“Okay, just a few more,” the photographer says to me as I pose in my designer jeans and t-shirt. “That’s great Ian, look this way, try to stand a bit straighter so we can see the logo clearly.” I do as I’m told and hold a subtle smile on my face as the camera takes photos of me- or rather, the clothes I’m wearing. “Okay, I think that’s everything. Thanks Ian, I’ll you have the rest of your Saturday back!”

“Thanks,” I say with a nervous chuckle, decompressing as I’m finally allowed to head back to the changing room to change back into my own clothes and remove the make-up from my face. Even though I know it’s not to enhance my image in any way (other than to stop the studio lights from glaring on my skin) and that all male models wear it for photoshoots, it didn’t stop me from cringing when it was applied to me earlier today. Fortunately, it takes mere seconds to remove it from my skin, meaning I can finally head back home and try to relax.

I say ‘try’ to relax as for the past few weeks, my life has been anything but relaxing, and if anything, the modelling work has been the least of my worries. Make-up aside, the agency has gone out of their way to only give me work I’m comfortable doing (basically just casual men’s fashion) and the money is good. However, it has severely eaten into the time I spend on my coursework, and moreover, into my free time as well. The fact that I only got back into London yesterday afternoon but I’ve spent all this morning working just goes to show how hectic my life is right now.

And, of course, spending 3 days in Cardiff with my mother didn’t help my anxiety levels, even if Grandma was there as well- and even if those three days included Christmas Day itself. For once, though, Christmas wasn’t a source of stress. I got presents I actually wanted (including a new Arsenal FC hoodie from mum, which was a pleasant surprise), I could be the person I wanted to be, and best of all, no worries over my ‘dad’ threatening to sue me or my paternal grandmother doing anything other than rotting in hell. Even going to church on Christmas morning was enjoyable- the atmosphere was quiet and relaxed, and I got to fill in Reverend Stubbs on what’s been happening in London. However, by yesterday evening, I was desperate to return to London- even if this city isn’t short of stresses either.

Thankfully, my friends aren’t a major source of stress, even if a good chunk of my new-found income did go toward buying them Christmas presents. Not that I mind- the saying ‘it’s better to give than to receive’ may be a cliché but I genuinely did enjoy shopping for presents for my friends as much as I did opening the presents they got me, even if my presents for them were a lot less expensive and more 'generic' than what I received from them. Still, my friends were all grateful (as was I), and promised me more of the same (without the obligation to give them anything in return) two days from now… Which brings me to probably my biggest source of stress.

Two days from now is, of course, December 30th, which is also my birthday- my twentieth, to be precise. It’s also my fourth birthday as ‘Ian’, and my first as part of the ‘Heavenly Talent family’. As such, they’ve promised to give me a party I’ll never forget, and while the thought of being the centre of attention makes me cringe, the fact is that it's the only party I'm likely to have thrown for me.

After the ‘Mac & Chloe incident’ a few months ago, university has been considerably less fun than it was during my first year. The work is harder, but that was to be expected, but what has made the course almost intolerable is that Mac is still there, in every lecture or seminar I attend… And literally everyone in the university knows the ‘history’ between us. This has meant that making new friends has been virtually impossible, and keeping the few I have- well, basically just Ben and the LGBT society- has been just as hard thanks to Ben not wanting to alienate both me AND Mac. The one source of comfort I have is knowing that Mac has had it just as hard as I have (well, apart from Ben continuing to sit and work with him in seminars), and that the 'incident' between us ended his relationship with Chloe for good. Not that I'm any closer to getting back together with her myself, though. The one comfort is that keeping to myself has meant that I've effectively avoided any transphobia from other students- though whether that's because they're afraid I'll beat them up like I did Mac, I couldn't say.

And not only have I not got back together with Chloe, I've not got together with any other girl either, despite many of my friends’ best efforts- including Laura, who’s (unsuccessfully) tried to set me up with a couple of her college friends. And, of course, despite being single herself, Laura and I have been ‘hands off’ ever since our recent ‘encounter’.

Thankfully, my flatmate has always been on hand for ‘best friend duties’ whenever I’ve needed cheering up. Well, when he isn’t with his girlfriend, anyway. Or hanging out with Dan, who isn't exactly synonymous with 'cheer'. Or, as with this current holiday, staying with his father in Cardiff. Still, as I’ve been reminded plenty on social media, four days from now is a new year- a new decade, even. I can at least take some consolation from the fact that while I may have started the 2010s as a girl named Kayleigh-Ann, when the 2020s start the simple fact will be that my name is NOT Kayleigh-Ann, and I most certainly am NOT a girl. No matter how much morons like Mac try to convince me otherwise…

With Lee still in Cardiff, our flat is empty and just as I’d left it when I return home and flop down onto the sofa with a loud sigh. Mum and Grandma had tried to persuade me to go back to Cardiff to spend the night before returning to London tomorrow, but thankfully they backed down when I pointed out it’s a long way and a lot of money for only a few hours of visiting time. However, this has left me at a loose end, and there’s only so much FIFA you can play or coursework you can do before even that becomes boring and you lose the motivation to do anything at all. And in my case, I barely have any motivation to begin with.

Even though it’s a Saturday night, I head to bed just after 10pm, hoping (in all probability futilely) that a good night’s sleep will clear my mind.

