A young New Yorker finds himself in over his head after finding a symbiote that changes him in unexpected ways.

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11

The train ride to the mall is a chaotic blur of Harper scrolling through outfit ideas on her phone with the energy of a stylist prepping for Fashion Week, Luca pretending not to look mildly terrified, and me desperately trying to disappear into my hoodie before either of them gets too inspired.

By the time we step through the glass doors of the mall, I’m already overwhelmed.

Bright lights. Shiny floors. Music blaring from every direction. People. So many people.

Harper claps her hands like she’s about to conduct a symphony. “Alright. You need basics, staples, and at least one outfit that makes you feel like you could conquer the galaxy.”

Luca groans behind me. “Do they sell that next to the overpriced band tees?”

Harper grabs my wrist and starts pulling me toward the escalators. “Come, princess of hoodies, your reign of comfort ends today.”

I glance back at Luca helplessly, but he just shrugs and follows.

“This is a good idea,” the symbiote whispers.

“If you start suggesting crop tops, I will find a way to lock you in a jar.”

“…But they’re breathable.”

The mall smells like pretzels, perfume, and the slow death of my dignity.

Harper turns back with that trademark smirk, her fingers already twitching like she’s preparing to summon a wardrobe tornado.

“Here we go, Maple Leaf.”

I groan, dragging my feet as she pulls me into the store. “You know I’m not from Canada.”

“And yet the name lives on,” she sings, already grabbing a hanger from the first rack like she’s plucking weapons from an armory. “You lied. This is your punishment.”

“I didn’t lie… I panicked and picked a country.”

Luca follows us in, eyeing a display of folded sweaters like it might bite him. “Just be glad she didn’t go with ‘Goo Girl.’”

“I swear to God,” I say, spinning to glare at him.

“Goo Girl is catchy,” the symbiote offers, totally unhelpful.

Harper suddenly whirls around with an armful of clothes I didn’t even see her grab. “Dressing room. Now.”

“I haven’t even—”

“Now.”

Luca gives me a be sloppy salute. “Good luck, soldier.”

I let Harper shove me toward the changing room like a sheep to the world’s most judgmental shearing, all while thinking:

This better not involve a skirt.

“We would look powerful in a skirt.”

“I swear to god.”

Somehow, it’s worse just being thrown in here and waiting than actually walking around with my mom.

At least then I had her quiet commentary and occasional distractions about prices or practicality. Now? I’m alone in a softly lit box, surrounded by hanging fabric and the distant, gleeful sound of Harper pillaging the store.

I sit on the little bench in the corner, arms crossed, staring at the mirror like it’s personally offended me. The clothes she dumped into the room are hanging like sentries from the hooks—strappy, soft, some of them maybe too form-fitting, and definitely way more feminine than anything I’ve worn willingly in my life.

“You are stalling,” the symbiote says, not even bothering to pretend it isn’t entertained.

“I’m collecting myself.”

“You are fearing judgment from cloth.”

“I’m fearing Harper’s smug look if I walk out of here in a skirt,” I mutter under my breath.

“We could overpower her. Intimidate her with our strength.”

“Please stop suggesting violence against my friends.”

“Only light intimidation. Through fashion.”

I groan and grab the first outfit blindly, pulling it off the hook. “Let’s just get this over with.”

I don’t even know who I’m trying to impress.

Harper? Luca?

Myself?

…Yeah.

Probably that last one.

I stare at the pile like it’s going to lunge at me first. A couple crop tops. High-waisted jeans. A skirt that looks like it was stitched out of personal anxiety. Some sort of flowy blouse with sleeves that could probably catch wind if I jumped off a roof.

“Where do I even start…” I mutter.

“We like that one,” the symbiote says, and I feel a weird little nudge—like a thought pushing gently toward a hanger.

It’s a dark red fitted top. Simple, but with some subtle stitching down the sides and a little scoop to the neckline that looks, frankly, dangerous.

“That’s… bold.”

“It brings out your strength.”

“That’s a weird way to say ‘cleavage,’” I whisper, rolling my eyes.

But still… I touch the fabric. It’s soft. And warm. And not something ‘Arin’ would’ve worn. Not ever. But maybe…

Maybe that’s why I unhook it.

I sigh, grab the jeans Harper shoved at me next, and start changing.

If I’m doing this, I think, I might as well go all the way.

“That’s the spirit.”

“You’re really liking the skin-showing options,” I think, eyeing the top in the mirror as I pull it on. It fits a little too well. The neckline dips just enough to make me uncomfortable with how not uncomfortable it feels.

“It’s breathable,” the symbiote replies, like that settles everything.

“Do you even need to breathe?”

“No.”

“Even without a host?”

