It was just after dinner. We all came back from Burger King — Claire still eating a half-soggy fries, and Maya threatening to never speak to anyone again if she smelled onion rings in the dorm all night.

The hallway smelled like old ramen, teenage laundry, and whatever body spray had been on clearance that week at Walgreens. You could hear a few TVs behind closed doors — Friends, maybe, or that new comedy everyone pretended not to watch: The Drew Carey Show.

That’s when we passed Jess’s door.

A high-pitched, screeching-whiney sound broke through the quiet like a dying robot screaming into a metal fan.

Maya jumped. “What the hell is that?”

I paused. Tilted my head.

“Oh my God,” Claire whispered. “She’s online.”

Maya squinted. “Online what? Is she faxing someone to death?”

“No,” I said, cracking a smile. “That’s a modem.”

As if on cue, the static screech turned into a series of electronic beeps and then… silence. Jess’s voice floated through the door a second later.

“Okay, I think it connected this time!”

Claire leaned closer. “Jess?”

The door opened a crack. Jess peeked out, hair pulled into a lazy bun and proudly holding what looked like a chunky black brick with a screen.

“You guys,” she said, eyes wide with pride, “I got America Online to load. On my notebook.”

We all blinked.

“Wait,” Maya said, holding up her spiral-bound history notes. “You mean like… this notebook?”

Jess rolled her eyes. “Not that kind. Computer notebook.”

Claire grinned. “Ooh, fancy. Got Minesweeper on there too?”

Jess didn’t even flinch. “Damn right I do.”

We all looked at each other. Then at Jess.

Then barged in.

Her dorm was its usual brand of organized mess — textbooks stacked under the TV, a lava lamp humming quietly on her desk, and about three empty Josta cans lined up on the windowsill like trophies. The air smelled faintly of citrus and something almost electric, the way energy drinks always do.

The IBM ThinkPad sat proudly in the middle of it all, chunky and humming like it was working way too hard just to exist.

Claire whistled. “This thing looks like it should come with a seatbelt.”

Jess beamed. “It’s state-of-the-art. Windows 95. My uncle’s company got a bulk discount, so he sent me one.”

Maya peered over her shoulder. “And it… connects to the World Wide Web?”

Jess held up a finger. “The global network of interconnected computer networks — I guess now, they call it The World Wide Web.”

I leaned in, squinting at the screen. “Is it supposed to be… blinking like that?”

“It’s loading,” Jess said. “You have to give it a minute.”

“How many minutes?”

“Just… some.”

We stood around the glowing gray screen as the page — some weird university message board with pixelated graphics and five-color hyperlinks — slowly, painfully filled in from top to bottom.

Claire spotted the cans and reached for one. “Is this your last Josta?”

Jess shook her head. “Nah, I got a stash under the bed. Don’t tell anyone.”

Claire popped it open with a grin. “Still the best. I don’t care what Coke says.”

We all nodded. No one argued. Because honestly? She was right.

****

An hour later, we all ended up making our own email accounts with America Online.
Not really sure why, since we didn’t even have a computer yet.

Jess let us each take turns on the ThinkPad, hunched around it like we were decoding top secret messages. The modem screamed every time someone clicked the wrong link, and the screen kept freezing halfway through the sign-up.

Claire picked the username altgrrrl94.
Maya, predictably, went with psychchick.
Jess already had three different accounts, all somehow involving her cat.
And I picked just my name, not realizing you were supposed to be clever.

Afterward, we all sat on the floor like we’d done something historic.

“I don’t even know anyone else with an email address,” Maya said, tilting her head.
Jess shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Now you do.”
Claire raised her soda can. “To our awkward digital future.”

We clinked Josta cans in the middle of the floor, and for one weird, quiet moment, it felt like the world was about to crack open — like anything could happen.

Even if it came through a screeching modem.

****

We were still sitting cross-legged on Jess’s floor, half-laughing, half-watching the ThinkPad struggle to open a page about “cool wallpapers,” when someone pounded on the door.

Not knocked. Pounded.

We all jumped.

Jess scrambled up and yanked it open — and standing there was a guy in pajama pants, no shirt, socks half off.

“Do you have a mobile phone?” he asked.

Jess blinked. “We… don’t have a mobile phone?”

Maya stood up slowly. “Wait. Claire, has one.”

Claire looked around. “I may have… dropped it in the vending machine lounge earlier.”

The guy groaned. “Its under the bench. And it’s been ringing for twenty minutes.”

Jess started laughing so hard she nearly fell over.