I wake up the following morning just after 9:30am, and after a quick shower, I pull on a slouchy pair of jeans and a t-shirt and flop down on the sofa with my breakfast. As I eat, I go through in my head the many things I could do today- need to do, even- such as coursework, prep work for my next modelling job or prep work for a meeting I have with Jonathan tomorrow (of all days). Then there’s the things I want to do, such as watch Netflix, play videogames or chat with friends on Facebook. All I have the energy to do, though, is lay on my sofa and stare at the ceiling, barely even bothering to listen to the TV. Every so often I get the urge to message Ben or one of my other friends from my course to see if they’re doing anything, but I figure that there’s no point in asking- they’re probably busy anyway, and I’m not exactly feeling like good company right now. I even get the random urge to check on what Mac or Chloe are doing today, but that urge thankfully passes quickly- I don’t want to give them the satisfaction that I’m wasting my time thinking about them. Of course, there’s also my friends from Heavenly Talent, but I don’t want to be a nuisance to them, and given that it’s the holidays, they’re probably too busy with their families… Or so I thought.

A knock comes from the flat’s front door just after noon, abruptly waking me up from a nap, and when I open the door, I’m greeted by the last faces I expected to see today.

“Afternoon!” Jonathan says with a wide grin as he, Stuart and their friend Keith casually stroll into the flat, all three of them wearing their team’s football shirts (Arsenal for Jonathan, Chelsea for Stuart and Keith).

“Umm, hi…” I say, confused by the men’s sudden appearance. “I thought- I thought the meeting wasn’t until tomorrow?”

“Nah, we’re not here on business!” Jonathan chuckles. “Thought we’d give you one of your presents a day early!”

“Umm, okay…” I say, frowning with confusion as the men stare at me expectantly.

“…The match?” Stuart asks. “You know, at that overgrown shithole half a mile from your flat?”

“Hey!” Jonathan protests, giving Stuart a rough shove, before smiling sympathetically as my confused frown deepens. “The- the match, mate. You know, Arsenal vs Chelsea, kicks off in about an hour and a half?”

“Oh- oh wait, that’s today?” I ask, trying not to blush as my look on my friends’ faces changes to one of concern.

“Yeah- mate, are you alright?” Stuart asks gently, making me tense up- I hate how small that question always makes me feel.

“I’m fine,” I reply bluntly. “I just- I’ve just had a lot on my mind, that’s all, with uni, like, you know, stuff…”

“Okay,” Stuart shrugs. “Well, as an additional birthday present, we won’t expect you to do a forfeit when- WHEN- the Blues knock the stuffing out of you.”

“Keep dreaming,” Jonathan snorts. “Do you need to shower first, Ian?”

“No offence intended,” Keith laughs. “Jonathan just means that this place smells like a typical student shithole, that’s all.”

“Which me and him both have experience of,” Stuart chuckles.

“No offence taken,” I mumble. “And I, umm, I- I showered this morning.”

“Well- great!” Jonathan says with a grin. “Grab your shoes and your coat and we’ll get going, then!”

“Yep!” I say as I feel a smile force its way onto my lips. Almost in automatic pilot, I pull on my trainers and my coat, making sure to lock the door behind me as we leave the flat and trying my hardest not to scream with frustration.

And the worst thing about it is that I don’t know why I’m frustrated. I SHOULD be jumping at the chance to watch my beloved Gunners play, especially in a local derby, no less. And it’s not like I had any other plans today, other than laying on my sofa feeling sorry for myself. And yet, as we walk the short distance to the stadium, all I can think about is all those times when I was growing up, when I HAD to go to dance class, or I HAD to be in the school play, or I HAD to be on the cheerleading team…

Fortunately, there's no dancing involved today, not even any cheerleaders before the start of the match to bring back any bad memories. And yet, there’s a part of me that still feels like I’m putting on a performance, an act- whether that’s acting at having a good time with my friends, acting at being a model, or a student- or even a man…

One thing that isn’t an act, though, is my disappointment at the final score, as the final whistle blows and my Gunners are sentenced to another defeat at the hands of Chelsea. And, of course, two of my friends won’t let me hear the end of it.

“Well, that was certainly a nice early birthday present… for me,” Stuart teases me as we make our way out of the stadium and make the short walk back to my flat.

“If only matches were eighty minutes instead of ninety,” Keith says, referring to the fact that Arsenal took an early lead, only to squander it in the last ten minutes. “Who’ve Arsenal got next?”

“United, on New Year’s Day,” Jonathan sighs.

“Painful couple of days ahead, then!” Keith teases, making me roll my eyes- he doesn't know how right he is...

“Meh, at least we can celebrate properly tomorrow,” Jonathan says as he playfully wraps an arm around my shoulder.

“Yeah, umm, you- you don’t really need to make THAT much of a fuss,” I meekly mumble. “I mean, it’s, like, my twentieth, not a big birthday…”

“Could be worse, you could be thirty,” Keith says, giving Jonathan a playful nudge.

“Oh- fuck you, Hartley!” The tall dark-skinned man replies with a snort.

“How did you even get away today, anyway?” Keith asks. “Isn’t Viks due, like, now?”

