“I’ve always been a boy,” I said again, quieter this time.

Maya didn’t argue. She just nodded slowly, watching me carefully. “I know. I’m not saying you weren’t. I’m just… trying to help figure out what’s happening now. That’s all.”

There was a long pause.

Then she added, “Do you want to look? I mean… just to see if anything’s different. You don’t have to. But maybe it’ll help.”

I hesitated. My heart was racing again.

I didn’t want to. Not really. But part of me needed to know.

I gave a small nod. “Yeah… okay.”

I stood slowly, my hands already shaking. I turned away from her and pushed down my waistband just enough to look.

My breath caught.

Everything looked… off.

Smaller than it should’ve been. Or maybe not shaped right? I didn’t know what I expected, but this didn’t feel like it.

I squinted, heart thudding, like maybe the light was playing tricks.

Had it always looked like this?

I wasn’t sure.

I pulled my waistband back up and sat down on the edge of the bed, still facing away from her.

“I don’t know what I’m looking at,” I said finally. My voice was small. “It’s just… not what I thought. It looks weird. Or maybe it’s always been like that and I never really thought about it.”

Maya didn’t say anything for a moment. Then I felt the bed shift a little as she sat closer.

“You’ve never had a physical, have you?” she asked gently.

“Not a real one,” I admitted. “Just the school nurse checking for scoliosis. And once when I was, like, ten… but they didn’t really check anything private.”

She nodded. “A lot of people don’t know they’re intersex unless something forces it to the surface.”

I stayed quiet. My fingers were clenched in the bedsheet again, grounding myself.

“I thought I was just a late bloomer,” I said quietly. “That eventually things would catch up.”

“They still might,” Maya said. “But maybe it’s just not in the way you expected.”

****

I didn’t know how I got from standing to curled up on Maya’s bed, but there I was — on my side, facing the wall, hugging my knees like they were the only thing holding me together.

The scratchy comforter smelled faintly like clean laundry and old notebooks.

I couldn’t stop crying.

Not loud sobs — just the quiet, trembling kind, like something deep in me had cracked and was slowly leaking out. My whole body shook. Every breath hitched in my throat like it didn’t want to come out.

Maya sat near the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on my shoulder. She didn’t speak for a while.

When she finally did, her voice was soft. “You don’t have to say anything.”

I didn’t.

Because I couldn’t.

Not without choking on it.

She waited. Just stayed there with me. Let the silence be something I didn’t have to fill.

“I don’t get it,” I finally whispered, my voice raw. “I didn’t… do anything to deserve this.”

Maya gave a slow nod. “I know.”

“It’s like my body’s just—just making decisions without me.”

Another quiet nod. “I know.”

I closed my eyes tight and pressed my forehead into my arms, trying to hide from the ache building behind my eyes.

Then I felt it.

A slow, deep soreness blooming low in my abdomen — not sharp, just… heavy. Like something inside was shifting. Rearranging. Waking up.

I winced and shifted on the mattress.

Maya noticed. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “It hurts.”

“Where?”

I motioned vaguely below my stomach, not lifting my head. “Down there. Deep. Not stabbing or anything. Just… wrong. Like pressure or weight or something’s moving.”

She looked concerned but stayed calm. “Okay. We’ll watch it. Do you want to lie back?”

“No,” I whispered. “I just want it to stop.”

She didn’t offer empty promises. Didn’t say it’ll pass or it’s going to be okay.

She just moved closer and wrapped her arms around me from behind, holding me like I wasn’t broken — just breakable.

“You’re not alone,” she murmured near my ear. “Whatever this is — we’ll figure it out.”

I curled tighter.

But the ache didn’t go away.

It got worse.

A slow, dense pressure spread beneath my stomach, pulsing like something internal was pulling tight. My breath hitched. Then again. And then I couldn’t stop.

My chest rose and fell too fast.

“I—” My voice shook. “It’s getting worse…”

Maya leaned over quickly. “Okay, okay. Slow down. Just breathe—”

“I am breathing!” I gasped.

The pain doubled — not stabbing, but deep and constant, like something twisting where nothing should twist. My muscles tensed without my say. I tried to stand, but my knees folded.