“I’ll go get it,” Claire said, already brushing past him.

He muttered something about “losing brain cells” and disappeared down the hall.

We just stood there in the doorway watching Claire run down the hallway.

Jess looked at me. “Well. That was... something.”

I grinned.

****

The next morning, my radio alarm went off with a sudden blast of “I Saw the Sign.”

I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes
I saw the sign
Life is demanding without understanding
I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes
I saw the sign
No one's gonna drag you up…

I sat up too fast, hair everywhere, blinking at the sound — and then Maya popped up too, grinning like she was already halfway into the beat.

“Okay, this one I’m not mad about,” she said, throwing the blanket off.

I started laughing. “You’re not even awake!”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a vibe.”

Somehow, we both ended up dancing — badly — in the space between our beds, bare feet on the linoleum floor, arms flailing like overcaffeinated backup singers. I spun in a lazy circle with my toothbrush still in hand. Maya used a rolled-up sock as a pretend mic.

That’s when someone from the next room banged on the wall.

“Keep it down! Some of us are trying to sleep off regret!”

We froze.

Then burst out laughing so hard I nearly dropped my toothbrush.

“Oops,” Maya giggled.

“Worth it,” I said, already hitting the volume knob just once more before we started getting ready for real.

****

By the time we made it to the dining hall, we were still giggling. My hair was barely brushed, Maya had forgotten socks entirely, and we were definitely not the only ones running late — the place buzzed with that low, sleepy chatter of people who had stayed up way too late and regretted none of it.

Jess and Claire were already at a corner table, halfway through trays of food. Claire was poking at a very questionable sausage link like it might bite back.

“There you are,” Jess said through a mouthful of toast. “We were about to send out a search party.”

“Good luck finding us,” Maya said, dropping her tray next to them. “We were deep in a dance battle with Ace of Base.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “And we missed this?”

I sat down and pulled my tray closer — scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, fruit cup, and one of those slightly stale English muffins they always served half-toasted. I’d skipped the bacon and sausage, like always.

Claire leaned over and plucked a piece of pineapple from my fruit cup. “You and your weird vegetarian ways.”

I shrugged. “Hey, at least I know what I’m eating.”

Jess pointed at her own tray. “This is clearly meat-adjacent. That’s close enough.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “Meat-adjacent isn’t a thing.”

“Tell that to the dining hall,” Jess said, gesturing dramatically toward the mystery sausage.

Claire tapped her spoon on her glass. “Alright, breakfast crew — plans today? I vote no responsibilities and maximum chaos.”

I grinned, sipping my orange juice. “I’m in.”

Jess leaned back in her chair and draped one arm dramatically across the backrest. “I propose: we skip anything productive, go people-watch outside the library, and maybe hit that tiny bookstore that smells like old coffee.”

“Sold,” Maya said, stealing some of my hashbrowns.

Claire chewed thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t mind checking out that new art exhibit on the quad. Some senior left a mannequin covered in glitter glue and glued-on Barbie doll heads. It’s... something.”

“I’ve seen that,” I said. “It gave me a headache and a life crisis at the same time.”

We were all laughing again when someone from the table behind us cleared their throat.

I turned—and froze.

It was the campus doctor.

Not in a lab coat, just a windbreaker and jeans, holding a to-go cup of coffee and looking... slightly awkward.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, offering a polite smile. “Riley, I just wanted to let you know the full report came in. If you’ve got time this afternoon, I’d like to go over it with you.”

My stomach flipped a little, even though I tried not to show it.

“Uh... yeah,” I said. “Sure. I can come by.”

She nodded, gave me a kind look that felt almost too understanding, then walked away without another word.

The table went quiet.

Jess blinked. “That was... weirdly ominous.”

Claire reached for her juice. “You okay?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just more... follow-up stuff.”

Maya nudged my leg under the table. “We’ll come with you if you want.”

“Thanks,” I said softly, managing a half-smile. “But I think I should go alone this time.”

Nobody argued.

Instead, Jess picked up a salt packet and dramatically tapped it against the table. “Well then. Operation: Distract Riley Until Afternoon is officially in effect.”

Claire saluted. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

And just like that, we all went back to our breakfast — jokes, hashbrowns, and all — pretending we weren’t counting down the minutes till the next thing that might change everything.

****

The health center smelled like paper forms and lemony disinfectant. I sat in the same chair I’d been in the week before, hands resting in my lap, knees bouncing a little too much. The hum of a printer behind the desk was the only sound for a long minute — until the door opened.