“She’s due on the third,” Jonathan replies. “And I had my phone on the whole time, if anything had happened, I’d have been out of there like a shot. No offence, Ian.”

“None taken,” I shrug, before smirking. “I’ll just, like, stand back and let you three exchange literal dad jokes for the next few minutes, then.”

“Hilarious,” Stuart sighs. “Speaking of New Year’s Day, are you all up for another jam session? I want to make sure we’re all comfortable with ‘My Own Worst Enemy’ before we record it.” Well, I am NOW, I think to myself as my stomach starts to churn again.

“The office is closed, so sure,” Jonathan replies. “If I’m not in a hospital then, anyway!”

“Ah- of course,” Stuart chuckles as I start to breathe a sigh of relief. “I’ll do lead guitar then, Mikey can always cover on the drums until you’ve climbed out of the mountain of nappies!” I feel myself tuning out the three older men as they continue teasing each other, knowing that I don’t fit in with the conversation- something of which I have a lifetime of experience.

Thankfully, we arrive back at my flat a short while later, and after saying goodbye to my friends, I make sure I’m alone in the flat, before heading to my bedroom, clamping my favourite toy giraffe’s leg between my teeth and screaming for all I’m worth…

Unsurprisingly, I don’t have much energy to do anything else for the rest of the day other than watch TV and eat a Pot Noodle in lieu of a 'proper' dinner. As tomorrow is going to be a big day- a really, really big day- I get another early night, climbing into bed just after 9:30pm, though despite being exhausted, it still takes me what feels like hours before I finally drift off to sleep.

My alarm wakes me at 8am the following day, and after dragging my tired body out of bed, I head through to the bathroom to shower and shave. Even though I don’t grow much facial hair and what little I have grows very slowly, I still need to shave from time to time. At first, the thought of doing what is an almost exclusively male activity excited me- ‘Kayleigh-Ann’ never needed to shave, after all. Today, however, shaving just feels like a chore, just like making breakfast, or getting dressed, or checking my mail- even if the latter contains several birthday cards that I leave on the coffee table to open later.

After eating as much breakfast as I can despite my lack of appetite, I button up my smart shirt and fasten my tie, but before I can lace up my smart black shoes, my mobile rings, and I let out a sigh as I see the number on the screen- and I know that I can’t simply ignore this call.

“Hi grandm-“ I say, before biting my lip as I’m immediately interrupted.

“Happy birthday to you!” Grandma sings enthusiastically. “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear twenty-year-old, happy birthday to you!”

“…Thanks, Grandma,” I mumble into the phone.

“Oh, now, don’t tell me you’ve only just got out of bed?” Grandma chastises, making me frown- I really want to end this conversation as soon as possible, and not just because I’m going to be late for my meeting.

“Umm, no, I’ve been up a while,” I reply. “Haven’t opened any of my cards yet, or- or presents, like.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time for that later,” Grandma says. “Assuming you don’t spend all evening partying with your friends, that is! Did you enjoy your trip out yesterday?”

“Ye- yesterday?” I ask.

“To the football!” Grandma replies. “I saw the photos your friends put on Facebook, I’m a bit surprised you didn’t put any on there yourself.”

“Umm, well I- I was too busy watching the match,” I reply. “And, well, we lost, anyway…”

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that,” Grandma says. “Still, at least you’ll have more fun to look forward to tonight! Not to mention all the presents from myself and your mother, and yes, you can start opening them now! Would you like to speak to your mother?” I feel my entire body tense up as Grandma asks me this- from the way she’s asking, it’s clear there is only one answer she wants to hear.

“Sure!” I say, taking a deep breath to steel myself as I hear the phone being handed over. She’s almost 150 miles away, I think to myself. She knows that your name is not Kayleigh-Ann. She knows that you’re not a girl. This is not the same woman who made your life hell for the first sixteen and a half years of your life. Not EXACTLY the same woman, anyway…

“Happy birthday, Ian,” mum says, her voice noticeably less cheerful than Grandma’s.

“Th- thanks,” I reply. “Umm… How- how are you?”

“I’m doing well, thank you,” mum says, leading to an awkward silence that mercifully only lasts a few seconds. “Your grandmother wants to talk to you again.”

“Okay,” I say, before breathing a sigh of relief as I hear the phone being handed over.

“We’re heading out in a bit for an early lunch, we are,” Grandma says. “We just wanted to call first to wish you a happy birthday, and we hope you have fun tonight at your party!”

“Th- thanks,” I say. “See you soon!” I force a smile on my face as the call ends, before taking several deep breaths to try to prevent myself from hyperventilating. However, I know I need to get a grip, as I have a meeting I need to get to, so after I stop my hands from shaking, I grab my coat and head out onto the already-busy street, making my way to the nearby tube stop.

A short while later, I stride through the front entrance of Heavenly Talent’s main office, marvelling as always at the opulence of the reception area and the amount of people milling around despite it being the holiday season. Before I reach the reception desk, though, a familiar voice makes me freeze in my tracks.

“Hello, birthday boy!” The unmistakable strong accent of Abbey-Gayle Simpson calls across the reception area, before skipping over to me with a wide grin on her face. “Is JB really calling you in on your birthday for a meeting?”

