only been 'out front' a few times now, since we met yuh and well..."

"So, you're a virgin?"

He blushed, the skin white around the scabs still healing on his cheeks.

"Sorry!" I said, squeezing his hand. "I wasn't making fun of you. I just-"

"I know."

We sat in silence for a while, side by side on the sofa, just holding hands. I looked at him/them. Really looked. Except where Chénxī's scratches were still healing, his skin was smooth, his nose straight and rounded at the end. His mouth was small, but his lips a perfect bow shape. He was gorgeous.

But it wasn't just physical attraction, I realised. It was who he was: the protector, the care-giver, the one who made space for others to achieve. And yet, I knew he was drawn to me. He saw me. He'd seen me through Dawn and Xīyáng's eyes, seen who I was, and that, more than anything, had tempted him to front.

I didn't think I'd find such a level of mutual attraction and appreciation anywhere else. I certainly hadn't until then.

I'd have been a fool to let something as basic as biology get in the way of that.

"I'd... I'd like to have a... a relationship? With you?" I offered. "Could... could that work? How would the others feel about that?"

He was silent for a beat, but then he smiled and it was like the sun coming out.

"I doan know. But, I'd like ta try."

And then we kissed. It was sweet. It was clumsy. It was enough.

Epilogue: 8 months later

It's the morning after Keke's birthday.

On the sofa, Chénxī gasps and whoops at the antics of the actors on screen, occasionally shouting words I don't understand, as we watch House of flying daggers. Subtitled, of course, so that we can both follow it. Sometimes, she'll clutch my arm and snuggle into me. Although her body is the same as Dawn's and Sol's and Xīyáng's, in some strange way she seems much smaller when Chénxī is fronted.

It messes with my head. Yet it's also kind of adorable. The goal for many DID sufferers is for their alters to integrate, to merge and become one. I can't help but feel that I'll miss this playful little person if she vanishes completely. Of course, Chénxī is also the alter that carries the trauma - though she is all smiles and glee now, she is also the sobbing ball of self-harming stress at other times too. It's been months though since she's been like that: these weekend film afternoons allow her to front safely and happily.

To be honest, as much as I want Dawn (for that's the body's legal name in the UK) to be healthy in both body and mind, I worry what that will mean. Will integration mean 'she' (if 'they' end up a 'she') retains all those aspects of their alters I've come to so appreciate - Dawn's focus and determination; Chénxī's joy and innocence; Xīyáng's love of fun and daring; and Sol, my beloved Sol, with his warmth and patience and aura of caring - or will integration eclipse or dull those differences? Will I still care for the resulting person the way I care for the whole of the Solar system?

The film finishes and Chénxī lets out a satisfied sigh. "Shay shay Clala," she says, then she kisses me on the cheek. Then that glassy eyed look comes over her that I've come to know is the sign of another alter fronting. Her body seems to grow, unfurling, her shoulders widening.

I smile to myself: I think it's Sol. But it might be Dawn. Probably too early for Xīyáng: she's an evening person.

I give whoever it is a moment, let the focus return to their eyes.

"Hi there," I say softly, "whom am I speaking to?"

"'i Clara," the deeper, warmer tones already tell me the answer before it comes, "it's Sol, my love." His accent has smoothed now, become less of a caricature, though he still drops his aitches.

"What a pleasant surprise," I say, "I mean, I'm always happy to spend time with Dawn and Xīyáng but I'm-"

Sol stops my mouth with a dominant kiss, his arms passing around me, pulling me onto him, my breasts squishing against his. A sigh escapes me as I melt into him. His hands slip under my t-shirt and stroke the groove of my spine, pulling shivers from me.

"Well," he says in that bath of a voice of his, "Dawn will be fronting later - she wants to finish an assignment - and Xīyáng is very keen to cook as she's got a new vegan recipe from 'er class to try out. Then she's 'oping you are up for meeting Eoin and Rey?"

"Of course," I say.

One thing about dating Sol, is that I've now been fully integrated into the queer scene. Before, I felt welcomed, but as an ally, a documenter, an adjacent observer. Now, I feel part of it, part of something larger, a crazy, fluid family. Until I found that - that inclusion, that welcome, that acceptance - I hadn't really realised how much it was something I think I've always been looking for.

It felt like coming home. But a home I'd never really had.

"But that leaves us a few 'ours, so if you don't 'ave any work to do...?" His finger trails up my spine.

"Here? Or the bedroom?" I whisper.

"Yours."

When Jim moved in with Louise, Dawn took his room. She was told about Sol and Xīyáng and Chénxī, but she decided it was too strange, too disturbing, and that she was better not knowing. That was a tough time. So she's locked those memories away, and has her own room. Whoever fronts overnight, usually Sol, but sometimes Xīyáng, always returns there in the morning to allow Dawn to "wake up" there.

We don't use that room for sex.

We kiss tenderly in the doorway, then Sol grabs his things and heads to the bathroom. The other alters are still shy about their body, so I'm not allowed to see it naked. I'm still working out how I feel about that. Shucking my clothes quickly, I slip under the covers and wait.