“No air is needed.”

I stare at myself in the mirror for a beat. “Then why does it matter if—never mind. I don’t care. Not engaging.”

“We look good.”

“We look like a walking identity crisis.”

“With very flattering curves.”

I rub my face and groan. “This is why people think symbiotes are evil.”

“Envy is not the same as fear.”

I actually laugh—quietly—before leaning back and taking in the whole reflection.

Yeah… I look different. Really different.

But not bad.

Definitely not Arin.

I run my fingers down the side seams of the jeans, adjusting the waistband slightly. They hug a little higher than I’m used to, but… not uncomfortably. The top, the one I swore I wasn’t going to like, actually does something. I don’t know what exactly—define the new shape of me? Make me stand a little straighter?

I look at the girl in the mirror.

She’s not quite me.

But she’s not not me either.

I sigh. “Okay,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “Maybe this doesn’t totally suck.”

“Told you.”

I roll my eyes, then reach for the door handle.

Harper’s right outside. I can feel her waiting, probably vibrating with anticipation. I hesitate, fingers on the knob, nerves buzzing. And then I push the door open.

Her eyes go wide the second she sees me.

Luca, leaning on the opposite wall, straightens mid-scroll through his phone.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Harper whistles, low and dramatic. “Damn, Maple Leaf.”

Luca just blinks. “Whoa.”

I fold my arms across my chest, suddenly unsure what to do with myself. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“It is,” Harper says. “You look… good. Like, actually confident. Powerful. Hot, even.”

I groan. “Don’t say that.”

Luca raises an eyebrow. “She’s not wrong.”

My cheeks flush instantly. “Okay! Back into the changing room I go!”

Harper grabs my arm before I can retreat. “Oh no you don’t. You’re walking around the store like that. Full strut. No hoodie shield. We’re making this a moment.”

I look at her.

Then at Luca.

Then at the girl in the mirror.

And I take a breath.

“…Fine. Just don’t make me try on that skirt.”

“We could pull off the skirt,” the symbiote adds unhelpfully.

“Not. Helping.”

She basically drags me in a full circle around the store, her grip on my wrist ironclad and her mission crystal clear full public debut of “Elisa 2.0.” Every mannequin, every mirror, every strategically placed floor spotlight becomes another checkpoint in this tour of my shame.

Luca trails behind us, a little too quiet.

Every time I glance over my shoulder, he’s looking away a split second too late.

Like he was looking at me.

“He is admiring,” the symbiote murmurs.

“He’s staring,” I mutter internally, cheeks heating up again.

“You are not displeased.”

I pull my arm a little tighter across my chest, shifting uncomfortably in the very cute—unfortunately cute—outfit I swore I wouldn’t like. “I am displeased. I hate this.”

Harper stops to adjust a pair of boots on a display. “You’re doing great,” she says over her shoulder like she didn’t just parade me past a group of giggling teenagers who definitely saw me flinch.

“You sure we can’t do this with, like… holograms?” I whisper.

“No. You are real. You must feel it.”

I groan, louder than I meant to, and Harper glances back, eyebrow raised.

“You okay?”

“Just dying slowly,” I mutter.

She grins. “As long as you’re doing it in style.”

I groan again.

“Alright, next one,” Harper says, practically shoving me back into the changing room with the force of a general sending a soldier into battle. “You have to do this skirt.”

“No way,” I protest, already grabbing the door frame in defiance. “I—absolutely not.”

“I’ll barricade this door if you don’t,” she threatens, eyes narrowing in that dangerous Harper way.

“I’m stronger than you,” I remind her.

She smirks. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t want to hurt me, Maple Leaf.”

I groan, defeated. “That nickname is a war crime.”

“Then surrender,” she says sweetly, holding up the skirt like it’s the final boss.

I snatch it from her hand before anyone else in the store can see and slam the door shut behind me.

“We would look elegant.”

“I swear to god, if you start talking about fabric drape and leg definition, I’m going to walk out in a potato sack.”

“…A stylish sack?”

“No.”

The skirt’s soft in my hands. Flowing. Not flashy, just… different. It feels like an invitation to something I’m still scared of.

I stare at it, heart thudding.

Then I take a deep breath.

And start changing.

The skirt slips over my legs easier than I expect. It’s soft, light—floaty in a way that makes me acutely aware of every movement, like it’s watching how I walk before I even try.

I pull on the top Harper picked to go with it—simple, sleeveless, a soft charcoal gray that hugs my sides and makes the skirt feel even more on purpose somehow. Like I actually picked this. Like I meant to.

I hesitate in front of the mirror, then step back and look.

And…

I don’t hate it.

That’s the part that throws me.

