Prologue-Before the Ocean
The house always sounded loudest at night.
Not because anyone was talking.
Because nobody was.
Silence in the Mercer house wasn’t peaceful. It sat heavy in the rooms like smoke after a fire, thick and bitter and impossible to ignore. The television downstairs buzzed quietly with late-night news while rain tapped against the kitchen windows.
Eli sat on the floor of his bedroom with his back pressed against the bed.
A single lamp glowed beside him.
His math homework lay unfinished across the carpet, though he hadn’t looked at it in nearly twenty minutes.
Instead, he stared at his phone.
At the message glowing on the screen.
You okay?
It was from Owen.
Eli read the text three times before locking his phone again.
He wanted to answer.
He really did.
But the walls in this house felt thin.
Too thin.
Downstairs, his father laughed sharply at something the television host said.
Then came the familiar sound of a beer bottle hitting the coffee table.
Eli closed his eyes.
His chest tightened automatically, like his body had memorized fear before his brain could catch up.
He hated that.
Hated how one sound could turn him tense.
Hated how careful he had become.
The worst part was that nobody outside the house would understand.
His parents weren’t the kind of people strangers looked at and immediately distrusted.
His mother volunteered at church fundraisers.
His father coached little league during the summer.
They smiled at neighbors.
They paid bills on time.
People liked them.
But kindness was strange sometimes.
Some people gave it freely to strangers while withholding it from the people closest to them.
Eli learned that young.
A floorboard creaked outside his room.
He immediately shoved his phone beneath a pillow.
The bedroom door opened without a knock.
His mother stepped inside.
“You’re still awake?” she asked.
Eli nodded once.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Her eyes moved across the room before settling on him.
There had been a time when that look felt comforting.
Now it mostly made him nervous.
“You need to stop hiding up here all the time,” she said.
“I’m doing homework.”
“You’ve been ‘doing homework’ for two hours.”
Eli stayed quiet.
His mother sighed.
“You know,” she began carefully, “your father and I are worried about you.”
There it was.
The conversation again.
The same one dressed in different clothes every time.
“What now?” Eli asked quietly.
She frowned.
“Don’t use that tone.”
“I didn’t use a tone.”
“Yes, you did.”
Eli looked down at the carpet.
Arguing never helped.
“We just don’t understand what’s going on with you lately,” she continued. “You barely talk to anyone anymore. You avoid church. You stopped hanging out with your cousins.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
Because pretending is exhausting, he thought.
But he didn’t say it.
He never said it.
Not fully.
Not yet.
His mother crossed her arms.
“And those clothes.”
Eli instinctively tugged at the sleeves of his oversized hoodie.
“What about them?”
“You used to dress nicely.”
“It’s a hoodie.”
“It looks sloppy.”
Eli swallowed.
The hoodie wasn’t sloppy.
It was safe.
Loose fabric. Hidden shape. Hidden body.
His mother didn’t understand that every morning felt like putting on a costume he hated.
“You’ve changed,” she said softly.
The words should have sounded gentle.
Instead they landed like accusations.
Maybe because Eli heard the unspoken part.
And I don’t like who you’re becoming.
He stared at the rain outside.
“I’m still me.”
His mother gave him a look he couldn’t decipher.
“Your father says this is probably just influence from the internet.”
Eli almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was ridiculous.
As if years of confusion and fear could be reduced to social media.
As if he woke up one morning and decided life would be easier if he felt wrong in his own skin.
“He thinks you’re spending too much time around…” She hesitated.
“Around what?”
“You know.”
No.
He knew exactly what she meant.
The queer kids at school.
The ones teachers described as “sweet” in the careful tone adults used when they were trying not to sound judgmental.
The ones his father called confused.
Or worse.
Eli’s stomach twisted.
“Mom,” he said quietly, “what if they’re not doing anything wrong?”
Her expression hardened instantly.
“They’re living against God.”
The answer came too quickly.
Practiced.
Like she’d repeated it enough times to make herself believe it without question.
Eli felt something sharp settle in his chest.
Because that was the terrifying thing about people sometimes.
They could love you deeply while refusing to truly see you.
“I’m serious,” she continued. “You need to be careful. The world keeps trying to convince kids that confusion is something to celebrate.”
Confusion.
Eli hated that word.
He wasn’t confused.
Not really.
Terrified?
Absolutely.
But not confused.
He had known something felt wrong since childhood.
Since being called pretty made his skin crawl.
Since hearing his birth name felt like listening to someone talk about a stranger.
Since every mirror started to feel unfamiliar.
And then there was the other truth.
The one he buried even deeper.
Boys.
The quickening in his chest whenever Owen smiled at him.
The panic that followed immediately afterward.
The shame.
The desperate attempts to convince himself it would disappear.
It never did.
His mother stepped closer.
“You know we love you, right?”
Eli looked at her.
He believed her.
That was what made everything hurt worse.
Because love shouldn’t feel conditional.
But sometimes it did.
Sometimes it came wrapped in expectations so tight you could barely breathe inside them.
“I know,” he said quietly.
She nodded, seemingly relieved.
“Good.”
Then she left the room.
The door clicked shut.
Eli stared at it for several seconds before finally grabbing his phone again.
His hands shook slightly.
He opened Owen’s messages.
Owen: You disappeared after class.
Owen: Everything okay?
Owen: Or are your parents being weird again?
Eli smiled faintly despite himself.
Owen always knew.
Not everything.
But enough.
Enough to notice when Eli went quiet.
Enough to understand the careful way Eli moved through the world.
Enough to make Eli feel seen in a way that scared him.
Eli typed a response.
Just tired.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Owen: You don’t have to lie to me.
Eli’s throat tightened.
He deleted three different replies before finally sending:
I know.
A minute passed.
Then another message arrived.
Owen: One day you’re gonna get out of there.
Eli stared at the words.
Get out.
The idea felt impossible.
This house had become its own universe.
One where he monitored his voice constantly.
One where he avoided mirrors.
One where every conversation felt dangerous.
Sometimes he imagined introducing himself honestly.
Hi, I’m Eli.
Not the name everyone expected.
Not the daughter his parents thought they had.
Just Eli.
The thought felt equal parts terrifying and freeing.
He heard heavy footsteps downstairs.
His father.
A moment later, a voice called up the staircase.
“Why is that bedroom light still on?”
Eli immediately muted his phone.
His father’s footsteps grew louder.
Then the bedroom door swung open.
“What’re you still doing awake?”
“Homework.”
His father glanced at the hoodie, the sketchbook, the clutter around the room.
“You spend too much time alone.”
Eli said nothing.
His father leaned against the doorway.
“You know what your problem is?”
Eli’s stomach sank.
There was never a correct answer to that question.
“You’ve got no direction,” his father continued. “No confidence. Kids nowadays spend too much time in their heads.”
Eli stared at the floor.
“And stop slouching,” his father added. “You carry yourself like you’re ashamed of something.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because he was ashamed.
Not of being trans.
Not really.
But ashamed of how afraid he was.
Ashamed that honesty felt dangerous.
Ashamed that he still wanted his parents’ approval even knowing they might never give it.
His father’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“And I don’t want you hanging around those weird kids at school.”
Eli froze.
“What?”