I collapsed off the bed before Maya could catch me, landing hard on the thin dorm carpet. The floor burned against my skin, cheap and scratchy and smelling like dust and hallway shoes.

“Riley!” she shouted, dropping down beside me.

I clutched my middle, forehead pressed to the floor. My body was on fire and ice at the same time. I couldn’t stop shaking.

“I can’t—Maya, I can’t…”

She didn’t hesitate.

I heard her scramble for the phone on her desk, yanking the receiver off the hook and dialing with frantic, uneven fingers.

“Hi—yes, this is Maya Patel, from Fischer Hall. My friend—he’s in pain, really bad lower abdominal pain, and he collapsed—can someone come, please?”

She looked over her shoulder at me. Her voice cracked. “His name is Riley Whitlock. He was at the health center yesterday.”

Another pause.

“Okay. Yes. I’ll stay with him. Please hurry.”

She slammed the phone down and rushed back to me, brushing sweaty hair off my forehead.

“They’re coming,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

But I wasn’t okay.

My whole body had folded in on itself. I couldn’t move.

The pain kept building — like gravity had turned inward, pressing everything down in one place, too much, too fast.

I tried to focus on Maya’s hand on my back. On the carpet. On the hum of the desk lamp.

But everything was slipping.

My head spun. My arms felt disconnected from my body. My legs, too.

“Maya…” I croaked.

She leaned in. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

“I… I can’t…”

The words barely left my mouth before the floor swayed beneath me — or maybe I just let go.

And then everything went black.

****

I woke to brightness.
Harsh, sterile, blinding light overhead — one of those square ceiling panels that flickered faintly at the edges. The sound of murmuring voices and the steady beep-beep of a monitor close to my ear. Somewhere nearby, the muffled whoosh of central air and the soft shuffle of sneakers on linoleum. The air smelled like antiseptic and something bitter — plastic gloves, maybe. Alcohol swabs. Rubber tubing.

I blinked.
Slowly.
The ceiling came into view first — old tiles with tiny brown specks, faint water stains in one corner — then a blurry shape leaning over me.

A nurse.

Then another figure — Maya — sitting nearby in one of those stiff plastic chairs with the metal legs. She was clutching a Styrofoam cup, probably coffee, with both hands like it was keeping her grounded. A half-crumpled newspaper from the student union sat on her lap, unread.

Her eyes locked onto mine the second I stirred.
“Riley?” she said, her voice rising just a little. “You’re awake.”

I tried to speak, but my throat felt dry and raw. My mouth barely worked.
“W-what… happened?”

“You fainted,” she said gently, standing to come closer. “You were in too much pain. They brought you here about fifteen minutes ago.”

I tried to sit up, but something tugged at my arm — an IV line taped down with surgical tape, the tube running to a bag hanging on a metal stand nearby. My body felt heavy, like I’d been wrung out and left to dry.

A woman in scrubs walked over. She looked about forty, with a name tag clipped to her front pocket and a pen stuck in her hair like a makeshift bun.
“Riley? I’m Dana, one of the nurses on staff. You’re in the campus emergency care wing. We’ve got fluids going, and we’re keeping an eye on your vitals. Do you remember what happened?”

I nodded, barely.
“My stomach… it—hurt. Bad.”

She gave a tight, understanding nod. “Maya told us. You’ve had a few… unusual changes lately. You were seen yesterday for voice and weight changes, correct?”

“Yeah.”

She checked something on her clipboard — the old-school kind with handwritten notes, no tablets or screens. A bulky beige computer hummed softly on a desk in the corner, the CRT monitor showing a flickering green command prompt.

“We’re running some tests — bloodwork, hormone panels, imaging. Just to rule things out. Your vitals stabilized once we got you lying flat. But given the pain and what Maya described, we want to be thorough.”

I shifted again. The soreness was still there — deep and strange — but dulled now, like it had been padded in cotton. The hospital gown they’d put me in crinkled faintly under my arms, cool against my skin.

“Will I…” I started, then stopped. “Is something wrong with me?”

Dana didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she placed a hand gently on my shoulder. Her palm was warm. Steady.
“We don’t want to jump to conclusions. But we are seeing changes that aren’t typical for someone assigned male at birth.”

Maya sat beside me again, close enough for her knee to brush mine. She’d kicked off her sneakers — they sat neatly beside her chair, laces half undone.
“You’re not broken, Riley,” she said, firm and soft all at once. “We’ll figure this out. Okay?”

I didn’t answer.
I didn’t cry, either.
I just lay there, trying not to feel anything at all.

****

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed.
The nurse had come and gone. Maya stayed the whole time — sometimes sitting quietly, sometimes asking if I needed anything. I mostly just stared at the wall and tried not to feel like I was floating out of my own skin.

The rhythmic beep of the monitor had faded into the background. The fluorescent ceiling light buzzed softly above, flickering once or twice like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on. Somewhere down the hall, a TV murmured — low volume, some daytime soap opera with over-the-top dialogue and echoey music.

Eventually, a doctor entered the room — a man in his late forties with silver at his temples and a calm, steady voice. His ID badge read Dr. Hendricks, clipped to the pocket of his white coat just above a stethoscope.

“Riley,” he said, offering a careful smile. “I’m Dr. Hendricks. I’ve reviewed your intake notes and lab results. I understand you’ve been experiencing some… unexpected physical changes.”

I nodded once. My throat was dry.

“We’d like to do a brief physical exam,” he continued. “Nothing invasive — just an external assessment to help us better understand what’s going on, particularly in relation to your abdominal pain and some of the hormonal markers we’re seeing.”

I hesitated, my face burning.

Maya must’ve felt it. “I can wait outside if you want,” she offered softly.

I shook my head. “No. You can stay.”

She gave me a small nod and returned to the chair in the corner, where her Walkman sat untouched on top of a notebook with soccer drills scrawled in the margins.

The doctor stayed calm throughout, explaining each step. Just a visual exam. A second nurse stood nearby — quiet, professional, her brown hair tucked under a blue cap. The faint snap of her rubber gloves echoed as she adjusted the blanket.

When the blanket was pulled back and my gown lifted slightly, I didn’t look.
But I saw the pause on the doctor’s face.

Not alarm. Not revulsion.
Just… stillness. Thoughtful. Clinical.

He leaned in slightly, then glanced at the nurse. They exchanged a quick, meaningful look — the kind that said this is important. Then he turned back to me.

“Riley,” he said gently, “this may be difficult to hear, but I want to be honest with you.”

I finally forced myself to meet his eyes.
“What is it?” My voice was barely there.

He didn’t rush. “What we’re seeing is that your external genitalia appear to be undergoing rapid change. The penis is nearly regressed, and what’s now present looks more consistent with the early development of external female anatomy. Specifically, there’s an opening forming where we’d expect to see a vaginal vestibule.”

I blinked. Hard.
“What… what does that mean?”

He glanced at his clipboard, then back at me. “It means your body is undergoing a transformation we don’t yet fully understand. And based on the hormonal profile and what we’re observing anatomically, we suspect this may not be entirely new. There are indicators of what we call a difference in sexual development — DSD, for short. In everyday terms, this may fall under an intersex variation.”

I stared at him.
DSD. Intersex.

“It’s possible,” he went on gently, “that you were born with a condition that wasn’t detected — something affecting your chromosomes, hormones, or gonadal development. Sometimes these traits don’t become apparent until puberty or later. In very rare cases, not until something triggers the changes — and we’re still trying to understand what that trigger might be.”

My whole body went cold.
It started in my spine and spread outward, like the air had been pulled from the room.

Maya stepped closer, gripping the edge of the bed. Her face was pale, but steady.

I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t move.

The doctor’s voice softened again. “We’re going to continue testing — imaging, endocrinology, genetic screening. Nothing invasive unless absolutely necessary. We’ll go at your pace. And we’ll walk you through every step.”

He hesitated then, and his eyes met mine.

“One more thing — I want to acknowledge that we don’t yet have an explanation for the vocal changes you’ve reported. Your voice sounding different could be part of this broader process, or it might be something else entirely. For now, we’re keeping that under close observation, and we’ll update you as we learn more.”

But nothing he said could make the truth feel any less impossible.