Sol quickly returns, wearing a vest and boxer shorts with a very obvious bulge in them. Nothing ridiculous; realistic in both size, girth and feel. For me at least.

Early on in our relationship, Jim's girlfriend Louise suggested we talk to her former flatmate Samantha who, we were told, had an encyclopedic knowledge of sex toys. While that may have been a minor exaggeration, the conversation we had with her was eye-opening, especially when she called her girlfriend Sarah over to demonstrate. I'm not sure who blushed harder, Sol, me or Sarah.

Regardless, her advice was great and, as we have several mutuals, we've become friends.

Sol climbs under the sheets with me and I take him in my arms. We kiss, gently, slowly, him constantly having to tuck my errant hair back behind my ears, away from my face. I run my hands up his sides, over his back. I wish we could do away with the vest, go skin-to-skin, which I love. But the others are not comfortable with it, as I discovered when a very upset Chénxī fronted early on. That was a real passion killer.

His hands trace down my sides, just on the edge of tickling, which I adore, pulling shivers from me. I raise my leg slightly, allowing him to brush down my inner thigh.

At first he was so clumsy, so ignorant about a woman's body, so keen to just plunge into me. Which, to be honest, just reinforced the idea that I was making love to a man. Even his stamina was shoddy to start with, even though we obviously don't have to worry about premature ejaculation. But none of the system has ever been interested in exploring their own body sexually, so Sol didn't have a clue what to do with mine.

I've had to teach him about taking his time, about teasing, about foreplay. It was mostly a fun few lessons for both of us, despite the frustrating start.

So, from being somebody who always felt awkward talking during sex, I've had to become an expert in describing what I need.

"Mmmm, that's it, take it slow," I say, as he traces his fore and middle finger around my labia. I like gentle, slow, almost tickly touches.

He kisses down my jaw, and I stretch my chin up.

"Kiss my throat," I whisper, then hum in pleasure as he finds the right spot.

"Can I have a finger inside? Mmmm, yeah, that's... oh... that's lovely... yes, slick me up..." he spreads my wetness over my clit. Well, nearly. "A bit higher, yes, that's perfect... can you use your thumb there? Ah, yes."

His middle finger moves in and out even as his thumb circles my button. "Mmm, just like that, keep it slow. Oh Sol, that's perfect." His tongue pushes gently into my pulse point, his lips pinching my skin there lightly. My hands clutch his hair.

The buzz is building in me, the slow cramping in my abdomen. I won't come like this, but it will get me good and ready for penetration.

"Fuck me Sol, please?"

As he pushes himself up onto all fours, I reach under the pillow for the lube.

He slips the strap-on through the fly on his boxers as I grasp him with a lube filled palm, slicking him up then guiding the tip of his cock to my wet and ready opening.

He groans in empathy with me as he enters me. He doesn't orgasm physically, but claims he has 'emotional orgasms' with me. I don't argue about whether that's actually a thing or not. Seeing as I'm not allowed to touch any of the bodies' primary erogenous zones, giving him these is literally the most I can do. He really is the most selfless lover ever.

That said, he's still a little clumsy: I fight back a wince as he gets the angle slightly wrong while settling between my legs, but a shift of my hips fixes that. Then his mouth descends on mine as he thrusts inside me.

Soon I have to break our kiss, as I throw my head back and moan. "Yes, Sol, yes, keep going!" I hook my legs over his, grasp his lower back and push down, so the friction of his motion grinds against my clit. Then my eyes roll back in my head as my vision pulses in time with the hot waves flooding outwards from my core.

"Yes, Sol, right there!"

"Oh Clara, fuck, yes!" he moans into my chest.

We lie there in silence, his weight on me delicious and heavy. When he starts to move, to withdraw, I clutch him to me. "No," I whisper, "stay."

But then there's a banging on the door. "Hey pookies," Justice yells through, "that sounded bussin'! Getting the BDE working for you Sol! Slay!"

"Fuck off Justice!" I yell and Sol chuckles.

"You two wanna cup of tea or you having another crack?"

"Justice, I love you, but will you please fuck off?" I shout through the door.

"Work on your clapbacks queenie.... Just don't be dragging. Xīyáng promised me wontons and I mean to collect. So get locked in."

I look up at Sol, grinning down at me from above my breasts. "You heard the woman. Best get to iiiitttt!"

I hiss out the last word as Sol's mouth descends on my boob. Yeah, he no longer has a skill issue.

Later, although Xīyáng's meal is a triumph, I find myself drifting away, mentally replaying our afternoon delight. As Justice jokes about wanting an outfit saying "token straight friend" for her birthday, Xīyáng catches my eye. She smiles and there, in her shining eyes, I see Sol watching me. And I think that this might just work.

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Clara and Sol will return in "Happiness". Massive thanks to the wonderfully kind and talented author redgarters for beta-reading and making wise suggestions. All remaining flaws are entirely my fault.

If you enjoyed this, please vote and leave a comment. You might also like my story Desire & Duende, which has some similar themes. x