The Island of Us

When the boat docked at the edge of the island, Kai felt the familiar buzz of anxiety wrap around his chest. The invitation had been unexpected, tucked inside a weathered envelope delivered without a sender—just a wax seal bearing the silhouette of a rising sun.

Kai had grown up in a place where normal was strict, neat, defined in black and white. A place where queerness was tolerated if it remained silent. He’d mastered the art of folding himself into something palatable. But something in the invitation had whispered freedom. Or at least curiosity.

The Island of Us was more myth than map. It wasn’t on any satellite scan or ocean chart. Still, the boatman had known exactly where to go. “You’ll understand when you see it,” he’d said, offering no further detail.

And now, standing at the shoreline, Kai saw it: vibrant color, laughter carried by wind, people dancing barefoot in sand without rhythm or shame. Not a single label. Just life, honest and unedited.

He was met by Liora, a wiry person with bright green hair and a kind smile. “You’re here. Finally,” they said, handing him a cup of something that sparkled. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“I didn’t think this place was real,” Kai admitted.

“Most don’t. Until they need it.”

Need. That word echoed in Kai’s chest.

The island had no government, no hierarchy, no currency. Only shared responsibility. Every person contributed, but how they contributed was up to them. Some painted, some built homes from bamboo and reclaimed plastics. Some taught workshops on queer history, mental health, love, consent.

Kai learned that queerness wasn’t merely tolerated here—it was the default. A kaleidoscope of gender expressions and sexualities lived openly and without judgment. There were no closets, no whispering behind backs. Identity wasn’t questioned—it was celebrated.

For the first time in his life, Kai didn’t feel like he had to explain himself.

Still, the island wasn’t paradise untouched by hardship. One evening, as firelight flickered across faces, Kai heard stories of pain. Liora had fled a country that deemed their nonbinary identity “a psychological defect.” A young man named Ezra was disowned by his family after coming out. A couple—Navi and Jules—escaped a conversion camp disguised as a “wellness retreat.”

Yet here, none of that pain had hardened them. If anything, it had softened them. Made them bolder in joy. The community healed through love, art, and radical inclusion.

Kai began to change.

He painted again—something he hadn’t done since his teenage years, when his father had caught him sketching two boys kissing and ripped the drawing to shreds. On the island, he painted murals of transformation: birds morphing mid-flight, a forest that changed with every angle, hearts made of galaxies. People stopped to admire, to ask questions, to cry.

“You’re giving us new language,” Liora told him one night. “Your art lets us see ourselves in ways words can’t.”

Kai’s hands shook with emotion.

He fell in love, too. Slowly, without rush. With Mylo, a trans man who built wind chimes from sea glass and believed emotions were holy. Mylo never asked Kai to define himself. They danced under stars. Made love like it was sacred. Told secrets without fear.

But then came the vote.

Once a year, the island allowed visitors to decide: would they stay, or return to the outside world? Once you chose, you couldn’t go back. If you stayed, the island was your forever. If you left, you carried its memory—but could never return.

“I don’t know what to do,” Kai confessed to Mylo, a day before the vote.

“You have to choose the life that lets you be whole,” Mylo replied. “Not just safe. Not just accepted. Whole.”

Kai spent that night walking the beach. He listened to the wind hum over waves. He remembered the silence of his old life, the way truth got stuck in his throat, how even joy felt conditional. And he thought of the island—of faces lit by firelight, of laughter unfiltered, of kisses given freely.

The next morning, he dropped a sea-glass bead into the Stay bowl.

The vote was private, but his chest pulsed with peace as if the island itself had approved.

Years later, Kai would be one of the island’s storytellers. He painted legends into rock, taught children how to draw their truth in color. His art was collected in floating museums—rafts that traveled between communities, reminding them of what was possible.

And every time a boat arrived carrying a scared, unsure soul, Kai was the one waiting on the shore.

“You’re here,” he would say, offering a cup of something that sparkled. “Finally.”