"You're crying," Rafael said, quietly, standing beside her in the courtyard's aftermath, when the crowd had shifted from ceremony to celebration and the space had become something different from what it had been."I know," she said. She was not embarrassed by it. She was twenty-four years old and she was standing in a courtyard full of people who had arrived to witness her, and the accumulated weight of what that meant — not the title or the ceremony but the specific, irreducible fact of being witnessed, of being seen and named and claimed — had arrived in her body in the only form that was adequate for it."Tell me what you're feeling," he said."Everything," she said. "I'm feeling everything that was waiting. All of it at once." She looked at the crowd — at the mix of people, at the improbable fact of them being in the same space at the same time for the same reason. "I spent twenty-four years being told I was the wrong kind of thing. And now—" She paused. "Now the wrong kind of thi
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