“Not- not so loud, please!” I say, forcing a smile on my face as Abbey-Gayle mimes zipping her lips shut. “And- well, yes, I’m just here for, like, a regular meeting, that sort of thing.”

“With the same guy what you was hanging out with at the football yesterday?” Abbey-Gayle teases, giggling as I roll my eyes. “Nah, it’s cool like, innit? Hanging out with your boss, it’s, like, the dream job, right?” Apart from the actual ‘work’ bit, maybe, I think to myself.

“I guess,” I shrug. “Why are you here today?”

“JB wants to put me forward for a new kids’ show on Sky,” Abbey-Gayle explains. “Like, ‘cause I did all the Disney World shit on our America tour last year, I’m, like, the ‘kid-friendly’ Angel or summat.”

“…As long as you don’t say shit on air,” I say, smirking as Abbey-Gayle giggles loudly.

“Stop it!” She playfully chastises me. “It’s bad enough JB reckons I’d have to tone down me accent a bit, but I figure nah, you know, like, Stacey Dooley’s got her ‘lower class white London’ accent so I figure they can’t say no to a ‘lower class black London with bits of Jamaica thrown in’ accent, right?”

“No arguments here,” I say, deliberately emphasising the Welshness of my own accent and making Abbey-Gayle giggle again.

“Well, I’d better not hold you if you’s here to see the boss,” Abbey-Gayle says with a grin. “I’ll see yous tonight, alright?”

“Umm- tonight?” I ask.

“Your party, of course!” Abbey-Gayle giggles. “I figured, like, since you came to mine I should return the favour, innit?”

“Umm, yeah,” I say with a nervous chuckle. “See you there…” I wave goodbye to my friend as I feel my insides churn more and more- I was hoping tonight would be a quiet party with just a few mates, but if Abbey-Gayle’s there that means that 'quiet' won't be an option, and I can’t exactly uninvite her if she’s expecting to come…

“Hey, man!” Jonathan says with a smile as I enter his office, my mind still racing from my run-in with Abbey-Gayle. “Go on, take a seat. This won’t take long, I just need to run through a bit of feedback from some of the jobs you’ve done, then I’ll let you get back to enjoying your birthday, hehe!”

“Th- thanks,” I say nervously as I sit down. “They- there- umm, there- has the feedback been, you know, okay?”

“Erm… yeah, for the most part,” Jonathan says cautiously. “In fact it’s been pretty much consistently positive, I’ve had a lot of companies requesting if you could go back to them on a regular basis, heh!” Great, I think to myself sarcastically. “You’d almost think you’ve been doing this for a lot longer than a few months.” Maybe because I have, I think as I fidget uncomfortably.

“Heh,” I quietly chuckle.

“The one piece of constructive criticism I have,” Jonathan continues in a much gentler voice, “is that a couple of the firms have said that you can be a little- and I’m only saying this as constructive criticism, but- you kinda come across as a bit stiff sometimes, like, you need to relax more in front of the camera.”

“S- sorry,” I mumble as I feel a tidal wave of guilt wash over my body. “I- I’ll try harder, and-“

“Don’t- don’t apologise, really!” Jonathan chuckles. “Like I said, you ARE new to this, and it’s a problem we can easily fix. Hell, my missus felt the same way when she started modelling, I mean, she came from, like, a non-performer background too and found it really hard at first, especially when posing in swimwear or lingerie. What helped her a lot was taking acting lessons. We’ve got a good acting coach we use at the agency who’s helped a lot of models, not just Viks. If you’d like, I can give her your name? Obviously, the agency would foot the bill for the lessons, we get a decent discount, so it’d be okay.” Immediately, my mind flashes back to when I was a teenager- when I was ‘Kayleigh-Ann’- and I was forced to attend expensive acting lessons, forced to run through scenes and exercises that made my skin crawl. And even though I know that if we act out scenes from Romeo and Juliet, I’d very much be ‘Romeo’, I still feel my panic levels rise at the thought of being in such a position again. However, the last thing I want to do is come across as ungrateful, especially to a friend- not to mention employer- who’d be doing me a huge favour like this…

“S- sounds good!” I chuckle as I try to hold back a wave of nausea.

“The schools closed over Christmas,” Jonathan says, “but I’ll look about getting you enrolled in the new year. And don’t worry, you won’t be the only person from Heavenly talent there- or the only guy from HT either, heh!”

“Cool,” I chuckle. “I’m kinda, like, used to being the ‘odd one out’ wherever I go.”

“Well, that’ll never be the case here,” Jonathan reassures me. “My uncle’s always made it a policy that we value inclusion and diversity above everything. Another of his policies is that we always follow is that we never ask our talent to do anything that makes them uncomfortable.” I know where THIS is going, I think to myself. “Ian, are- are you comfortable with the work that you’ve been doing?”

“Umm, sure!” I reply immediately even as my whole torso feels like it’s been put in a vice.

“Well- okay,” Jonathan says as he starts typing into his computer. “If you do have any problems, just let me know, or talk to Stuart, he’s said that his door’s always open. We like to think that we are a family here, not, like, a high school or something.”

“Th- thanks, but I’m okay,” I say, biting my lip to keep my jaw from trembling.

“If you say so,” Jonathan says with a shrug as he continues typing, before sighing with frustration. “Just give me a sec and I’ll get this all typed up for you.”

