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 the hotdish, 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 hotdish 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.

Jess had dragged out a beanbag from under her bed, and Maya had already claimed the comfiest seat — a heap of mismatched pillows by the radiator. The radiator clinked and hissed like always, letting out little puffs of warmth that made the room smell vaguely like old metal and dust. Claire was poking around in her snack stash, tossing out options like a flight attendant offering peanuts or pretzels.

“Popcorn, Chex Mix, or… weird gummy frogs?”

“I vote popcorn,” I said, settling in on the floor with my back to Jess’s desk. The carpet underneath was rough on my hands, and someone had spilled something that still made one corner smell faintly like orange soda. “But not the burnt kind this time.”

“That was one time,” Maya shot back with a grin. “And technically Claire was in charge of the microwave.”

“Lies,” Claire muttered, tossing the gummy frogs at her. The bag made a soft thwack against Maya’s shoulder before bouncing off harmlessly.

By the time the opening credits of Clueless started rolling, the room smelled like buttery salt and cherry lip balm. The lights were off except for the soft, colored glow from Jess’s string lights and the TV screen. Alicia Silverstone appeared, all bright smiles and plaid skirts, babbling about fashion like it was the most important thing on Earth.

And somehow… I didn’t hate it.

I mean, it was kind of ridiculous. But the way Cher strutted through her closet app and complained about her “totally important” life? It was weirdly comforting. Familiar, even. Like the kind of story I’d roll my eyes at in public but secretly enjoy when no one was looking. Something soft and easy, like the smell of dryer sheets or the sound of rain through a window. Something that let your guard down without even asking.

Half an hour in, there was a scene where Cher did a full-on makeover on her friend Tai, and everyone cracked up when she dramatically held up a feather boa and said, “She’s like a Monet — from far away it’s okay, but up close it’s a big old mess!”

Without thinking, I giggled.
Like, an actual high-pitched, hand-over-my-mouth giggle.

The room went quiet.

Jess slowly turned toward me. “Did… did you just—?”

“I—” My throat closed up. “No. That wasn’t— I just laughed, okay?”

Maya blinked at me. “You’ve never laughed like that before.”

Claire raised her eyebrows, half-teasing, half-confused. “It was kind of cute, though. Honestly thought Jess made that sound.”

I felt my face go red, heat creeping up my ears. I pulled my hoodie strings tight, sinking deeper into the fabric like I could disappear into cotton. The collar scratched at my jaw. My whole skin felt too bright.

“I don’t know why I did that,” I muttered, suddenly wishing I’d sat behind the beanbag instead of in front of it. I curled my legs tighter under me, trying not to think about the way everyone had looked at me — not mean, just… surprised.

The movie kept playing, but I couldn’t concentrate. Not with the way my cheeks still burned, or how my body felt all wrong — not painful, just wrong.
Like someone had switched a dial inside me and forgot to switch it back.

****

The hallway was quiet by the time I got back to my dorm.
Just the distant sound of someone laughing two floors up, and the soft hum of a vending machine near the stairwell. The kind of stillness that made every footstep echo too loud on the tiled floor, every breath feel a little more exposed.

I shut the door gently behind me, not wanting to draw attention.
Not that anyone was watching — just a habit. The kind you pick up when you’re used to disappearing in crowds, or slipping through days without being noticed. My roommate wasn’t back yet. Probably still out with his team, or crashing in someone else’s room with a PlayStation and a bag of nachos.

Good.

I dropped onto the edge of the bed and stared at my hands.
Callused from practice. Faint Sharpie stains near the knuckle from doodling during lectures. Familiar hands. But tonight they felt like they didn’t quite belong to me. Like I was borrowing a version of myself I hadn’t signed off on.

That sound I made… that stupid giggle…
It wasn’t just embarrassing.
It didn’t feel like me.
At least not the version of me I thought I was.

I sat there for a minute, just breathing. Trying not to spiral.
Trying not to let the tight knot in my chest unravel into something I couldn’t pull back together.

Then I reached for the orange bottle on my desk.
It sat next to my alarm clock — red LED blinking 10:46 PM — and a stack of notes I hadn’t touched since Thursday. The label still had the pharmacy sticker — my name printed clean and clear.
Riley Whitlock.
“Take one daily for anxiety symptoms. May cause drowsiness.”

I hadn’t planned to take another one tonight.
But the knot in my chest was tightening again, and the room felt like it was closing in — the walls too close, the ceiling too low, like a shoebox with no lid.

I popped the cap and swallowed one dry.
No water. Just the bitter chalk of it catching at the back of my tongue.

Maybe it was all in my head.
Maybe I was just tired.

I laid back on my pillow, letting the ceiling blur.
It had a crack running through it that looked kind of like a lightning bolt. I used to think it was cool — like something out of a comic book, or maybe one of those old-school fantasy covers with wizards and dragons — but tonight it just looked like a split. A warning. A seam coming undone.

****

I must’ve dozed off for a while, because the next thing I heard was the click of the door handle and the squeak of old hinges.
That soft metallic chk of the lock turning, followed by a slight pause — like whoever it was wasn’t sure if they should come in yet.

“Yo, Whitlock. You asleep?”

It was Garrett — my roommate. He always called me by my last name like we were already on a team together. Maybe we were, technically, but we hadn’t really bonded. He was loud, laid-back, and the kind of guy who seemed to exist in a permanent state of stretching. Always cracking his knuckles, always leaning with his arms behind his head like he was posing for a soda commercial.

I stayed still, hoping he’d take the hint.
I let my breath slow. Focused on the rhythm of it. In, out. In, out.

He didn’t.

The light from the hallway cut across the room before the door closed again with a soft thunk. I heard the thud of his backpack hitting the floor and the soft fizz of a soda can opening. A brief shuffle of items on top of the mini fridge. Then the familiar whump of his body flopping onto his bed with the grace of a collapsing tent.

“You missed some good stuff at dinner,” he said between sips. “Someone launched mashed potatoes across the cafeteria. Nailed Coach in the back of the head. Legendary.”

I made a vague noise in response. Not a word — just a low “mm,” like I was halfway to sleep.
A sound that could mean leave me alone or I’m listening, barely. I wasn’t sure which I meant.

Garrett didn’t push it. He grabbed his remote and started flipping through channels on the tiny TV near his desk, volume low.
Nick at Nite fuzzed into life — maybe The Fresh Prince, or some rerun of Family Matters. I didn’t look.

I rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter.
The sheets had cooled while I’d been lying there, and now they felt like some half-hearted attempt at a shield. Not uncomfortable. Just not enough.

Part of me wanted to ask if he’d ever felt like he wasn’t… himself.
If a laugh could feel like a stranger’s voice.
If your own skin could feel just slightly… unfamiliar. Like putting on a shirt you used to love and suddenly realizing it doesn’t fit right anymore.

