They let me out that morning.

Technically, I was “medically stable.”
Emotionally? That was another story.

The air felt too bright outside the hospital. Too open. Every shadow felt like a spotlight.
The kind of morning where the sun felt like it was judging you.

Somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower buzzed. A janitor pushed a squeaky cart down the sidewalk, whistling the theme from Friends. Birds chirped like nothing was wrong, like the world hadn’t tilted overnight.

I had one bag. Maya carried the other.
Her green JanSport backpack, scuffed at the bottom, bumped softly against her hip as we walked.

The walk across campus felt like it took an hour, even though it was maybe ten minutes. I kept my head down, hoping no one would recognize me, even though deep down I knew most people wouldn’t be looking that hard.

A group of guys on skateboards zoomed past us, laughing. Someone blasted TLC’s “Waterfalls” from an open dorm window. My shoes crunched against the gravel path, the sound louder than I wanted it to be.

We stopped in front of the building — the one with the “Women’s Residence” sign next to the door, hand-painted and bolted to the brick.
A faded sticker below it said Welcome Week '94, half peeled from the rain.

I froze.

My hands clenched the strap of my duffel tighter. I could feel my pulse in my palms.

“This is weird,” I whispered, even though I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Maya didn’t respond right away. She just nodded like she got it.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” she said. “But you’re not doing anything wrong.”

The word wrong hit harder than it should have.
Like it echoed somewhere deeper than just my ears.

I glanced around. The front doors were glass, and through them I could already see a bulletin board covered in flyers — bake sales, tutoring, something about a Clueless watch party on Thursday night.
Someone had drawn a smiley face over Cher’s face in pink glitter pen.

Girls moved in and out of the lobby, laughing, shouting, tossing their backpacks across couches like it was just another Tuesday.

It was just another Tuesday. For them.

For me… it felt like stepping onto another planet.

“You sure I have to?” I asked, voice small.

Maya nodded. “It’s part of the accommodation. They’re trying to make things… consistent.”

Consistent.

I wasn’t even sure what that meant anymore.
All I could think of was my voice in that echoey exam room, the way the nurse looked at me like she didn’t know what box to check.

I swallowed hard and stepped forward.

The doors swung open.

****

"Luckily there was an opening in my dorm room, so they let you in with me. That makes us roommates," Maya cheered, unlocking the door with a little flourish.
She jangled a plastic keychain shaped like a smiley face that said Girls Rule! in glittery pink cursive — the kind you got free from the student union during Welcome Week.

"All your belongings from the men’s dorm are already there, although…”

She pushed the door open, letting me step in first.

The room smelled faintly like lavender spray and laundry detergent. Her bed was neatly made, a stack of textbooks balanced on her desk next to a little purple CD player and a tower of jewel cases — Alanis Morissette, No Doubt, Jewel. A string of paper butterflies hung above the window, taped to the frame with scuffed masking tape. It looked lived in — warm, familiar. Safe.

My stuff… not so much.

In the corner, my duffel bags and boxes were piled up haphazardly. A few shirts had fallen halfway out of a bin, sleeves trailing like they were trying to crawl back to my old room. Everything looked wrong now — oversized, harsh, slouchy in a way that used to feel right but suddenly didn’t.

I crouched down and opened the top box. It was full of my usual clothes — loose jeans, soccer tees, hoodies in navy and gray. Comfortable. Safe. Mine.

Or… they used to be.

Maya crouched beside me, quiet for a moment. Then she picked up one of my old flannels and held it up.

“These aren’t going to fit anymore,” she said gently.

I stared at it — that stupid red flannel I’d worn on move-in day. It still smelled like the cheap cologne I used to spray before class.

“They’re still mine,” I said, but it came out softer than I wanted.

“I know,” Maya said. She folded the shirt neatly and set it back in the box. “But your body’s changing, Riley. And honestly… you can’t even fit these anymore.”

I didn’t answer.

She rested a hand on my shoulder.

“We’ll go shopping,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “Find stuff that actually fits. Stuff that feels good. I mean — you don’t have to wear skirts or anything if you don’t want to, but you shouldn’t be swimming in everything either.”

I gave a shaky nod, eyes still fixed on the box.

“We’ll donate these,” she added gently. “Somebody out there probably needs them more than we do.”

I swallowed hard.
It was the right thing to do. I knew that.
But it still felt like throwing away pieces of who I used to be.
Like I was getting erased — one hoodie at a time.

Maya didn’t push. She just sat there with me for a while, both of us staring at a box full of old clothes that suddenly didn’t belong anywhere.

I stood up slowly, brushing dust from my palms.
“I should… probably get some air,” I mumbled, already inching toward the door.

But Maya stepped in front of it, arms folded with that look she got when she knew I was avoiding something.

“Hold on,” she said. “You’re not walking out there in those.”

I glanced down. Baggy jeans cinched tight with a belt, a shapeless hoodie I’d had since high school sophomore year, and old sneakers with fraying laces. Comfort armor. Boy armor.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Maya raised an eyebrow. “Riley… you don’t have to dress like anyone you’re not. But right now, you look like someone you’re not. And if you want people to stop staring, blending in’s not the worst strategy.”

I hesitated. “But I don’t even know what that means yet.”

She softened. “It just means something that fits. That feels more like who you’re becoming. Not like who you used to be.”

I looked at the pile of new clothes she’d picked out earlier — a pair of fitted jeans, a soft blue scoop-neck tee, and a light zip-up hoodie that didn’t swallow me whole. There was even a barrette with little plastic stars clipped to the top, like she wasn’t sure if I’d want it but had included it just in case.

“Just try it,” she said. “We’ll take it slow.”

I turned toward the corner and quickly changed, my face burning the whole time.
The jeans hugged my hips in a way I wasn’t used to — snug, not baggy. The shirt felt… different. Not bad. Just new.

The mirror over Maya’s desk didn’t even look like it belonged to me anymore.
There was a photo taped to the corner — the two of us from high school, laughing in a booth at the Pizza Hut near the old soccer field. I barely recognized myself.

I swallowed. “Okay. Let’s just go.”

Maya gave me an encouraging nod and opened the door.

The hallway was alive with movement — doors cracking open, music playing faintly from somewhere (something bubblegum and poppy, probably the Spice Girls), girls laughing and shouting to each other as they passed back and forth in slippers and tank tops.

But as soon as we stepped out, the energy shifted.

The first girl we passed slowed down mid-step, her eyes flicking over me with something between confusion and curiosity.

Another glanced up from her doorway, did a double take, and whispered something to her roommate.

My skin prickled.
They didn’t say anything directly — not yet. But the looks were loud enough.
Unspoken questions danced behind half-smiles and raised brows.

Maya stayed close, her shoulder brushing mine. “Ignore them,” she said softly, her voice low but firm. “They’ll get used to you.”

I didn’t answer.
Because I wasn’t sure I was used to me yet.