“Okay,” I say, trying to relax as my boss’s frown deepens and deepens.

“Ugh, sorry about this, Ian,” Jonathan sighs, before reaching for his mobile and dialling a number. “Hey, Todd? Yeah mate. Yeah, it’s doing it again. Think you could come up and take a butcher’s at it? Cheers mate.” I frown with confusion as Jonathan turns to me with a sympathetic smile on his face. “We updated our computers over the weekend and now none of them work right, heh. Don’t worry, this should only take a second.”

“Umm, okay,” I say, biting my lip as a tall, skinny guy with scruffy brown hair enters the office and makes a beeline for my boss’s PC.

“Okay, let’s have a look at it,” the tall man says, before turning to me with a tired-looking smile. “Hi, I’m Todd, by the way.”

“I’m Ian, Ian Freeman,” I reply, before cringing as a smile spreads across the other man’s face.

“Ah, YOU’RE Ian Freeman?” Todd asks, seemingly not noticing as I squirm.

“Umm, yeah…” I mumble. “You- how have you heard of me?”

“Jonathan sometimes plays some of his band’s music in our office,” Todd replies as our boss smiles smugly. “Stuart goes on about the band a lot too. Okay, I think I’ve got the problem sorted. If you can’t connect to the network drive again, try rebooting first, then give me a call.” My head is spinning so much it takes me some time to realise that that last sentence is directed toward Jonathan and not me- my name is known by strangers in a place such as this?

“Cheers Todd,” Jonathan says, giving the young man a fist bump before he leaves the office. “Sorry about that, Ian. I’ll just get a print off of this for you, then I’ll let you be on your way.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to calm myself down as Jonathan hands me the sheet of paper and gives me a firm handshake.

“See you tonight at Charlotte’s, then!” Jonathan chuckles. “I think Stu said the party starts at eight?”

“Yep!” I reply. “See you then!” I force a smile on my face again as I leave the office, despite internally screaming at how my life is spinning more and more out of control.

As I head down the stairs to the reception area, I keep trying to remind myself that I chose this life- not my mother, certainly not my father, but me. I’m signed up to the agency under my terms, and like Jonathan just said in no uncertain terms, I’m not doing anything that makes me uncomfortable. And yet again, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t ‘me’. That no matter what, I’ll always be an impostor, not just as a model, or a musician, but as a man too…

My feelings aren’t eased as I walk through the bustling reception area and overhear a conversation despite my best efforts.

“…And did you see what Todd was wearing?” I hear a young woman- presumably a Heavenly Talent model- ask her two friends. “Like, where does he do his clothes shopping, Asda?”

“Only if Lidl’s closed,” one of the other girls snorts, before catching sight of me and smiling. “Oh, hi Ian!”

“H- hi,” I say with a nervous wave as the three young women turn and all smile at me.

“Looking forward to the party tonight!” One of the girls says with a giggle. “It is going to be IMMENSE, hehe!”

“Yep!” I reply even as my head starts spinning again. How many people has Stuart invited? I don’t even know these three girls! “I, umm, I- I’ve got to get going, got to talk to Stuart…”

“Oh, he- he’s gone home already,” the third girl says. “He left about twenty minutes ago, said he had a lot to do at home.”

“Oh, umm, okay,” I mumble. “Do you- do you know where the social media office is?”

“Umm, sure, it’s up the stairs, fifth door on the left,” the girl says, before giggling playfully. “Has ‘social media’ written on the door.”

“Ah- yeah,” I chuckle nervously. “I- I need to get going. Umm, good talking to you!”

“We’ll see you tonight,” one of the girls says, waving playfully and giggling excitedly as I make my way back up the stairs. As promised, the social media room is on the left-hand side of the corridor, and as was also promised, the sound of loud pop rock music is coming from the inside. I gently knock on the door and let myself in, smiling nervously as half a dozen faces turn to look at me.

“Oh, hey Ian,” Riley- the supervisor of this team- says, barely looking up from his screen as I enter the room. “Something I can do for you?”

“Umm, yeah,” I reply, biting my lip nervously. “Are you- have you, I mean, been invited to the party tonight?”

“Oh- your birthday party?” Riley asks with a grin. “Yeah, me and Becca’ll be there, definitely!”

“Cool,” I chuckle nervously. “How about- how about the rest of you?”

“Wha- the team?” Riley asks. “Umm, I dunno. Guys? Any of you been invited to the party at Charlotte’s house tonight?” The general murmuring from the room is a sure sign that the answer to that question is 'no'.

“Well- well you’re all welcome to come tonight if you want!” I say, smiling genuinely as the five young men and women- Todd included- all immediately perk up.

“Ah, thanks for that, mate!” Riley chuckles. “I think- I think Stuart’s actually in charge of the guest list, but- nah. Not a problem, it is your party after all, heh!"

“O- okay,” I say, smiling as I leave the room only to grimace again once I’m back in the corridor- of course Stuart would have more of a say than me of who goes to my own party…

Despite Riley’s suggestion, I don’t bother calling Stuart on my way out, instead leaving the office without talking to anyone and heading straight home, where once again, my toy giraffe’s leg finds its way between my teeth…

After a quick nap, I return to the living room to try to distract myself with Netflix and FIFA (my presents and cards can wait for later), but as hard as I try to relax, every second that passes is a second closer to the time when I’m going to have to get ready for the party. I briefly consider sending a message to Stuart telling him that I’m unwell, but there’s no point- people saw me earlier today, after all. I even invited an extra five people to the party. But most of all, I can’t face the thought of letting him down- or letting down all my friends who’ll be there. I’m expected to be there- so I should be there.

