His love letters landed like a blow, knocking the wind out of me. He wrote me letters nearly every day, and I responded like clockwork. We lived two states away from each other and on the weekends would meet in the middle in Boston, spending long days together. ![]() He had started testosterone shortly before we met, and the double-exposed photos seemed to show his body as a specter as the hormones took root. Haunting photographs hung on the walls, a ghostly kind of self-portrait of his changing body. ![]() My first love went to art school, and early in our courtship he invited me to a student show of his photography.
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