Dr. Halvorsen stepped in, calm as ever, with a clipboard in hand and a soft smile that didn’t feel forced.

“Hi, Riley,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Thanks for coming in.”

I nodded. “Sure.”

She settled into the chair across from me and set the clipboard aside. “I wanted to check in on how you’re doing — not just physically, but emotionally.”

I shrugged. “I guess that depends on what today’s news is.”

She smiled gently. “Fair enough.” A pause. “Your body’s continuing to develop along a path that’s… different from how you were raised, but not abnormal. You’re not sick. You’re not broken. But I imagine it feels like everything’s upside down.”

I looked down at my shoes. “Yeah. That’s a good word for it.”

Dr. Halvorsen rested her hands on the clipboard for a moment, then looked up at me.

“I also want to be transparent with you about something else. You asked if going back was possible — if we could make you… like you were.”

I nodded, slowly.

“There are procedures,” she said gently. “Reconstructive surgeries. Some people born with intersex traits or differences in development pursue phalloplasty — that’s the construction of male genitalia — along with testosterone therapy to regain masculine features. It’s not simple, and it doesn’t restore everything exactly the way it was, but it’s a path some people choose.”

My heart thudded hard in my chest.

She continued, careful with every word. “It’s a serious decision. Long recovery, multiple stages, and a lifetime of hormone support. And it’s not about undoing who you are — it’s just… one way of making peace with your body, if that’s what you need.”

I stared at a crack in the tile near her foot. The words felt huge. Bigger than the room. Bigger than my brain could hold.

“I could… be a guy again?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You could try,” she said honestly. “But it wouldn’t make this go away. You’d still be you. Just in a body built to look the way you used to.”

Silence stretched between us for a beat.

I sat back in the chair, the weight of everything pressing against my ribs. Then, slowly, I shook my head.

“I think… I think I’m okay like this,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing. I still freak out when I pass a mirror. But… I don’t want to erase this.”

Dr. Halvorsen nodded, her eyes kind.

“You don’t have to explain why,” she said. “You’re allowed to just be.”

****

The sky was overcast when I stepped out of the clinic — not raining, just that kind of moody gray that made everything look softer, quieter. Leaves skittered along the pavement. Somewhere behind the dorms, someone was playing a flute. Badly.

I walked without really thinking about where my feet were taking me. Past the quad. Past the bike rack with the one purple bike that had been chained there all semester but never moved. Back toward the dorm.

Maya was waiting outside.

She was sitting on the brick planter by the front steps, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, a half-drank Josta bottle beside her.

She looked up as soon as she saw me. “Hey.”

I didn’t say anything. Just walked over and sat next to her.

For a minute, we didn’t speak. The air buzzed with the sound of dorm windows open, someone laughing far off, a squirrel rustling through a trash bin like it owed it money.

Then I said it.

“They talked to me about surgery.”

Maya looked over, not shocked — just listening.

“They said I could… try to go back. Try to be what I was before. Not all the way. But kind of.”

She was quiet for a second. “Do you want that?”

I shook my head slowly. “I thought maybe I did. For like, half a second. But then I realized… I don’t want to erase this. I’m not even sure who I am yet, but I don’t want to pretend none of this ever happened.”

Maya didn’t smile. She didn’t lecture. She just slid her hand into mine.

“You’re still you,” she said. “You were always you.”

That did it. My throat tightened, and I blinked fast, eyes burning.

“I just don’t know what that means,” I whispered.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” she said. “Together.”

She leaned in and kissed me — soft, steady, like she was anchoring me to something real. I kissed her back. Not because I had answers. But because, I felt like I didn’t need to have any.

A car drove by on the street behind us — slow, the window cracked. Some guy’s voice rang out, half-laughing.

“Get a room, dykes!”

The word hit harder than I expected. Not like a slap, more like a rock in my stomach. Heavy. Gross.

I pulled back, heart kicking in my chest — but Maya’s grip didn’t loosen. She looked past me toward the car, which was already turning the corner.

Then she looked back at me.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t let them take this from you.”

I nodded. Swallowed hard. “I’m trying.”

“You’re doing better than trying.”

I didn’t answer. I just leaned sideways and rested my head against her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift away. She just let me be there, her fingers lacing gently through mine again, like we’d always done this — like it was the most natural thing in the world.

We sat like that for a long time.

No one else mattered right then. Not the car. Not the voice. Not the questions I hadn’t figured out how to answer.

Just the steady rhythm of her breathing and the quiet thrum of being loved exactly as I was.