I should. Old me would. Arin would’ve turned red just seeing this outfit, much less wearing it.

But now, staring at the girl in the mirror… she looks real. A little scared. But like she exists. Not just a costume. Not just a phase.

I reach for the door, hand trembling a little, then pull it open slowly.

Harper looks up from her phone—and goes completely still.

Luca turns, and for the first time since we got here, he doesn’t have something witty ready to go. Just wide eyes. And silence.

Harper’s the one who finally breaks it.

“Damn,” she says, voice low and surprisingly soft this time. “You… look good.”

I glance down. “I feel like a balloon someone let go of.”

Luca shakes his head, like he forgot how to speak for a second. “You look like you,” he says. “Not like—before. Like now. Like… the you you’ve been trying to find.”

“Shut up,” I say, pointing at Luca. “And quit trying to sound all philosophical.”

He grins, shrugging. “What, should I just say it’s hot instead?”

“Nooo!” I nearly shout, turning so fast the skirt twirls around my legs and that just makes it worse.

Harper nearly doubles over, laughing. “Oh my god, I love this. You’re like a sitcom and a glow-up montage at the same time.”

I cover my face with both hands. “I take it back. I hate this. Put me in a hoodie. Bury me in sweatpants. I was safe there.”

“We are pleased,” the symbiote adds helpfully. “Let them adore us.”

“You are not helping,” I hiss under my breath.

Harper straightens, brushing a fake tear from her eye. “Okay, okay. We’ll tone it down. But you are one skirt away from being a main character, just so you know.”

I groan dramatically and march back into the changing room, skirt swishing behind me like it’s mocking me too.

“At least she didn’t take us to the lingerie store,” the symbiote murmurs.

“Oh god, yeah,” I whisper back. “That’s one silver lining I’m clinging to.”

And then…

Several hours of trying on, being judged, spun, twirled, accessorized, argued over, and mock-catwalked later…

We’re done.

Done in the way that feels like a wordless truce between the forces of chaos and consumer capitalism.

The three of us stand outside the mall, weighed down by what looks like the entire seasonal inventory of at least six stores. Harper has the most bags, obviously, but somehow Luca’s carrying the heaviest ones—mostly because Harper handed them off with zero shame.

My arms are full. My legs are tired. My soul has left my body twice.

And yet… I kind of feel good?

“Okay,” Harper says, panting slightly as she sets one bag down with flair. “That was a success.”

Luca slumps onto a bench. “I feel like I fought a war and lost.”

“You did,” I say, collapsing next to him. “The war was against Harper. And you always lose.”

Harper plops down beside me with the smug satisfaction of a stylist who knows she just reinvented someone. “You looked amazing, Maple Leaf. Admit it.”

I glance down at one of the bags—one holding a skirt I’m still not emotionally ready to talk about—and sigh.

“…Fine. Maybe one or two things are okay.”

“Progress,” the symbiote hums.

I smile faintly.

Yeah. Maybe.

“I don’t think it’s a great idea to go on the subway with all this,” Luca says, eyeing the mountain of bags like they’re planning to mug him personally.

He’s got two hanging from each arm, one looped around his neck somehow, and another balanced on his lap.

Harper fans herself with a receipt like she just ran a marathon. “Please. You’ll survive.”

“You say that like I won’t be hunted for sport trying to get on a packed train with ten bags of crop tops and combat boots.”

“I needed the boots,” I say automatically, then immediately realize I really didn’t, and Harper just gave me a look until I said yes.

He glances at me with a raised brow. “Needed?”

I nod slowly. “For… confidence. And stomping.”

Harper cackles.

I sigh. “Fine. How about a rideshare? Split it three ways?”

Luca perks up. “That’s the first good idea anyone’s had today.”

Harper pulls out her phone already typing. “On it. If the driver asks, this is a fashion emergency.”

By the time we reach my building, my arms feel like they’re gonna fall off, my legs are noodles, and one of the bags is definitely cutting off circulation to my left wrist.

Luca holds the door for us with the solemnity of a war vet. “We’ve made it. If I never see another price tag again, I’ll die happy.”

Harper breezes past him, still carrying the lightest load, of course. “Please, you were blessed by the gods of fashion today. Don’t be dramatic.”

“Tell that to my spine,” he mutters, following her in.

I trail behind them, balancing a few bags in each hand, trying not to look like I’ve been hit by a bus full of fabric. The lobby’s quiet, thankfully, and I half-expect Mom to suddenly pop up around the corner like some sort of maternal security system.

But it’s quiet.

The elevator reaches our floor, and I unlock the door quickly, slipping inside and praying the coast is clear.

It is.

The place is still, peaceful. My shoulders drop in relief.

“We made it,” I whisper, dropping the bags like they’re radioactive.

Harper sets hers down gently like they’re sacred. Luca immediately collapses onto the couch.

I stand in the middle of the living room, surrounded by clothes and chaos, and let out a long breath.

Home sweet home.

I freeze mid-step, halfway to my room, just as Mom’s voice cuts through the living room like a laser.

“Elisa, next time you go out, you have to clean your room—”

She stops cold when she sees them. “Oh. We have guests.”

I spin around, heart slamming. “Oh! Uh—this is my… ‘aunt.’”

Luca, wide-eyed, opens his mouth. “Aunt?”

Harper, already five steps ahead, jabs him hard in the ribs with her elbow.

“Oh yeah—yeah,” he coughs. “Arin’s mom. Totally. Right.”

I shoot him a look that says I swear to god if you blow this…

Mom raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. She gives Harper a polite smile instead. “It’s nice to see you again. I’m glad my niece has made some friends here. And it’s nice to see you after so long Luca.”

He stiffens. “You too, Miss—I mean—Elisa’s aunt.”

Then her eyes slide over the bags. The mountain of bags. Her brow creases.

“Elisa, what is all this, and how did you even…?”

I throw up both hands defensively. “It was a group effort!”

Harper grins. “A very necessary makeover mission.”

Luca mutters, “I regret everything.”

Mom sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose, and mutters something about working extra shifts to cover mysterious teenage fashion rampages.

I try not to die of embarrassment.

“We regret nothing,” the symbiote says.

“Good for you.”

“Don’t worry,” Harper says breezily, kicking off her shoes like she owns the place. “It was free of charge.”

Mom narrows her eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t steal all this.”

“No, no—well…” I glance at Harper, then wince. “She actually bought it all.”

Mom raises a brow so high I’m worried it might launch into orbit. “All of it?”

“No offense,” Harper says, already flopping onto the couch next to Luca, “but she needed the help. I don’t want my friend being embarrassed at school.”

Luca lifts a hand. “Also, her parents are rich. I think she promised she’d buy me a car next week.”

“Not a chance,” Harper says without even looking at him.

Mom sighs—long and heavy—then looks at me, the corners of her mouth tugging toward a reluctant smile. “You’re lucky to have good friends.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Yes,” the symbiote hums in agreement, “they are… tolerable.”

“So,” Mom says, her voice light but laced with something sharper underneath. “You certainly look nice.”

I freeze for a second, toeing the line between pride and panic. “Uh—yeah. Thanks. Harper felt bad about… you know, the luggage being lost, and she didn’t think the choices I made were, uh…” I glance at Harper, who’s now rifling through a bag like it’s Christmas morning, “very good.”

“Oh yes,” Mom says, eyes locked onto mine, expression all sugar and threat. “The luggage.”

The words hang in the air.

Harper doesn’t notice, but I do. Oh, I definitely do. That’s the Mom Look. The one that doesn’t need a single word to scream we are going to talk about this later, and you are in so much trouble for tricking this poor girl into funding a small department store.

I give her the tightest, most innocent smile I can manage. “She insisted.”

“She was eager to improve our image,” the symbiote chimes in, unhelpfully smug.

Mom doesn’t say anything else. Just sips her coffee slowly.

And I brace for the later.

Mom leans casually against the kitchen doorway, but there’s something about her tone that says she’s already ten steps ahead of me.

“It’s getting late,” she says, glancing between Harper and Luca. “Do you kids need to get home, or would you like to stay for dinner? I can order a pizza.”

Harper perks up immediately. “I vote stay.”

“Seconded,” Luca says, already halfway through stretching out on the couch like he lives here.

I blink. “You guys didn’t even—”

“It’s pizza,” Harper says, very seriously. “You don’t say no to pizza.”

Luca adds, “And it’s the least you can offer after subjecting us to… trauma.”

I glance at Mom, waiting for the telltale sigh of “actually no, go home,” but instead she just… smiles. A real one. The kind that’s a little tired but genuine.

“Alright,” she says. “Any topping requests?”

Luca immediately fires off, “Meat lovers.”

“Pepperoni, extra cheese,” Harper adds, flopping onto one of the kitchen chairs.

I blink again, caught off guard.

They’re staying.

And Mom’s okay with it.

For once, dinner feels like something normal.

And I let myself enjoy it. Just a little.

But of course, the moment the laughter fades, the pizza’s picked apart, I know I’ve been living on borrowed time.

I barely make it back from the sink before I hear her.

“Elisa, can I talk to you? It’s about your luggage. The airport called.”

My stomach drops.

“Oh—uh, yeah, sure. Just… right here?”

Mom gives me a look. “Let’s talk in my room.”

“Sure,” I say, voice much too small.
Oh god.

Click. The door shuts behind me like a vault sealing.

She turns, arms crossed. “So you let this girl do all of this for you? You told her you lost your luggage?”

I freeze, mouth already half open with a lie that even I don’t believe.

Okay. Okay. At least she doesn’t know that they know I’m Arin. Or about the symbiote. That’s still safe. That’s the real secret. This… this is just fraud, right? I can recover from this. Probably.

“It was an accident,” I say, quick, words tumbling. “When she came over after school the other day and, well… she saw the bags. I had to make something up and—she knew I hadn’t gotten them yet and I just…”

I trail off, guilt sitting like a brick in my throat.

“I panicked,” I add quietly.

Mom sighs, not angry, just exhausted. That makes it worse.

“Elisa,” she says, and that name stings even more in moments like this, “I know you’ve been through a lot. And I’m trying to give you space, to let you adjust. But lying to people? Letting them spend money like that because you felt cornered—”

“I didn’t ask her to,” I blurt. “She wanted to. She doesn’t care about the money—she said so! She just… she wanted to help.”

Mom gives me a long look.

“Did you want the help?” she asks.

I blink. “What?”

“Did you want it?” she repeats, softer this time. “Did you want someone to see you and help you feel like this new version of yourself… made sense?”

I don’t answer right away.

Because maybe I did.

“Maybe,” I say, barely more than a whisper.

It hangs there in the air—raw, fragile, and way too honest. I don’t even look at her when I say it. I just stare at the floor, at the carpet I’ve known since I was ten, like it might absorb me and let me disappear.

Mom doesn’t say anything right away. No lecture. No sharpness.

Just quiet.

Then the bed creaks as she sits down, and I hear her exhale slowly.

“I don’t blame you,” she says gently. “You’ve had the rug pulled out from under you—your body, your life, everything. If someone offered you a little bit of normal, of comfort, even if it came with glitter and crop tops… I get it.”

I nod, still not trusting myself to speak.

“But sweetheart,” she continues, her voice tight, like she’s holding something back, “you don’t have to lie to survive anymore. Not to me. I can’t protect you from everything, especially with…” She trails off, and we both know what she means. The symbiote. “But I can be here. If you let me.”

My throat burns, and I hate how fast the tears rise. I blink them away before they fall.

“I didn’t mean to take advantage of her,” I say finally. “I just didn’t know how to explain anything, and… she made it feel okay for a little while. Like I wasn’t totally lost.”

Mom reaches out and squeezes my hand.

“You’re not lost. You’re just on a path that no one could’ve prepared for. Not even you.”

“I looked a bit at what you got,” Mom says, her tone careful, measured. “And I’m a little surprised.”

I shift, fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve. “Yeah…”

“It’s a lot more…” she trails off, searching for the word.

“Girly?” I offer.

She winces. “Feminine than I’d expect.”

I nod slowly. “Well… Harper thought—”

“She pushed for the girly stuff,” Mom finishes for me, not unkindly.

I glance at her. “Yeah. And I tried to dial it back, I did, but…”

My voice dips, and I surprise myself with how honest it comes out.

“Maybe it’s not the worst.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me—quietly, curiously. And for a second, I wonder if she sees it too: not just me trying to fit into someone else’s clothes, but me… finding myself in them.

Her expression softens. “You don’t have to decide anything tonight, you know.”

“I know.”

“You can change your mind tomorrow. And the day after that. And after that, too.”

I nod again, slower this time.

“Thanks.”

She gives me a small smile, soft but steady—the kind that says she’s choosing her words with care. “But maybe you’re right,” she says. “Maybe trying some more feminine things will be good for you.”

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, arms still crossed tight over my chest. My voice is quiet when I answer.

“Yeah… maybe.”

It doesn’t feel like surrender. Not anymore.

It feels like admitting that I’m still figuring it out, and maybe—just maybe—that’s allowed.

Mom nods, her hand brushing mine as she stands. “One step at a time.”

I let out a shaky breath. “One weird, emotionally confusing, fashion-forward step at a time.”

By the time I step out of Mom’s room, it’s like I’ve been holding my breath the whole time.

The air in the living room feels lighter. Less charged. I tug at my sleeve as I walk out, trying not to look like I just survived a heart-to-heart that grazed my soul.

Luca’s sprawled on the couch again, halfway through the rest of the pizza as if we hadn’t already stopped eating. Harper’s perched in the armchair, flipping through one of the shopping bags like she’s already planning round two. She looks up when she sees me.

“You live!” she announces, dramatically raising her arms. “We thought maybe she vaporized you.”

Luca snorts. “I said give it ten minutes before we check for scorch marks.”

“Hilarious,” I deadpan, flopping onto the opposite end of the couch.

“You good?” Harper asks, a little more serious now.

I glance toward the hallway, then back at them.

“Yeah,” I say, softer. “We’re good.”

Luca offers me a slice of pizza in quiet solidarity.

Harper just smirks. “Told you that skirt was worth it.”

I groan. “Let me live.”

The last of the tension’s just starting to bleed from my shoulders when Mom walks in, drying her hands on a dish towel, that same soft “Mom-mode” look on her face she gets when she’s already made up her mind before asking the question.

“You kids should probably stay for the night,” she says, glancing out the window like the darkness itself is a threat. “It’s getting pretty late, and I don’t feel comfortable sending you out at night.”

Harper’s eyes light up immediately. “Sleepover?”

Luca raises a brow. “I mean, I didn’t bring a toothbrush, but I’m not emotionally attached to dental hygiene.”

“I’ve got extra blankets,” Mom says before I can even process it.

“You planned this,” I mutter under my breath.

She shrugs. “I planned to be a responsible adult. Sue me.”

Harper’s already kicking her shoes off again, and Luca’s stretching like he’s settling in for a movie marathon. I just sit there, trying not to look too relieved that they’re staying.

“We like them,” the symbiote whispers, almost shyly.

Yeah, I think back, leaning into the couch cushions with a little smile. I guess I do too.

Mom leans against the doorframe, voice low, soft—almost like she’s talking to me and not the room.

“I think it’s good for you to have friends. Especially with everything you’re going through… having people to distract from that, even for a little while, will be good for you. And it seems like they both really care about you.”

Her eyes flick gently to the living room, where Harper’s already making herself a pillow throne on the floor and Luca’s halfway through picking a movie.

“Luca,” she adds, a small smile tugging at her lips, “he seems just as happy around you as before… even if he doesn’t know.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah,” I say out loud.

Except… he does, I think.

I glance at him—at the way he’s laughing at Harper trying to fight the remote from under a cushion. At how easy he’s making this feel. Like nothing ever changed.

But everything did.

I don’t say anything else. Just slide back into the room, the weight of that quiet truth settled somewhere between my ribs and my heart.

Later in the night I wake up to a dull, twisting ache low in my stomach.

It takes a second to register—at first, I think maybe I slept weird or ate something too late, but no. This is different.

Unfamiliar.

Unwelcome.

I groan, rolling onto my side on the couch and hugging a pillow against me like that’ll magically make it stop. Harper’s curled up under a blanket on the floor, one leg sticking out like she lost a fight with her own dreams. Luca’s snoring softly from the armchair, head tilted back, mouth open, completely useless.

I press a hand against my stomach and wince. “Ow.”

“We are sensing discomfort,” the symbiote murmurs, oddly quiet, oddly concerned.

“Gee, thanks for the update.”

“Pain originating from reproductive system. Uterine contractions consistent with—”

“Oh my god do not finish that sentence.”

But I already know.

Of course. Because of course this was part of the package deal. Because of course my body was going to commit to the whole “girl” thing.

I bury my face in the pillow and whisper, “This is so unfair.”

I peel myself off the couch slowly, trying not to wake either of them. Every step toward the bathroom feels like it jostles something deeper inside me, like the pain’s waiting to remind me it’s not done yet. I clutch my stomach lightly, wincing as I make it down the hall.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, and I press my back against it, exhaling shakily.

“We can reduce the pain as much as possible,” the symbiote says gently, almost… soothing.

I close my eyes.

“Thanks…” I whisper, my voice thinner than I mean it to be.

There’s a slow, cooling sensation under my skin—like something shifting inside, a warmth moving where it hurts most. The pressure eases slightly, just enough to breathe without curling up again.

It’s weird. And maybe kind of comforting. Not in the way I want comfort, but in the way I need it I suppose.

I sink down onto the closed toilet lid, arms resting across my knees.

This is my life now.

And I guess at least I don’t have to go through it completely alone.

I sit there for a long moment, just breathing—staring at the floor tiles like maybe they’ll give me the courage I don’t quite have yet.

But the reality of it hasn’t gone away. I know what’s happening. It’s just… facing it means admitting something deeper. Something final.

I whisper, mostly to myself, “I’m scared to even look…”

The room is silent.

“You are not alone,” the symbiote says gently.

I stand up slowly and move toward the cabinet, opening it with shaky fingers. Mom has to have them somewhere...

I find the box.

And I breathe.

Because yeah, I’m scared.

But I can do this.

I have to do this…

“I don’t know how to do this,” I mutter, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, holding the box like it’s a ticking time bomb.

“Read the instructions.”

“I am reading them, they don’t make any sense! Why would you just—stick it in? No. No, this can’t be right, who designed this?!”

“You could ask your mother for help.”

“No!” The word leaves my mouth too loud, bouncing off the tile walls. “No way. She already is way too overprotective. She’ll think I’m… I don’t know. Helpless or something.”

“Harper, then.”

“I said no! And don’t you dare even suggest Luca.”

Silence for a beat.

“You need to clean it first.”

I blink, confused. “What?”

“The blood.”

I go quiet. My stomach churns—not just from the pain, but from the awkward, heavy reminder that yeah… it’s real. All of it. This body. This process. This whole new layer of living.

I glance down at the spare towel in my lap, then at the little mess already forming.

“Right,” I say softly, teeth clenched.

I can feel my cheeks burning.

This is the most human I’ve felt in days.

And somehow, it’s also the most alien.

I reach for the toilet paper and try to move slowly, gently. Dignity feels like a luxury right now—but I try to hold onto some scrap of it anyway.

Because this is me.

Whether I’m ready or not.

I toss the used tissue into the trash with a sigh that feels like it came from somewhere way deeper than my lungs.

“Just when I was starting to think maybe being a girl wouldn’t be too bad…” I mutter, slumping back against the wall.

The cramps pulse again—sharp, bitter little reminders that biology has opinions.

“Would you like me to eliminate your uterus?” the symbiote offers, very matter-of-fact.

“No! Oh my god, no! That is not—thank you, but no.”

“Then we must endure.”

“Wow. Inspiring. Put that on a T-shirt.”

I stare down at the tampon like it’s some kind of cursed artifact. I’ve read the instructions three times. I’ve rotated the box. I’ve googled. I even watched a video. Nothing makes it feel any less weird.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I still gotta figure out how to do this thing.”

“Just ask for help.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s embarrassing!”

There’s a pause.

“More embarrassing than messing it up?”

“…no,” I admit, slumping forward in defeat.

It’s not even just about the thing. It’s the asking. The vulnerability of it. Having to say, out loud, I need help being a girl because I am one now and I don’t know how this works and it makes me feel like I’m made of glass.

I squeeze the box in my hands.

“Harper would not judge you.”

I exhale slowly, biting my lip. “…I know she wouldn’t.”

I stand up, steadying myself.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But she is never allowed to bring it up again.”

“She will absolutely bring it up again.”

“Not helping.”

I crack the bathroom door and peer out into the hall, heart racing.

Here goes nothing.

“Harper,” I whisper, poking my head out into the hallway like I’m trying to avoid landmines.

She’s still in the same position as before just laying there now with her phone lighting her face.

“Morning, Maple Leaf. You look like you fought a ghost in there.”

I swallow hard, cheeks already burning. “Can I—uh. Can I ask you something?”

The smirk fades just a little. She sets her phone down, tilts her head. “Yeah. What’s up?”

I hesitate. My hands are gripping the edges of the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping me from bolting. “I… I started my period.”

There. Out. No taking it back.

Harper doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even blink.

“Ah,” she says, nodding. “Rough first trip, huh?”

“Understatement of the year,” I mutter.

She gets up without teasing, walks past me like she’s done this a thousand times—and honestly, she probably has.

“Alright,” she says, waving me back toward the bathroom. “Let’s do the crash course. Welcome to womanhood, level one. I’ll even skip the terrifying stories if you’re nice.”

I follow her, heart pounding, humiliation bubbling under my ribs—but also… weird relief.

Harper steps into the bathroom like she’s answering a war call, gives the layout one glance, then turns to me with hands on her hips. “Alright. What’re we working with here? Pads? Tampons? Ritual blood-letting in the moonlight?”

I let out a weak laugh, holding up the little box like it’s radioactive. “Tampons. I… tried to read the instructions.”

She takes the box, pops it open like it’s nothing, and nods. “Ah, mystery sticks. Classic choice.”

“I don’t even know which way is up,” I mutter, hugging my arms around myself.

She smiles—not smug, but kind. That rare Harper expression that’s only for when she’s being real. “You’re not the first girl to stare this thing down like it’s alien technology, Elisa.”

“It kind of is alien tech,” I grumble.

She grabs one from the box, holds it up like a professor giving a lecture. “Okay. See this? This part goes in—gently, I promise—and when you push here, it slides the actual cotton bit in and the plastic part stays in your hand. Then you toss the applicator and boom—mission accomplished.”

I stare at her. “That’s it?”

“Well, yeah. In theory.” She shrugs. “It might feel weird the first time. If it’s uncomfortable, you probably didn’t angle it right. You’ll figure it out.”

I nod slowly. “Okay. I can try it.”

Harper gives me a little smile and turns to go. “I’ll be right outside if you need moral support. Or jokes. Or snacks.”

I blink. “Why snacks?”

“You’re gonna crave chocolate like it’s your religion in about an hour. Trust me.”

She pulls the door almost shut but leaves it cracked. Just enough.

I feel… like I might actually survive this.

Weirdly enough, thanks to Harper.

I take a breath. My hands are a little shaky, but I unwrap the tampon and stand there for a second, just… staring at it.

“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Here we go.”

It’s awkward. Clumsy. A weird, very vulnerable kind of struggle. But I remember what Harper said—gently, angle it, you’ll figure it out.

And somehow… I do.

It’s not perfect. It’s not elegant. But it works.

I exhale hard, leaning against the counter for a moment. My reflection in the mirror looks flushed and frazzled and very much like someone who just leveled up in life, whether they asked for it or not.

“Successful insertion,” the symbiote announces proudly.

“Please never say that again,” I mutter.

“Understood.”

I clean up, wash my hands, and stare at my reflection a moment longer. My hair’s a mess. I look tired. Exhausted. Overwhelmed.

I open the door and step out into the hallway.

Harper’s waiting, leaning casually against the wall with a smug little eyebrow raise. “So? Still alive?”

I nod. “Barely. But yeah.”

She hands me a little wrapped chocolate bar like it’s a trophy.

“Welcome to the club,” she says.

Guess I’m lucky we got that chocolate shipment…

Harper grins as I take the chocolate from her, like she’s been waiting the whole time just to say it.

“I think this means you’re officially a girl now.”

I give her a look—half exhausted, half amused. “The rest wasn’t enough?”

She shrugs, playful. “Nah. New name? Questionable. New body? Debatable. Monthly biological betrayal?” She gestures grandly toward the bathroom. “That’s the rite of passage.”

I roll my eyes and bite into the chocolate. “Great. So I’ve finally unlocked the worst achievement.”

Harper laughs, bumping her shoulder into mine gently. “Hey, it sucks. But now you get to complain about it with the rest of us.”

I chuckle—just a little—and lean against the wall beside her, still holding the wrapper.

Harper watches me for a second, her expression softening. “You’re doing alright, y’know.”

I nod slowly. “I’m starting to believe that.”

I narrow my eyes at Harper as I unwrap the rest of the chocolate. “Also, you know what a period means, right?”

I groan. “Please don’t tell me this is gonna be one of those things. Like ‘all girls secretly become werewolves’ or ‘you can hear the moon better now’ or whatever.”

Harper smirks. “No, no—nothing weird. This one’s a bit more… serious.”

That makes me freeze. I slowly lower the chocolate. “Okay… what?”

She leans against the wall, folding her arms. “It means your body’s… well, fully working. Like, reproductively.”

I blink. “Reproductively?”

She nods, slower now. “Like—you could get pregnant.”

…

I stare at her.

Then at the wall.

Then back at her.

“What?”

Harper holds up her hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger! I’m just saying—if everything’s, uh, functional now, then that includes everything.”

I just stand there…

“Welcome to being the proud owner of a uterus,” she says with mock cheer. “It’s horrible. We hate it. But now it’s yours too.”

I cover my face with both hands, chocolate still melting between my fingers.

“Oh my god,” I mumble through my palms. “I really am a girl.”

“We would not recommend mating if you do not wish to become pregnant.”

“Nobody asked you!” I snap, then realize I said it out loud.

Harper raises an eyebrow. “Uh…?”

“Nothing. Brain goo. Ignore it.”

She shrugs. “You’re doing fine. But maybe… add ‘health class 2.0’ to your to do list.”

Great.

Super strength, alien symbiote, and now—birth control.

This just keeps getting better.

I stand there, staring at the wall like it personally betrayed me.

“I mean, I knew I was a girl now,” I say slowly, like I’m trying to explain it to myself. “But I never thought—nope. Nope. No more thinking. Brain off. Consciousness canceled. I’m going back to sleep.”

Harper snorts, arms crossed and very clearly not helping. “That’s valid.”

I turn and march back toward the couch like I’m escaping a horror movie.

“Seriously,” I mumble, dropping face-first into a pillow, “I get transformed into a girl by alien goo, gain superpowers, swing through New York, survive super scientists, AND somehow still get cramps and uterus-based anxiety? What did I do in a past life?”

From deep in my mind, the symbiote whispers—way too calm “Perhaps you were a raccoon. Or a mime.”

I groan. Loudly.

And I bury my face in the pillow, refusing to exist for at least the next year. Maybe longer. Definitely until this whole being-a-girl thing cools off a little.

Spoiler alert it won’t…

End of chapter 11.