Even with every nerve ending in my body screaming at me to just dive under my bed sheets and sleep off the rest of the holiday, I head into the bathroom for a quick wash before returning to my bedroom to pick out an outfit for tonight. Immediately, my memory goes back to all those times when I attended Abbey-Gayle’s parties as a teenager, when I’d have to spend hours on my hair and make-up, carefully choose which dress and shoes to wear, make sure it fit properly… Today, I’m wearing no make-up, it took me 30 seconds to comb my hair and it will take me no more than five minutes to pick out a smart shirt, a pair of trousers and a pair of black shoes. If anything, lacing up the shoes is what will take the most time. And yet, I still feel just as stressed about getting ready as ‘Ian’. And the fact that life as ‘Ian’ is making me as stressed as life as ‘Kayleigh-Ann’ just makes things even worse…

Rather than take the tube, once I’m ready I summon an Uber to take me to the party, which is already in full swing as I arrive. I take a deep breath to calm myself as I reach for the doorbell, but before I can push it, the door opens, revealing my mentor with a wide grin on his face.

“Hello, birthday boy!” Stuart cheers, giving me a playful pat on the shoulder as he leads me into the bustling house. “You know you don’t need to ring if it’s your party, right?”

“Well- yeah, I guess,” I mumble. “It’s just, you know, polite…”

“Well tonight, fuck polite!” Stuart laughs. “It’s your party, so just sit back and let everyone treat you like a king!” I grin as we enter the house’s main room, though my grin becomes more and more strained as the crowded room and turn and cheer as I arrive.

“Th- thanks,” I say nervously, grinning and waving as the many partygoers all crowd around to greet me. My smile becomes actually painful as I stare at the crowd and realise I only barely recognise most of the faces.

Most of the partygoers are (female) models working for the agency, and there are a few other faces I recognise from Heavenly Talent, such as Riley or Katie- but no Todd or anyone else I invited today. What I don’t see, though, are any friends I recognise from university, or Cardiff, or anywhere else besides the agency. However, lurking in the background, I do make out the unmistakable sight… of a TV camera.

“Why- why is there a camera here?” I hiss quietly at my mentor.

“They’re just getting some atmosphere shots for the next series of the Angels,” Stuart explains. “You know, filler, that sort of thing. Don’t worry, I’ve told them to avoid pointing the camera at you.”

“Well- okay, I guess,” I say, even as my stomach starts to churn. I can just hear my mother’s voice in my head right now: ‘This is your big chance, Kayleigh-Ann. Don’t mess this up like you usually do…’ I smile disingenuously as I greet all the partygoers one by one, eagerly downing every glass of champagne I’m handed as the music swells and I feel every sense of my body being overwhelmed- not just by the noise, but by the sight of the crowd, by the heat coming off their bodies, and most of all, by the stress of the whole situation...

The whole party seems to pass by in a blur as I bounce from ‘friend’ to ‘friend’, sometimes dancing, sometimes sitting and chatting- what about, I couldn’t tell you- and almost always having a drink in my hand. All throughout the party, all I can think about is how much I’m missing my actual friends- not just Lee and Ben, but Neil and Rob in Cardiff too, and even Dan and Mac- not to mention Chloe, who is constantly on my mind as I wonder how much she'd have loved this party. All of which brings me right back to thinking about how thrilled my mother would be to see me in THE ‘Angel party room’, the centre of attention from all these famous models, who despite over three years of HRT and surgeries, I’m barely any different from, not just professionally but physically too. As the night goes on and these thoughts keep polluting my mind, my head and chest start to feel like they’re in a vice, constricting my whole body so that there’s no way out- and as my mother’s voice in my head is quick to remind me, this is a life I willingly chose for myself…

I eventually return home just after 12:45am, so drunk I have difficulty climbing up the stairs to my flat. When I eventually unlock the door an enter the flat, I’m greeted by the sight of my still-unopened gifts on the coffee table, a reminder of one fact about my life that I was reminded of today- that it’s not mine, and never was.

It wasn’t ‘my’ party I went to tonight. It was ‘a’ party that I was invited to and was made about me- or rather, I was made to be about the party. The work I do for the agency, whether it’s modelling or playing in Stuart’s band, isn’t ‘my’ work. It’s work that I was 'moulded' to fit into. Even my university course isn’t really ‘my’ course- it’s a course that I do, parts of which I’m good at, but which still feels like it was chosen for me. And worst of all, ‘Ian’ doesn’t feel like the real me- it’s an identity that I desperately, desperately wanted to make the real me, but if anything has been proven over the last few months, it’s that there is no ‘real me’. I was so desperate to escape ‘Kayleigh-Ann’s’ life that I hid, whether that was in ‘Ian’, or in Cardiff, or at university… but it ultimately caught up with me nonetheless.

And yet, the fact remains that deep down, I know that my name is NOT Kayleigh-Ann. I am NOT a girl. And yet… I don’t know for certain that my name IS Ian, or that I AM a boy. My whole life is spiralling out of control, and all I know for certain is that things aren’t going to get any better anytime soon- if anything, the opposite is true. As it's after midnight, it means that tomorrow is technically the 1st of January 2020. A whole new year- new decade, even- in which my life will fly even further out of control. I’ll graduate from university and be forced into a career where I’m going to be under constant pressure to get results. I’ll have to work with colleagues who will constantly be trying to better me and bosses who will constantly be yelling at me to get better results. Or, I could keep working for Heavenly Talent, having to do work that makes me feel uncomfortable, having to deal with girls like those I encountered today in the reception area, having to constantly put myself in the public eye… where I will always, always face criticism simply for being who I am.

I can never go back to being a girl, but even if I did, the fact remains is that I’d still be transgender, and would still be leaving myself open for criticism by everyone. There will always be a part of the population- a large part- who see me as a freak, a weirdo, a fetishist… There will always be parts of the world where I will simply not be allowed to go, simply for the crime of being me. I will always know that I’m ‘different’, that I’m ‘wrong’. And if I keep going with my transition, all I’ll face is more pain. A hysterectomy, depriving myself of the chance to ever procreate- not that I’d want to saddle any poor child with my poisonous DNA. A phalloplasty, bringing with it the constant hard work of maintaining it, of keeping it vital, of praying that it doesn’t fall off or become infected and cause me even more pain… All I have to look forward to is more pain. More pain, misery and stress… And at the end of it, death.

With tears in my eyes, I kick my present pile over, not caring as it loudly clatters to the floor. Acting on almost automatic pilot, I head through to the kitchen area and open our cutlery drawer, staring at the knives inside. All it would take is a few seconds, and all my stress would be over, done with. No more stress, no more misery, no more pain. Sure, those I left behind might be upset at first, but they'll get over it quickly, and at least I wouldn’t be a burden to them anymore, I won’t be infecting their lives with my misery. I actually feel relieved as I reach into the drawer, my fingers stroking the cold metal blades, knowing that sooner, the stress will stop…

“What are you doing!?” A loud voice shouts from behind me, startling me and distracting me from my task. When I turn around, my flatmate is stood there in his pyjamas, tears streaking down his face. Desperately, I turn back to the drawer to grab a knife, only to be stopped by Lee’s arms wrapping around my arms and torso, flinging me away from the blades. When I turn around to fight, Lee throws a right hook that, in my drunken state, I don’t have a hope of dodging, and the punch sends me crashing to the floor.

“What- what were you going to do?” Lee asks in a state of near panic, glancing in the drawer and at the presents strewn all around the flat. “WHAT WERE YOU GOING TO DO!?” Needless to say, I have no response for my friend, and all I can do is curl up in a ball and weep…

I don’t know exactly what happened next, how long it took, or even what was said to me. I remember crying as Lee made a telephone call, and within minutes, an ambulance was outside and a paramedic was saying… something to me. A short while later, I was being loaded into the back of an ambulance on a wheelchair, and a short while after that I was placed into a hospital bed… But even in my inebriated state I knew immediately that the type of hospital I was being sent to didn’t deal with physical ailments and won't be one I can simply discharge myself from. And above everything- my drunkenness, my misery, even- I feel a deep, overwhelming sense of shame.

I don’t get any sleep that night, and as the sun starts to rise outside the window, a nurse with a friendly face lets herself into my room to inspect the room- or rather, me.

“Hello,” the nurse- a dark-skinned woman maybe only a few years older than me- says with a gentle smile that’s obviously meant to put me at ease. “My name’s Angela. What’s your name?” Of course you’d have the same name as my mother, I think to myself as I open my mouth to reply, only to realise that I genuinely don’t even know my name anymore. I mean, I know that my legal name is Ian, but is it my ‘real’ name? “…That’s okay,” Angela continues as she looks at the chart on the end of my bed. “It says here your name is… Ian, right? Are you happy to be called Ian?” If only you’d asked that four years ago, I think to myself as I reply with a lazy nod. “Okay. I’m going to bring you some breakfast in a bit, Ian, then we’ve contacted your counsellor and she’ll be visiting you later this morning.” Much to my own surprise, the mere mention of my counsellor’s name is enough to cause tears to flow from my eyes again, and within seconds, Angela is sat at my bedside.

“Hey, hey,” the nurse whispers gently. “It’s okay to cry if you need to let it out.”

“…Not very manly though, is it?” I mumble into my pillow.

“Says who?” Angela snorts. “If more men weren’t afraid to cry, or afraid to be vulnerable, the world would probably be a better place.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a ‘real’ man, so I wouldn’t know,” I sigh.

“It says ‘male’ on your chart,” Angela retorts.

“Does it also show that I’m transgender?” I ask.

“Should it matter?” Angela asks- a question to which I don’t have an answer. “We only have cold options for breakfast, would you like cornflakes or Weetabix? It says here that you don’t have any allergies to anything like gluten or shellfish, are there any other food intolerances that we should know about?”

“No, and Weetabix will be nice, please,” I reply.

“Coming right up,” Angela says softly as I am once again left alone with my thoughts. In the cold light of day, with no alcohol (aside from a mild hangover) clouding my judgement, I’m in a much better position to answer both Angela’s question and the many others I asked myself last night.

Should it matter that I was born a girl, but present as a man? What does it even mean to be a man, anyway? Is it a case of simply wearing trousers all the time? Do I have to have the right ‘equipment’? Was I even a man before I had my mastectomy? Do I have to like football in order to be a man? Do I stop being a man if I cry, or express my feelings? Do I even want to be a man under those circumstances- or any other circumstances?

These questions and many more remain in my mind as I eat my Weetabix, before I’m given a plain t-shirt and pair of cotton trousers to wear and I’m escorted to a private room where my counsellor is waiting for me with a concerned smile on her face.

“Hello, Ian,” Dr Phillips says softly as I sit down and make myself comfortable. “Normally I would begin these sessions by asking how you are, but I know you well enough to know you don’t like to be patronised like that. And I do need to make sure first that you understand what’s happening right now.” I sigh as I nod.

“I- I’ve been sectioned, haven’t I?” I ask darkly.

“Yes,” Dr Phillips replies quietly. “As I’m sure you know, this decision was not taken lightly, but only after discussion with your flatmate about what happened last night. Ian, I have to ask- and I don’t mean this in any judgemental way at all, but I need to hear it from your mouth- were you intending to harm yourself last night?” Too ashamed to even open my mouth, I simply nod in reply. “Were you intending to take your own life?” With my cheeks burning and tears trickling down my cheeks, I simply nod again.

“I- I don’t even know who I am anymore,” I wail between agonising breaths. “I don’t even know WHAT I am.”

“It’s okay,” Dr Phillips assures me, but I’m far from convinced. “It’s okay to feel that way.”

“How is it okay?” I ask. “I’ve spent the last three years trying to become a man. Clearly, I’ve failed.”

“A setback such as this doesn’t mean that you are a failure, Ian,” Dr Phillips says. “Nor does it mean that your transition, your need to be a man is invalid. Do you- do you wish to stop transitioning?” I pause as I consider my answer to this question. Life as ‘Ian’ has proven to be just as stressful, just as painful- just as unbearable, even, as life as ‘Kayleigh-Ann’. I briefly consider what my life would be like if I once again became ‘Kayleigh-Ann’- even if I never wore a skirt or a dress again, even if I never wore make-up, or only ever wore men’s shoes. The only difference would be my name, how I addressed myself… And how others would see me, especially my friends and family. And, most importantly of all, how I saw myself.

All throughout my transition, I’ve wondered- as have, no doubt, many others- whether or not I was using ‘Ian’ as a cover to hide from my childhood as ‘Kayleigh-Ann’. I HATED my childhood. I literally have no pleasant memories of it, and when I escaped to Cardiff when I was sixteen, I felt free for the very first time. However, if I’d been ‘Kayleigh-Ann’ in Cardiff- even if I only wore men’s clothing and kept my hair short- I would still have had that discomfort, that ‘stigma’ of my childhood hanging over me. Even if I’d changed my name to another girl’s name, or even a gender-neutral name, the feeling of ‘Kayleigh-Ann’ would be hanging over me like a dark cloud. ‘Ian’ was a chance for a fresh start, and while the changes to my body have been difficult- sometimes even painful- they gave me something I never had as ‘Kayleigh-Ann’- hope. And even though that hope was gradually erased over the course of my life as ‘Ian’, the fact is that I did once have it.

“I… I don’t know,” I reply. “I- I hoped that being a man would, you know, get rid of my stress, but it just brought new stress, and- ugh. I think… I think that being ‘Ian’ is the only time I’ve ever really been happy.”

“That does concur with what I’ve observed over the time that I've known you,” Dr Phillips says softly.

“Though now, even being a man is making me stressed out,” I sigh. “I don’t think I could face being ‘Kayleigh-Ann’ again. Though being ‘Ian’ isn’t that appealing a prospect either.”

“Well, male and female aren’t the only options available to you under the circumstances,” Dr Phillips says. “What’s important is finding an identity, a life that you are comfortable, even happy, living, and that’s what I and the doctors here will help you do, Ian. For as long as it takes.”

“It- it could take a long time,” I mumble. “Ugh, and- and I’m leaving Lee in the lurch in our flat, and- ugh. I… I’m going to need to tell Grandma where I am too, aren’t I?”

“That’s up to you,” Dr Phillips says. “You’re an adult, Ian, it’s your life and your choice how you want to live it.”

“Yeah, but it- it isn’t, really,” I sigh. “My whole life has just been spinning out of control, I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing from one second to the next…”

“And what- what is it you want to do?” Dr Phillips asks softly, waiting patiently as I pause to consider my answer.

“I- I don’t know,” I sigh. “I don’t know who I want to be, either.”

“Then we’ll help you,” Dr Phillips said softly as I try to relax back into my chair to prepare for the long road ahead.

I know recovery will take a long time, and there’s a part of me that wonders if I’ll ever recover, or even ever know who I want to be. Without the help from Dr Phillips, I know I wouldn’t be able to face the challenge ahead. But the truth is that I do have this help. I have friends and family who love me- Lee’s actions in sending me to this place are proof enough of that. I just wish I knew how I can love myself…