But I didn’t.

I just lay there, quiet, while some late-night sitcom played in the background, and the edges of the world got softer again.
The laugh track rose and fell like a tide I wasn’t part of.
And slowly, I drifted somewhere between sleep and not-sleep — where thoughts echoed longer and feelings didn’t have names.

“Oh by the way, Maya came by,” Garrett said without looking up from the TV. “Left a note on the whiteboard outside. Something about meeting her outside the student union at eight tomorrow morning.”

He stretched with a yawn and the creak of his mattress, then smirked. “Aww, that your girlfriend?”

I sat up just enough to glare at him over the blanket. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a friend.”

Garrett grinned like he’d just scored a point. One of those slow, knowing grins that made you want to throw a pillow at him. “Uh-huh. That’s what they all say. You two have, like, a weekly date or something?”

“It’s not a date,” I muttered.

I pulled the blanket back over my head, but the heat in my face wouldn’t go away.
Of course he’d say something like that. Garrett could flirt with a vending machine if it talked back. Meanwhile I couldn’t even giggle without causing a crisis.

Outside, I heard voices echoing down the hall — someone laughing, a door slamming shut. A muffled “Dude, it’s my turn!” floated through the air, followed by the mechanical clunk of an arcade joystick. Probably the guys down the hall fighting over Street Fighter II again.

I closed my eyes, trying not to overthink it.
Maya was just a friend.
A good one. The kind that brought grape soda and sarcasm and watched Clueless without judgment. She’d probably just wanted to check in after movie night. No big deal.

Still, I couldn’t shake the weird flutter in my chest.
Not about her.
About me.

The flutter sat somewhere between my ribs, like a moth caught in a jar — soft, unsettled, impossible to ignore.

It was ten to eight, and I was rushing down the sidewalk with one shoe half-tied and my jacket half-zipped. The late-summer air still clung to the buildings, sticky and restless, and I was already sweating by the time I crossed the quad. My backpack thumped awkwardly against my hip, and I kept having to shove a loose sleeve back up my arm.

The student union loomed ahead — brick walls, big glass windows, and a flickering poster board out front for upcoming campus events: movie night, open mic, some kind of eco club car wash. Someone had doodled sunglasses on the flyer for the improv group. Someone else had drawn devil horns on the student body president.

I spotted Maya sitting on the low brick planter by the entrance, kicking her legs idly and sipping from a plastic water bottle. She waved when she saw me.

"You're late," she said, grinning.

"Only by a minute," I panted, catching my breath. "It counts as on time if I'm jogging."

Maya tilted her head, studying me for a second. "Everything okay?"

I nodded, maybe a little too quickly. "Yeah. Just... rough day."

She didn't press. Just patted the spot beside her. "Come sit."

I dropped down next to her. The bricks were warm beneath my palms, and the scent of something fried wafted out from the union's back door — maybe mozzarella sticks or curly fries from the basement snack bar. The windows above glowed with soft yellow light, casting long shapes across the pavement.

"I wanted to check in after last night," she said, voice softening. "You seemed kinda... off."

I shrugged. "Yeah, well. I guess watching a bunch of makeovers and shopping montages isn't really my thing."

She gave me a look — half amused, half knowing. "It wasn't the movie. It was the way you acted during it."

I froze.

"I'm not judging, Riley," she added quickly. "It was just... unexpected. That laugh? That wasn't your usual 'I'm-humoring-you' chuckle."

"I know," I said, avoiding her gaze. "I don't know what happened. It just slipped out."

Maya didn't say anything for a second. She took another sip from her water, then set it down beside her. A car passed on the street nearby, headlights briefly sweeping across the sidewalk like a spotlight — and then gone.

"You ever feel like there's something inside you trying to... I don't know. Shift?"

"I mean, I guess—" I started, then paused mid-sentence.

Because the next word out of my mouth came out wrong.

It wasn't deep or quiet like I expected.
It was higher. Softer. Feminine.

"—yeah?"

I heard it before I felt it — and then the heat hit my face like a sunburn.

I slapped a hand over my mouth.
The breath caught in my throat.

Maya blinked. Her eyebrows jumped slightly. Not in fear — just surprise. Something careful passed behind her eyes.

"What was that?"

I shook my head, eyes wide. "I—I didn't—"

"Was that your voice?"

I nodded, barely.

Then I managed to whisper, "I don't know what's happening to me."

Maya didn't laugh. She didn't recoil. She didn't do anything I was bracing for.
No shocked gasp. No awkward silence. No forced chuckle to defuse the weirdness.

Instead, she just reached over and touched my arm.
Not in a grand, dramatic way — just a steady, grounding pressure. Warm. Real.

"Hey," she said quietly. "It's okay."

I kept my hand over my mouth, like that might stop it from happening again.
Like maybe the words would go back to normal if I just held them in long enough.
Like I could trap whatever was inside before it got out again.

"It's not," I mumbled through my fingers. My voice wobbled. My throat felt dry.

"Yes, it is," she said firmly. "You're okay. You're still you."

I finally looked at her.
Her expression wasn't shocked — just concerned. Steady. Like she was anchoring herself for both of us.
No pity. No disbelief. Just Maya, being Maya.

"I don't know why it sounded like that," I whispered. "It just—happened."

"I believe you."

I looked down at my shoes. One lace still undone.
My legs were shaking a little, and I hadn't even noticed. The bricks under me felt warmer than they had a moment ago — or maybe I was just overheating from the inside out.

"I think maybe..." Maya hesitated, choosing her words like she didn't want to make it worse. "Maybe we should go to the campus health center. Just to check in."

"You think I'm sick?" I said.

But it didn't come out the way I meant it to.
The words were mine, but the voice wasn't.
It was higher again. Softer. Almost questioning in a way that didn't feel like me at all.

I clamped my mouth shut.
Fingers tightened against my lips. My breath hitched in my chest like a gear grinding out of place.

Maya blinked, and her mouth opened slightly — but then she closed it again.
She didn't flinch. Just looked at me, quiet for a beat. Letting the silence settle. Holding space for it.

"I don't think you're sick," she said gently. "But I do think something's going on. And it might be a good idea to talk to someone about it. A nurse. A doctor. Whoever can help figure this out."

I couldn't even answer.
I just nodded — tiny, shaky.

Maya leaned in a little. Her knees bumped mine.
"I'll go with you. You don't have to explain everything. I'll just be there."

And somehow, even with my voice cracking like glass and my insides twisting into knots, that helped more than I could say.

****

The walk to the campus health center was short, but every step felt like a mile.
The quiet between us wasn't uncomfortable — just full. Maya didn't push me to talk, and I was too busy trying to keep my breathing steady. The sky had darkened a little, the amber glow of the walkway lamps flickering on one by one as we passed beneath them.

The health center was tucked between the library and a faculty building — a squat, beige structure with a buzzer-entry door and a window full of outdated pamphlets about mono and flu season. Inside, the waiting room buzzed with fluorescent lights and the low hum of an old macintosh computer behind the front desk.

The nurse on duty — a woman in her forties with curly hair, a lanyard of keys, and a pin that said Be Kind — I Give Shots — looked up as we entered.

"Can I help you two?" she asked, glancing between us.

Maya answered for me. "We were wondering if someone could check him out. Something's... off."

The nurse gave a polite but professional nod. "Okay. Let's get you checked in. Name?"

"Riley Whitlock," I said quietly.

She typed something into the computer, then handed me a clipboard with a short intake form and a pen attached by string. I sat down beside Maya and filled it out with stiff fingers. My handwriting looked messier than usual.

Once it was turned in, she led me back through a narrow hallway lined with faded posters about managing stress and eating more fiber. Maya followed without asking.

"Let's start with vitals," the nurse said, gesturing to the scale.

I kicked off my shoes, stepped on. The scale creaked faintly under me. She adjusted the metal sliders with a practiced hand, moving the top bar slowly... then again... then again. Her brow furrowed slightly.

"Huh," she said.

"What?" I asked, already tense.

She gave a quick shake of her head. "Just double-checking."
She slid the marker again, then tapped it back.

"According to this, you're 132 pounds. Is that normal for you?"

I blinked. "Last time I checked, I was around 148."

Her eyes flicked to the scale again. "Have you been eating okay? Any big changes in activity?"

"Soccer. Just started college practices this week. But I've been eating."

She nodded, not alarmed but clearly taking notes in her head.

"Okay. Let's check your height. Stand tall, back straight."

I did. She pulled down the measurement bar and adjusted it to touch the top of my head. Her lips pressed together.

"Five-seven," she said.

I blinked again. "No, I'm... I'm five-ten. I've been five-ten since sophomore year in high school."

She stepped back and glanced at the wall ruler, then looked at me. "Barefoot?"

"Yeah."

"No slouching?"

I straightened up even more, stretching my spine.

Still five-seven.

The nurse wrote something down on her clipboard, this time more slowly.

"Okay," she said, her voice calm but now more careful. "Let's get you into a room. I'll do a quick once-over and ask you a few questions."

Maya looked at me, her expression tight. I could see her trying not to panic for my sake.

I swallowed and followed the nurse down the hall, the tile cool under my socked feet.
My brain was buzzing.

I was shrinking.

And I didn't know why.

*

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon-scented floor cleaner.
The kind of scent that clung to your clothes after you left — sharp, sterile, and a little too clean to feel comforting. The fluorescent light above buzzed softly, flickering once like it had a nervous tic. Maya stood by the door while I sat on the exam table, the paper crinkling loudly under me every time I shifted. I kept tugging at the hem of my shirt, unsure where to put my hands.

The nurse washed her hands at the small sink, then pulled on gloves with a snap. The sound echoed in the quiet like punctuation.

"All right," she said in that neutral, I've-done-this-a-hundred-times voice. "Let's run through the basics."

She took my pulse — steady, if a little fast.
Checked my reflexes — normal.
Shined a penlight into my eyes — I blinked, but didn't flinch.
She even had me follow her finger back and forth, testing for dizziness or delayed reaction. I passed everything, even though my insides still felt like they were vibrating with static.

"Any pain?" she asked.

"No," I said, my voice careful. "Not really. Just... off."

She nodded and peeled off her gloves, tossing them in the bin with a casual flick. Then she scribbled something down on her clipboard and looked up at me with a softer expression. Her tone shifted — still professional, but gentler now, like she'd moved from routine to concern.

"Here's what I'd like to do," she said. "We'll get a blood draw sent over to the lab first thing tomorrow morning. I'd also like to refer you to Dr. Holtz — he's our campus physician. He might want to do a more in-depth evaluation, maybe some imaging."

"Imaging?" I asked, suddenly cold.
The word felt too big. Too serious. Like I'd just stepped into someone else's life.

"Just to rule things out. Rapid changes in weight and height aren't usually subtle. But you say you're feeling fine otherwise, so that's good."

Maya stepped closer, her arms folded tightly but her voice calm. "Can we set up the referral now?"

The nurse nodded. "Yep. I'll leave a note for the front desk to call you with the appointment time first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, keep track of any other symptoms — even small ones. Voice changes, body aches, anything unusual."

My throat tightened at the word voice, but I just nodded, silent.
I felt Maya's eyes on me — not judging, just there. Present. That helped.

The nurse gave me a smile — small but sincere. "You're doing the right thing by coming in."

She stepped out, leaving the door cracked slightly behind her. The hallway outside was quiet, muffled footsteps and distant printer noise drifting through the sliver of open space.

Maya looked at me.

"I told you," she said quietly. "You're not imagining it."

The walk back across campus should’ve been easy.
Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the sidewalks. The breeze carried the smell of freshly cut grass and someone’s too-strong body spray. The quad was buzzing — students sprawled on the grass, skateboards clacking against pavement, someone strumming an out-of-tune guitar near the fountain. A boombox blasted something vaguely punky from a blanket where two guys were trading cassettes. Laughter drifted like birdsong between the dorms.

It felt like a normal day.
But nothing felt normal anymore.

Maya walked beside me, glancing at me now and then like she wasn’t sure if she should say something or just let me be. Her silence was kind, not cold — a protective quiet, like she was trying to guard the space around us.

I didn’t say much. I was afraid of what my voice would do.

As we passed the library steps, a girl from our English class waved. “Hey, Riley!”

I smiled automatically. “Hey!”

And there it was.
That voice again. Higher than I meant. Cheerier.
Like I was mocking her friendliness without meaning to. Like my mouth had been rewired when I wasn’t paying attention.

She smiled back, but there was a flicker of confusion in her eyes. Just a beat. Just enough for me to notice.
Maya noticed too.

I ducked my head.
“I sound like a cartoon,” I muttered under my breath.

“No, you don’t,” Maya said gently.

“I do. I sound like I’ve been replaced by someone halfway through puberty in reverse.”

We turned the corner toward the commons. A group of students was gathered near the vending machines, laughing over something. The scent of microwaved burritos and vending machine coffee floated on the air. A guy with headphones bumped into me, muttered a quick “sorry.”

I tried to say “no problem,” but all that came out was a soft, breathy “it’s okay.”

Maya glanced sideways again.

“Don’t,” I said quickly, my normal voice kicking back in. “Please don’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to tease you.”

“I know. But I just… I don’t want to talk about it. Not here.”

She nodded, letting the quiet sit between us.

But every voice I heard — my voice — felt less and less like mine.

They were already sitting at a table just outside the student café — Claire with her iced tea and a notebook full of rainbow doodles, Jess leaning back in her chair like she owned the sidewalk. The metal table wobbled slightly on the uneven concrete, and Claire’s pen was twirling slowly between her fingers while she colored in a cartoon cat with galaxy-patterned fur.

Jess spotted us first. “There you are! We were starting to think you two ran off and eloped.”

Claire grinned. “Do we get to be bridesmaids?”

Maya rolled her eyes but smiled. “Please. Like I’d marry this one. He’s a disaster.”

Normally I would’ve had a comeback. Something dumb but quick. A one-liner that’d get a snort from Jess or a groan from Claire.
Today I just gave a weak smile and dropped into the empty chair across from them. The seat was still warm from the sun. I folded my hands in my lap to keep from fidgeting.

Jess looked at me, then at Maya. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I said, keeping my tone level. “Just… long day.”

Claire leaned in. “Okay but real talk — did you actually laugh like that on purpose last night?”

Maya stiffened slightly beside me, but stayed quiet. Her elbow brushed mine under the table, steady but subtle.

I forced a shrug. “Maybe. I dunno. It was a weird movie.”

Jess squinted at me, like she was trying to read past what I said. Her eyes flicked across my face like she was hunting for tells.

“You’re acting all weird,” she said.

I opened my mouth to respond — something sarcastic. Something that would make them laugh. Something safe.

But the second the words left my lips, they curved on their own.

“I guess I’m just full of surprises,” I said.

And just like that — my voice slipped again.
It was soft. Musical.
Definitely not how I sounded five seconds earlier.

Claire froze. Jess blinked.

“What the hell was that?” Claire asked, laughing — but not in a mean way. Just confused. Her pen dropped onto the table with a small clink.

Jess sat up straighter. “Did you just… ”

I felt heat shoot up my neck. “I— I’m”
My voice came back normal. Like it was trying to correct itself.

Jess looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Okay, are you messing with us?”

Maya cut in, calm but serious. “He’s not. It’s… not something he’s doing on purpose.”

That shut them both up for a beat.
The noise from the nearby tables — the clink of plastic trays, the distant squeak of a scooter’s wheels, someone loudly explaining the plot of a VHS horror movie — all seemed to fade for a second.

Claire’s expression shifted first — curiosity fading into concern. “Wait. Is this, like… a thing?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “It just started. And I can’t control it.”

Jess leaned back in her chair again, this time slower. Her eyes lingered on me longer than usual — not skeptical, just… trying to process. “Dude. That’s kinda intense.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
I just sat there, staring at the condensation sliding down Claire’s cup, wishing I could crawl underneath the table and disappear.

****

I barely made it through the next few minutes.

Maya kept the conversation moving, casually shifting the topic to some art show flyers on the bulletin board — an exhibit of recycled sculpture, a student-made zine showcase — and Claire went along with it, like they’d silently agreed to give me space. Jess kept glancing at me, like she wanted to say something else but couldn’t figure out how to ask without making it worse.

I mumbled something about needing to go back to the dorm.
No one stopped me.
They didn’t even try. Just nodded and let me go.

The second I was out of sight, I picked up my pace.
The concrete walkway felt uneven under my shoes, and the noise of the café faded behind me into the background hum of campus — a leaf blower whining across the quad, someone shouting at a squirrel near the bike rack, a boombox playing a faint track of Ace of Base from a window above.

My hands were already in my hoodie pocket before I even reached the front steps of the building. I dug out the orange bottle.
The label was half-worn from being carried around.
The corners were peeling, and my name was faint beneath a crease where the bottle had been twisted too many times in my grip.
I didn’t even bother reading it this time.

I popped the cap and shook one of the little white pills into my palm.
It landed there like it was waiting.

Then I swallowed it dry.

My throat burned slightly. I ignored it.
I didn’t even head for the water fountain at the end of the hall.

I sat down on the edge of my bed once I got back to the room, the silence pressing in on me like static.
Garrett wasn’t there. Thank God.
His bed was still unmade, one sock draped over the edge, his PlayStation controller hanging loosely off his desk like it was caught mid-fall.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and stared at the floor.

Why is this happening to me?

The voice wasn’t the only thing.
My body didn’t feel right.
My own reflection felt unfamiliar.
And the more I tried to hold on to “normal,” the faster it seemed to slip through my fingers — like trying to grip water in a clenched fist.

I closed my eyes and waited for the pill to do something — anything.

Even if it didn’t help…

I just needed to feel like I had some kind of control.

****

I don’t know how long I sat there.

The hum of the mini fridge buzzed in the background, barely louder than the rush in my ears. My legs were bouncing. My chest felt tight, like my ribs were trying to close in on themselves — folding inward, one by one, like pages in a book that didn’t want to be read.

I pressed my palms into my eyes until little fireworks popped behind them — bursts of red and gold that faded into static. The kind you get when you’re underwater too long. The kind you see when you’re trying not to cry.

Breathe, I told myself. It’s just anxiety. You’ve felt like this before.
Only… not like this.
Not when your own voice betrays you in front of your friends.

Eventually, I stood.

My legs were stiff. My hoodie stuck to my back like plastic wrap, clammy and wrinkled. I didn’t even grab my bag. I just needed to move.
Air.
Noise.
Something that wasn’t the inside of my head.

The hallway outside was empty, except for a faint scent of burnt popcorn and whatever cologne Garrett always drowned himself in. I took the stairs two at a time, my footsteps echoing sharp and fast in the stairwell.

The campus lawn was still buzzing, though it had thinned out some.
Shadows were longer now. The sun was dipping lower, pulling warm gold across the tops of buildings and stretching the trees across the grass like dark, tangled fingers. The breeze had picked up — the kind that tugged gently at your sleeves and made you feel like the day was slipping away faster than it should. Like maybe you were supposed to be somewhere else.

I turned the corner just in time to see Maya, Claire, and Jess stepping away from the café. Claire was holding her sketchpad, flipping absently through pages filled with inked flowers and half-finished poems. Jess was mid-story, doing something dramatic with her hands, waving them like she was narrating a conspiracy theory. Maya was half-listening, her gaze flicking around the sidewalk — scanning, searching.

Like maybe she was hoping I’d come back.

I hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then walked toward them.

Jess spotted me first. “Hey—oh, look who didn’t disappear forever.”

I opened my mouth to reply.

And what came out wasn’t mine.

“Hey, sorry I—”

My voice caught.
Wavered.
And didn’t go back.

It was completely different now.

Not soft or random or accidental.

It was feminine.
Clear.
Higher.
Smooth in a way that was unmistakably not how I used to sound.
Not even close.

Jess stopped walking.

Claire’s eyes widened — her phone lowering just slightly, the conversation frozen mid-breath.

Even Maya froze for a second — just a second — before stepping closer. Her expression shifted fast: surprise, confusion, and then that same unwavering focus she’d had in the clinic. That Maya look. The one that said you’re not alone.

“Riley?” she asked, her voice gentle. Testing. Anchoring.

I swallowed.
I could feel the panic rising again — hot, prickling at my neck, pooling under my tongue. I tried to say something else, anything, but the voice didn’t change back.

Not a syllable.

“I… I don’t know what’s happening,” I said.
My voice now sounded like someone else’s — like a girl trying to hold back tears.

Only it wasn’t someone else.
It was me.

And it wasn’t going away.

Maya reached out but didn’t touch me — just hovered there beside me, like she didn’t want to scare me off.
Claire blinked slowly, still catching up. Jess looked like she was waiting for someone to explain the joke. Only no one laughed.

The next morning, I went to the campus doctor for the blood work and whatever else they needed.
I was freaking out.
I barely slept. When I did, it was in scattered chunks — twenty minutes here, a half hour there. Every time I woke up, I half expected things to be normal again. That maybe the voice, the height, everything… would snap back like a rubber band.

It didn’t.

I still sounded like a stranger.
And when I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror — just for a second — I swear my jaw looked softer. My eyes wider. Like someone had taken sandpaper to the edges of my face and smoothed everything down.

I blinked, shook my head, looked again.
It was subtle.
Maybe I was imagining it.

But the panic didn’t care if it was subtle.

Maya met me outside the health center just before nine.
She held a takeout cup from the cafeteria — steam curling from the lid. She didn’t say much — just gave me a look like she could feel how close I was to unraveling. Her shoulders were squared like she was ready to step in if I so much as swayed.

“I’ll wait outside,” she said once we reached the front desk. “Unless you want me with you.”

“I’m okay,” I lied.

The receptionist handed me another clipboard.
The paper trembled as I filled out the form. The pen felt too thin in my fingers. I misspelled my own last name on the first try and had to scribble it out.

Dr. Holtz called me in a few minutes later — mid-forties, sweater vest, thin wire glasses. He had the kind of haircut that said he didn’t have time to care about haircuts. He didn’t smile much, but he wasn’t cold either. Just efficient.

He asked me a lot of questions.
Basic stuff at first. Diet, sleep, family history. Then more pointed ones.

“When did you first notice the weight and height change?”

“Yesterday,” I said, my voice catching slightly.

He paused. Looked up. Wrote something down.

“And the voice changes?”

“Also yesterday. They started off and on. By the evening, it just… stayed.”

More notes. His pen scratched quickly but quietly. No expression, just a slight tightening at the corner of his mouth.

He listened to my heart.
Shined a light in my eyes.
Asked if I’d ever had any hormone issues, past surgeries, allergic reactions, head trauma. I said no to everything.

Finally, he tapped the folder in front of him. “We’ll start with a full blood panel. Hormone levels, thyroid, autoimmune markers. You’ll get a call when results come in — likely within a few days.”

“Okay,” I said, trying not to sound like I was about to come apart. “Do you think it’s… serious?”

Dr. Holtz folded his hands. “I think your body is going through something unusual. But until we get the labs back, I can’t speculate.”

It wasn’t comforting. But it wasn’t terrifying either.

Still, it left a cold pit in my stomach.

“I think your body is going through something unusual. But until we get the labs back, I can’t say more than that.”
Not comforting.
Not exactly terrifying either.
But it left a cold pit in my stomach anyway.

****

After the appointment, I didn’t go back to the dorm.
I could’ve. I probably should’ve. But part of me thought if I kept acting normal, everything else might follow.

So I went to class.

It was Intro to Fiction — one of the electives I’d actually looked forward to when signing up. Usually, I liked it. The professor was laid-back, the discussions were good, and it wasn’t the kind of room where you had to fight to be heard. Just enough people to fill the middle rows, with space in the back for those of us who liked to keep to ourselves.

Today, though, I couldn’t focus.

I sat near the back, notebook open, pen tapping restlessly against the margin. The sun cut across the tile floor in long stripes, and someone in the front row had a thermos that smelled like cheap hazelnut coffee.

The instructor — a tall guy with wireframe glasses and elbow patches that had to be ironic — was talking about unreliable narrators. Something about how the most interesting stories are the ones where you’re not sure if the main character is telling you the whole truth.

“We all like to think our stories are honest,” he was saying, pacing slowly in front of the chalkboard, “but sometimes, the narrator thinks they’re being honest. They’re just wrong. Or scared. Or trying to convince themselves as much as the reader.”

He wrote perception vs. reality in big block letters.

“Take The Yellow Wallpaper,” he continued, gesturing toward the short list of assigned readings on the board. “Our narrator isn’t lying, exactly — but her version of reality is slipping, page by page. And as it slips, the story reveals something bigger than just her. That’s the power of voice.”

I stared at the board. The words swam a little.

He kept going — mentioning Holden Caulfield, Fight Club, even The Tell-Tale Heart. Everyone else kept nodding, chiming in with thoughts about character motivation, skewed memory, delusion. One guy compared it to watching a movie through a fogged-up window. Another said it reminded him of when his kid brother used to lie so much he forgot which version was true.

They laughed.

I sat there, trying not to unravel.

Halfway through, I felt something — a faint itch on my chest, just under the collarbone.
I didn’t scratch it. I didn’t look down. I didn’t move.

The sensation came and went. Not sharp. Just there.

I kept my pen in my hand, eyes on the professor, face neutral.
He was talking about how sometimes, the narrator doesn’t realize they’ve become unreliable until it’s too late. How that shift — the moment of self-awareness — can change the entire meaning of a story.

I could feel the itch pressing lightly against the edge of my focus, demanding attention.
But I stayed still.

Just another student in a too-warm classroom, listening to a lecture about characters who don’t recognize themselves anymore.

I sat there, listening, writing when I had to.

And the itch slowly faded into the background.

****

The class started getting really boring.
Not just regular boring — ‘Ferris Bueller's Day Off’ boring.
The kind where the professor’s voice flattened into one long, droning hum, like he was slowly trying to lull us all into a coma.

“An unreliable narrator…” he began, pacing slowly across the front of the room like a wind-up toy losing battery, “can… be seen as… a literary device… that functions to… call attention… to the gap… between truth… and perception…”

He paused mid-sentence like the weight of the words was too much for even him to bear.

No one moved.

“Examples include…” he continued, one hand rising theatrically, “…the protagonist in Catcher in the Rye… or the narrator of The Tell-Tale Heart… both of whom… may be experiencing… mental distress…”

The silence afterward wasn’t reflective. It was dead.

Someone in the third row yawned — loudly — the kind of exaggerated yawn that said please let this end.
The kid next to me, some guy I hadn’t really talked to, was drawing little T-Rexes in the margin of his notebook, each one chasing after tiny stick-figure humans labeled “narrator.”
A girl near the window had her chin in her hand, elbow anchored, spinning her mechanical pencil like it was the most thrilling amusement ride she'd ever been on.

The air in the classroom felt too warm, like the windows hadn’t been opened all semester. Someone’s cologne — or maybe body spray — lingered faintly in the background, mixing with chalk dust and the distinct aroma of floor polish from the hallway.

I tried to stay engaged. I really did.
But the words dragged on, sticky and slow, like the whole room was trapped in literary quicksand.

I looked down at my own notebook.

Four lines.

Maybe.

And one of them was just:

why am I even here
Underneath that, I’d started sketching the edge of the desk.
Then abandoned it halfway through.

****

I was mid-doodle — nothing fancy, just sketching Tyler Cross’s silhouette in the corner of the page — when I heard it.

“Mr. Whitlock?”

My stomach dropped.

I froze, pen still in hand, the half-finished sketch suddenly feeling miles away.
I looked up. The professor was staring at me, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger, his expression unreadable.

“Care to share your thoughts on the passage?”

The air felt like it thinned out instantly.
A few heads turned in my direction. I could feel the weight of their attention — not cruel, just there. A spotlight I hadn’t asked for.

“Which… part?” I asked, voice tight in my throat.

“The excerpt we just discussed. From The Tell-Tale Heart. The narrator’s reliability. Do you think he believes what he’s saying?”

My mind scrambled, flipping pages that weren’t even there. I knew this story. I liked it. I’d written a whole essay on it back in high school. But every molecule in my body was locking up — heat and cold mixing in my chest, my hands prickling where they gripped the notebook.

Still, I made myself speak.

“I think…” I began.

My voice — her voice — didn’t break. It didn’t waver. It was already changed.

Light. Clear. Feminine.

There was no going back now.

A guy in the front row tilted his head slightly. Someone else blinked like they hadn’t quite caught what they thought they’d heard.

I swallowed. My mouth was dry.

“I think the narrator does believe it,” I said again, forcing myself to keep going. “Like… in his own head it’s all justified. That’s what makes it scarier — the fact that he doesn’t realize he’s unreliable.”

Every syllable felt like a spotlight.
Like I was speaking through someone else’s mouth and hoping no one noticed — but knowing they would.

The professor nodded. “Very good. That idea of internal logic within madness. Thank you.”

I gave the smallest possible nod, barely breathing.
Then looked down so fast my neck tensed.

Nobody laughed. Nobody whispered. No one pointed or smirked or made a scene.

But I still felt like I was made of glass. Like if someone looked too closely, I’d shatter right there in the middle of class.

And even though I’d gotten the answer right…
I didn’t feel smart.

I felt exposed.

****

After class, I didn’t wait for anyone.

I didn’t say goodbye, didn’t glance around, didn’t pretend everything was okay.

I just ran.

Down the hall, past faded posters for campus events and corkboards layered with yellowing flyers. Down the stairwell that smelled faintly of mop water and dry-erase markers. Out the building, where the afternoon air hit me like a slap—warm, sticky, unforgiving. Across the quad, past a kid tossing a frisbee and another flipping through a Walkman’s cassette case.

My legs moved like they had their own emergency, pounding the pavement so fast I didn’t even feel my feet hit the ground. The world blurred—trees, brick walls, clusters of students sitting on benches like they had nowhere better to be.

I don’t remember how I got back to the dorm.

I just remember the door slamming behind me with a hollow, echoing thud, and my hands shaking as I stumbled toward the desk. My chest felt like it was folding in on itself, tight and crushing, like the air had gone thin. My breathing came in shallow, frantic gasps—no rhythm, no control, just panic.

I couldn’t stop it.

That voice — my voice — echoing in my head. Not the one I knew, not the one that told stories or answered roll call or laughed with Maya at the dining hall. Every vowel now sounded wrong. Alien. Like someone else had borrowed my mouth and left a stranger behind.

I couldn’t stop hearing it.
I couldn’t stop being it.

I grabbed the orange pill bottle. It rattled in my grip, loud and desperate.

My fingers fumbled with the cap—childproof, supposedly. But fear made me strong and clumsy.

It popped open, and I didn’t think. I just dumped two — then three — chalky white pills into my palm.

The label said:
Take one daily.
In bold black type, like it mattered.

But I didn’t care.

I swallowed them all in one go, dry, with nothing but a gulp of air and the bitter taste of fear rising in my throat like static.

Then I slid down the wall, hitting the floor hard beside the bed. The sheets were still a mess from that morning, a sock half-tucked underneath. My knees pulled to my chest. My arms wrapped around them. My whole body shook.

My heart was racing like a skipping CD, all jumpy and out of sync.

I didn’t know if it would help.

I just needed something to stop.

7. Running to Stand Still

I don’t know why I went.
Maybe I thought pretending things were normal would make them feel normal.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to sit in that dorm room any longer, staring at the popcorn ceiling and listening to the muffled sound of someone’s stereo blasting Oasis down the hall.

So I went to practice.

The field was already buzzing when I got there — cleats clacking on the concrete path outside the locker room, water bottles slamming down on the bench like old Snapple caps, the sound of guys shouting drills to each other like it was a war zone. Someone had a boombox propped up on the bleachers, playing Tupac a little too loud, the cassette warbling slightly as it neared the end of the tape. Coach hadn’t shown up yet, but everyone else was warming up, laughing, yelling, hyped.

I kept my head down and laced my cleats in silence.

Garrett noticed me first. “Yo, Whitlock! Thought you died or something.”

A couple guys laughed. One tossed a ball toward me. I caught it, barely.

“Rough night,” I muttered.

I kept my responses short. Kept my head down. Tried to speak low — but no matter how I shaped the words, my voice didn’t cooperate. It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t flat. It wasn’t me.

No one said anything right away. But I felt it.
A pause in the rhythm. A second too long between jokes. Just enough to make my skin crawl.

Warm-up started. I jogged the perimeter of the field, past the chain-link fence that rattled in the breeze, stretched near the old Gatorade-stained scoreboard, kicked when I had to. My body felt weird in the uniform — not tight, not loose, just… off.

The mesh jersey clung in places it didn’t used to. The neckline felt strange against my collarbone, like the fit had changed overnight.

I told myself I was imagining it.

But when one of the guys called out, “Over here, man!” and I yelled back — the way I yelled...

Everything stopped.

Not the drill. Not the world.
Just them.

A few heads turned.
Then—

“Dude! Why do you sound like a girl?”

The words hit like a slap. Loud. Sharp. Echoing across the field like it was part of the drill.

I froze.

Someone chuckled — a dry, confused kind of laugh — and another guy muttered, “Wait, seriously? That wasn’t—?”

Garrett’s voice cut in, trying to be cool. “Chill, maybe he’s just messing with you.”

“I’m not,” I said quickly.
Too quickly.
Too high.
Too much like a girl.

More heads turned now. Not everyone. But enough. Enough for the heat to rush into my face and crawl down my neck. I looked at the grass. Focused on my cleats. Pretended not to hear the whispers starting around me.

One guy muttered something I couldn’t quite catch — and didn’t want to.

I backed away.

“I forgot something,” I said, barely audible, already turning toward the edge of the field.

Garrett called after me. “Whitlock? You good?”

I didn’t answer.

I just walked.
Fast.
Then faster.

Then ran.

I didn’t stop running until I was off the field, past the parking lot with the faded yellow lines and rusted-out Honda Civics, and halfway to the back side of campus — where the old benches near the art building sat mostly empty. A few crumpled soda cans and a torn flyer for a Pearl Jam listening party flapped under a nearby bush.

I dropped down onto one of them, chest heaving, head low.
No one followed.

Good.

I didn’t want to be seen right now. Not by Garrett. Not by Coach. Not by anyone.

I took a shaky breath, then another.
Then I tried something.
Just to see.

I cleared my throat.
Sat up straighter.
Took the same breath I used to take before reading aloud in class — back when we passed around photocopied short stories with faded ink and dog-eared corners.

Then I spoke, quietly: “Testing… one, two…”

The sound that came out wasn’t even close.
Not a slip. Not a crack. Just… wrong.

I tried again — lower this time.

“Hey, I’m Riley. I play mid-field and write weird superhero stories in my spare time.”

Still not mine.
Still not deep. Still not familiar.

I tried again. And again. Even whispered. Even mouthed the words like maybe the shape of them would bring it back.

Nothing.

The voice — my voice — the one I’d known since I was twelve and hated until I didn’t… was gone.

And no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it back.

****

I don’t know how long I sat there.
Long enough for the breeze to cool the sweat on the back of my neck. Long enough for the weight in my chest to settle into something heavier.
The rustle of tree branches above, the faint sound of a car stereo thumping somewhere far off — TLC, maybe, or Alanis Morissette — drifted through the air like a background track I wasn’t invited to.

That’s when I heard footsteps.
Soft ones.

Then a voice, hesitant and gentle:
“Hey… are you okay?”

I stiffened.
It was Maya.

I didn’t look up.
She must’ve been on her way to the girls’ soccer field — I’d forgotten their practice started soon. Their warm-ups usually started right after ours, across the old cracked asphalt path that ran behind the fieldhouse.

“Are you…” She paused, then stepped closer. “Do you need help?”

Of course she thought I was someone else.
Of course she heard a girl crying on a bench.

I turned my head just slightly, still not lifting my eyes.

“Maya,” I said quietly, voice trembling.

She froze.
“…Riley?”

I nodded once, barely.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, moving quickly now. She dropped her nylon Adidas bag — the kind everyone carried — and sat beside me, her hands reaching out but not quite sure where to land. “I—I didn’t know it was you. I swear, I didn’t recognize—”

“I know,” I whispered, wiping my face with the sleeve of my hoodie. “No one does.”

She was quiet for a second. Then:
“Is it your voice again?”

“It’s always my voice now,” I said. “I can’t make it go back.”

And that was what broke me.
Saying it out loud.

Maya didn’t say anything right away.
She just pulled me into a hug.

The polyester of her practice jersey scratched against my cheek. Her hands smelled faintly like that green Herbal Essences shampoo — the kind everyone used because it came in huge bottles.

I pulled back from her hug, wiping my eyes again with the inside of my sleeve.
Then I started scratching.
Not out of nerves this time — actual itching.

“God,” I muttered, shifting on the bench. “I must’ve gotten bitten by mosquitos or something. I’m itching down here.”

I scratched near my chest, just under the edge of my shirt.

Maya turned her head slightly. “Where exactly?”

I gestured across my upper chest, frowning. “Like… here. I dunno. It started yesterday during class, but it’s worse now.”

Her brows knit together. “Maybe we should look, just to be sure it’s not a rash or something.”

“I guess.”

I pulled up the hem of my shirt halfway, expecting a red bump or irritated skin.

Maya leaned in to look — and then froze.
Her expression changed instantly. Her eyes scanned the spot quickly, then flicked up to meet mine.
She didn’t say anything right away.

“Is it bad?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light. “Poison ivy? One of those demon college bugs?”

Maya didn’t answer. Instead, she gently pulled my shirt back down.
Firm, but careful.

Then, quietly:
“…That’s not a bug bite.”

I blinked. “Then what—?”

She shook her head, still calm but now serious in a way that made my stomach knot.

“I’ve seen that before,” she said softly. “Come on. Not here.”

I stood without thinking, my hands hovering near my sides, still unsure what exactly she saw — or what she knew that I didn’t.

Maya didn’t say anything else.
She just picked up her bag, nodded for me to follow, and started walking.

We cut across the edge of the quad, past the side of the library and into the quieter part of campus where the girls’ dorms sat tucked between rows of trees. A squirrel darted across the concrete path, and the smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with the faintest scent of cafeteria French fries wafting from the student union vents.

The whole walk, I kept thinking she’d say something — joke about it, ask if I was okay again, something.
But she didn’t.
She just walked with purpose. Calm. Like she already knew something I didn’t.

Her building was quieter than mine — no music leaking under doors, no yelling down the halls. The hallway felt cool and echoey, painted in the same dull beige every dorm seemed to have, with a fire extinguisher case halfway down and a poster for Respect Week crookedly taped beside a vending machine humming softly in the corner.

She unlocked her door without a word and stepped inside, holding it open for me.

I hesitated for half a second, then followed.

Her room was simple — two beds, one unmade. A corded phone sat on the desk under a dry-erase board that said “Back @ 7!” in pink marker. Posters on the wall — Empire Records, Clueless, and a big one of Mia Hamm. A corkboard full of pinned photos — school dances, soccer games, beach trips.

She walked straight to her side and tossed her bag down before turning to face me.

“Sit,” she said gently, motioning to the edge of her bed.

I did.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She knelt in front of me, her face serious but kind.

“Can you show me again?” she asked softly. “Just for a second?”

I nodded, slowly.
Pulled up my shirt again.

She looked — and this time, she didn’t hide her reaction.
Not fear. Not disgust.
Recognition.

Maya sat back on her heels and took a breath.

“That’s not a bite,” she said. “That’s… development.”

My brain stalled.

“What?”

She looked at me carefully. “Riley… I think your body’s changing in a way that doesn’t have anything to do with mosquitos or practice or stress.”

I dropped my shirt and looked away, heart pounding.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I whispered. “It’s not possible.”

Maya didn’t say anything right away.
She just looked at me.
Not scared. Not confused. Just… steady.

I turned my head slightly. “What do you mean it’s development? What are you saying?”

She hesitated — just for a second. Like she was searching for the right words.

Then she said it.
Soft.
Careful.

“I think you might be… turning into a girl.”

The words hung in the air between us like fog — heavy, impossible, real.

I stared at her.
My mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.

“You’re not crazy,” she added quickly. “And you’re not imagining it. I saw what I saw, Riley. Your voice. Your body. Everything’s been changing.”

I shook my head, but it wasn’t a no. It was more like a what do I even do with that?

“That’s not a thing,” I said hoarsely. “That doesn’t happen.”

“I know,” she said. “But I think… it is.”

Maya was quiet for a long moment. Then she shifted where she sat, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

“I know this is awkward,” she said softly. “But… can I ask you something? And you can totally say no.”

I looked at her, still feeling like I was floating a few inches outside of my body.

She hesitated, her cheeks coloring. “It’s just… you said the nurse noticed stuff was off, right? I’ve just been thinking. And wondering. So, um… have you ever been, like… kicked down there? You know—accidentally. In soccer or something?”

The question caught me off guard. “Uh… yeah? A few times.”

“And… did it ever really hurt?”

I blinked. “Not really. I mean, I thought maybe I was just lucky. Everyone else made such a big deal about it.”

Maya gave me a long, searching look, like puzzle pieces were finally starting to fall into place in her head. “Riley… is it possible this didn’t just start recently? Like… maybe something’s always been different?”

I didn’t know what to say. My hands were clenched in the navy bedspread again, the one with faded stars. My chest felt tight.

“What are you saying?” I asked, even though I already sort of knew.

“I’m saying… maybe this isn’t just some sudden change. Maybe your body’s always had something people just didn’t notice. Or didn’t want to notice. Like… intersex.”
I looked at her in shock and disbelief.

The room felt too quiet. Too still.

I wanted to tell her she was wrong. That she had to be.

But all I could do was sit there, frozen, as something deep in my gut started to shift — not like panic this time, but like a question I’d never let myself ask.

Something I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to.

“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.

I wasn't sure how they knew I was here.

Probably Maya.
But it didn't matter — because suddenly, the door swung open and Claire burst in like she'd been sprinting the whole way.
Jess was right behind her.

"Riley!" Claire half-yelled, eyes wide as she crossed the room. "Oh my god, are you okay?! Maya said you collapsed?"

Jess hovered near the doorway, looking uncertain. "Are you in the hospital? Is this—what happened?"

I sat up a little in the bed, blinking against the light. My heart pounded.
"I'm fine," I lied. My voice came out soft. Too soft.

Claire froze for a split second, then kept moving, brushing it off. She came to the side of the bed and gently squeezed my hand. "Don't scare us like that, idiot. You okay?"

I nodded once, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah. Just... stomach pain. They're doing tests."

Jess stepped in more slowly, her brows still pulled tight. "Was it like food poisoning or something? Stress? You've been kinda off since the semester started."

Maya stood off to the side, arms folded, eyes flicking between all of us. She didn't say anything.

Claire tilted her head at me. "You look really pale. And—have you lost weight?"

"Maybe," I muttered.

It was suddenly too hot under the blanket. Too bright in the room.
Claire was still studying me, the way her friend-eyes always picked up on things other people didn't. "You sure you're okay?"

I nodded again, but my throat tightened.
If they noticed the voice, they didn't say anything.
Yet.

Claire was still watching me too closely. I could feel the questions building behind her eyes — the ones she hadn't asked yet.
The ones I wasn't ready for.

Before she could say anything else, Maya stepped forward.

"Hey," she said gently, laying a hand on Claire's shoulder. "Let's not overwhelm him, okay? He's been through a lot."

Claire glanced at her, blinking. "I'm not—"

"I know," Maya said quickly. "You're worried. We all are. But the doctors are still figuring things out, and he needs rest more than anything right now."

Jess finally moved closer, her expression softening a little. "So... it's not serious, right?"

Maya gave a noncommittal shrug. "We don't know yet. But he's stable. They're running tests, and we'll know more soon."

Claire was mid-sentence — something about getting me soup later — when the door opened again.

Dr. Hendricks stepped back in, manila chart folder in hand and a tight, unreadable look on his face.
He didn't seem to notice my friends standing there.

"We've received the preliminary results from her bloodwork," he said, speaking quickly. "Estrogen levels are elevated well beyond typical ranges, and we're not detecting any significant testosterone activity. We'll need to run a karyotype next, just to confirm if—"

He stopped suddenly.
Because the room had gone silent.

Claire stared at him like she hadn't heard him correctly.
Jess blinked. "Wait... her?"

The air shifted — fast.
My stomach dropped.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't even breathe.

Dr. Hendricks looked up from his notes, eyes flicking toward Maya, then to me, then to the two stunned girls still rooted to the floor.

"Oh," he said, finally realizing. "You're—sorry. I thought—"

Maya jumped in, her voice smooth and fast. "Okay, that's enough for now. Let's give Riley some space, yeah?"

She turned to Claire and Jess, already ushering them gently toward the door.

Claire looked back at me, her face a storm of confusion.
"Riley... what's going on?"

I didn't answer.
Couldn't.

Jess hesitated. "Is this some kind of—?"

"Later," Maya said firmly. "Please."

But the moment they stepped into the hallway, their voices didn't stay quiet.

"I knew something was off!" Claire snapped, just outside the door. "Why didn't he say anything? Why didn't you say anything?"

Jess responded, her voice tense. "Claire, maybe he didn't know how. You saw his face — he looked terrified."

"No," Claire said. "No, this isn't just about being scared. This is—this is huge, Jess."

"You think I don't get that?" Jess hissed. "But yelling about it in the hallway isn't gonna fix anything."

Their words grew sharper, overlapping. Every syllable slipped under the crack of the door like static from a radio turned too loud.

Dr. Hendricks cleared his throat and stepped calmly to the door. He opened it just enough to poke his head out, voice firm but polite.

"Excuse me, ladies," he said. "I understand this is confusing and emotional, but I'm going to have to ask you to continue your conversation elsewhere, please. We need to maintain a calm environment for our patients."

A beat of silence followed.

"Sorry," Jess said quickly.
Claire didn't answer.

Footsteps retreated down the hallway, then quieted.

The door shut again.
And everything inside the room felt heavier than before.

****

The tray they brought me was basic — mashed potatoes, steamed carrots, and a tiny cup of applesauce with one of those peel-back foil lids. No meat, which I appreciated. I didn't have the stomach for anything heavy. Or anything at all, really.

The applesauce had one of those labels with a cartoon apple smiling up at me, like it was trying too hard.

I pushed the carrots around with my fork, not sure why I even asked for food. