I had to hit the showers after practice. I sure stunk — my shirt was clinging to me like a second skin, and my socks felt like they'd melted onto my feet. No way I was letting my friends smell me like this. Not unless I wanted to be roasted for the rest of the semester.
The locker room was half-full when I got there — guys talking, water running, sneakers squeaking on the tile. The air was thick with a mix of deodorant, sweat, and the sharp tang of disinfectant that never quite masked the underlying smell of boys being boys. Lockers slammed shut. Someone snapped a towel at a teammate, laughing. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a pale yellow glow across the room.

I grabbed my stuff from the bench and headed to the far stall. Not because I was shy, exactly. Just... liked the quiet.
The farther stall always felt a little removed from the noise — like I could breathe without trying to match everyone else's volume or attitude. I stripped off my sweat-soaked jersey, peeled off my socks, and hung my towel on the hook like it was some kind of ritual.

The hot water felt like heaven after all those sprints.
Steam curled up around me, softening everything — the edges of the tile, the ache in my legs, the thrum in my chest. I closed my eyes, leaned into the steam, let everything loosen up. The hiss of the water filled my ears, drowning out the locker room noise behind the curtain. For a moment, it was just me and the heat and the faint peppermint smell of the cheap shampoo I'd picked up from a corner drugstore.

And then I noticed it.
Not pain. Not anything dramatic. Just... different.
I looked down.
And something felt off.
I couldn't explain it. My penis looked... smaller? Not dramatically. Just enough that it made me blink and look again. My skin prickled slightly under the spray. Maybe it was the heat? Or the angle? Or maybe I was just tired. I'd run for over an hour, and my head still wasn't right from staring too long at the other field.

Still. It looked off. Felt off.
There was a strange tightness in my stomach, like I'd forgotten something important but couldn't quite name what. A hum of confusion buzzed under my skin.

I turned back into the water, rinsed the shampoo from my hair, and tried not to think about it too hard.
I'd check again later.
Maybe it was nothing.

****

I threw on a clean T-shirt and gym shorts, still a little damp from the shower, and stuffed my sweaty practice clothes into my bag. The fabric clung slightly to my back, and the locker room's cold air made my skin goosebump. My cleats, laces tied together, dangled from the side of my duffel like a muddy trophy.

The locker room was clearing out, voices echoing off the tile as guys filed out into the hallway, some joking about dinner, others already making weekend plans. Someone mentioned pizza. Someone else shouted back about a Halo tournament — then caught himself and laughed. "Wait, crap, that's not out yet." More laughter followed. A boom box played somewhere distant, low-volume hip hop bleeding through the walls.

I hadn't even zipped my bag yet when I heard it.

"Hey, Soccer Boy."

I turned, and there she was — Maya, leaning casually against the wall outside the athletic wing, arms crossed, a grape soda in one hand. She looked perfectly out of place in the best way: plaid flannel tied around her waist, frayed jeans, and a T-shirt with a faded Space Jam logo across the front. The soda hissed faintly in her grip, already halfway warm from the hallway heat.

She raised an eyebrow. "You look like you just fought a bear and lost."

"Thanks," I said. "I aim for elegance."

She tossed me the soda. I caught it, barely. The can was slick with condensation, and I almost fumbled it before steadying myself with a quiet sigh.

"You reek less than I expected," she added. "That's progress."

I laughed, but it came out kind of flat. More air than sound.

She noticed. Of course she did. Maya always noticed.
The hallway buzz faded slightly, like the world was softening around her voice.

"You good?" she asked, tone softer now. "You've got that look. The one you get when you're overthinking something dumb, like whether it's weird to eat soup with a fork."

"It is weird to eat soup with a fork," I said, deflecting, as usual. My voice was steadier this time, but still not quite right in my ears.

She smiled. "See? That's the guy I know."
But something in her expression lingered. She wasn't buying it. Not completely. Her eyes stayed on mine a second longer than usual, reading between the lines of my face.

I cracked the soda open and took a sip. Cold. Sweet. Sticky against the back of my throat. It fizzed too hard, like it wanted to burn — but not enough to hurt.

"I'm fine," I said.
And maybe I was.
Or maybe I just didn't have words for whatever that feeling in the shower had been.

****

The dining hall smelled like overcooked pasta and floor cleaner — a college classic.
The kind of institutional funk that clung to linoleum and made everything taste vaguely like disappointment, no matter how good the food looked.

I followed Maya inside, tray in hand, weaving between loud tables and sagging chairs. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, flickering in that way that made it hard to tell if your headache was from hunger or just sensory overload. We passed a group of upperclassmen arguing about whether Die Hard counted as a Christmas movie, and a girl near the window drawing something elaborate in the condensation on her glass — a dragon, maybe, or a wolf. Her Walkman headphones were wrapped around her messy bun, and she didn't even look up as we walked past.

Maya grabbed pizza. I went for grilled chicken, rice, and a scoop of broccoli that looked like it had survived a war. It sat on my tray like it was daring me to eat it.

We found a table near the back, under a flickering light. I poked at my food while she devoured hers like she hadn't eaten in days. She was halfway through her second slice, crust dangling from her hand, when she stopped mid-bite and stared at me.

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"The face."

"What face?"

She put her pizza down and mimicked me: brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes vaguely haunted like I'd just watched a puppy get kicked.
Her impression was way too accurate.

"I do not look like that," I said.

"Bro. You look like your brain is buffering."

I tried to laugh it off, but it came out shaky. The chicken was dry, the rice was cold, and everything on the tray tasted like microwave disappointment.

"Seriously," she said. "What's going on?"

"Just tired." I stabbed a piece of broccoli. "Practice was rough."

"Sure. And I'm secretly Madonna."

She watched me for a second longer, eyes narrowed in that way she does when she's choosing between calling me out or letting me breathe. Her soda can hissed quietly as she tapped it against the side of her tray.

Eventually, she leaned back in her chair and took another bite of pizza. "Fine. You're tired. Whatever. But I'm gonna find out what's eating you, Riley. I always do."

I offered her a small, crooked smile. "You're terrifying, you know that?"

"I contain multitudes."

She grinned, but I could tell she wasn't letting it go. And honestly, neither was I.

Jess and Claire walked into the dining hall just as Maya was licking pizza grease off her fingers.

Jess spotted us first and raised her tray like a trophy. "Guess who found the last chocolate pudding? That's right—this culinary masterpiece is mine."

"Did you bribe someone?" Maya asked.

Jess shrugged. "The lunch lady owes me. I complimented her eyeliner last week. Loyalty matters."

Claire followed behind her, balancing a plate of salad and soup with a textbook tucked under her arm. "Some of us eat like adults," she said, sliding into the seat beside me.

Jess flopped down across from her and immediately started peeling the lid off her pudding with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.

Claire looked over at me, brows lifted. "You okay? You look kinda pale."

Maya and I locked eyes.

"I'm fine," I said, stabbing another piece of chicken like it owed me money.

Jess glanced up, grinning. "You sure? Because you've got major 'about to drop out and join a cult' energy right now."

"I vote desert cult," Maya said. "Better wardrobe."

"I'm not joining a cult," I muttered.

Claire tilted her head. "You just seem... off."

I gave a tired smile and shook my head. "Long practice. That's all."

They didn't push. Not yet. Jess went back to her pudding. Claire opened her textbook. Maya kept looking at me — not pressing, but not forgetting, either.

And I sat there, trying to laugh at their jokes, eat my cardboard chicken, and pretend nothing was wrong.
Even though something clearly was.

Jess had just finished scraping the last of her pudding cup when Maya leaned back and asked, "Hey, did you hear that new song from TLC? Waterfalls?"

Claire lit up. "Yes! They played it nonstop yesterday. My RA was singing it in the hallway."

"I've been trying to get the harmony right," Maya said. She started singing, swaying a little.
"Don't go chasin' waterfalls..."

Claire joined in a beat later, and Jess rolled her eyes but couldn't resist. They leaned together like a trio in a music video — totally off-key, but full of energy. Maya drummed the table with her knuckles, Claire snapped along, and Jess added random background harmonies that made Maya snort mid-verse.

I smiled, chewing slowly, just listening.
Then Maya pointed at me. "Come on, Riley. You're the Left Eye of this group."

"Why am I Left Eye?" I asked, half-laughing.

"Because you're quiet, cool, and secretly dramatic."

I raised an eyebrow. "Dramatic?"

Jess smirked. "Please. You totally practiced the rap, didn't you?"

I paused. Looked at them.
Then I dropped my fork.
And started.

"I seen a rainbow yesterday
But too many stormshave come and gone
Leavin' a trace of not one God-given ray—"

Maya's mouth fell open.

"Is it because my life is ten shades of gray
Ipray all ten fade away, seldom praise Him for the sunny days—"

Claire leaned forward, stunned. Jess mouthed no way.

"And like His promise is true
Only my faith canundo
The many chances I blew
Will it bring my life toanew..."

I kept going — smooth, confident, every word hit like I'd lived it. Like the rhythm was wired into my bones.

By the time I finished with:

"Believe in yourself, the rest is up to me and you,"

the entire dining hall had gone silent.

And then —
Cheers. Whistles. A few claps, then more. Even a high-pitched "Yoo!!" from the back.

Maya's eyes were wide. "You've been sitting on that this whole time?"

Claire clapped. "That was—dude. That was perfect."

Jess let out a whistle. "Riley's got bars. Who knew?"

I just shrugged, cheeks burning as I took a slow sip of soda.
"Guess I like the song."

The noise faded back to normal, and the moment passed.
But for those few seconds... I wasn't the quiet one.
And for the first time all day, the weird feeling in my chest... faded.

****

The hallway was quiet by the time I got back to my room.
A few doors were cracked open, the low hum of TVs or cassette tapes drifting out. The dull glow of lava lamps and string lights leaked into the corridor in soft, uneven patterns. Somewhere, a guy was playing Nirvana just loud enough to be felt through the wall but not loud enough to get a complaint. Someone down the hall was laughing — not loud, just muffled, like the tail end of a joke that didn't need explaining.

I tossed my bag onto the desk chair and flopped onto the bed, arms spread out, still warm from the buzz of the dining hall. My sheets were slightly wrinkled, my pillow still smelled faintly like laundry detergent and hair gel. The radiator clicked in the corner like it was thinking something over.

People had cheered.
For me.
That never happened.

I let the moment replay in my head a few times, the rhythm of the rap still tapping under my skin. It buzzed in my fingertips, echoed behind my ribs. For a few seconds, I was someone else — or maybe just more myself than usual. My mouth stretched into a small, proud smile.

Then I sat up and peeled off my shirt.
The cotton stuck slightly to my back before I tossed it in the laundry bag in the corner.

The smile faded.

There it was again — that... weirdness. Not pain. Not something I could point to. Just off.

I stood, walked over to the mirror above my sink, and stared at my reflection.
Same brown eyes. Same tired face. A hint of damp hair sticking to my forehead. A sticker someone had left on the mirror corner still read Property of J.T., class of '93. The light above buzzed faintly, yellow and flickering.

But—
I looked down.

It wasn't just the lighting. It wasn't in my head.

My body looked different.

Subtle stuff. My hips looked maybe... slightly wider? My waist narrower? And — yeah, there too. My penis. It looked smaller again. Not just how it looked fresh out of the shower, but now — here, under regular light, without the steam and distraction.

I swallowed.
Hard.

I touched the edge of the counter and took a breath.
The cool porcelain edge grounded me for a second, like I could hold onto reality through my fingertips.

"Okay," I whispered to myself. "You're tired. You're just tired."

I turned away from the mirror, flicked off the light, and crawled under the sheets like nothing was wrong. My blanket felt heavier than usual. The springs creaked softly under my weight.

But even in the dark, the feeling stayed with me.
Like something had started.
And it wasn't stopping.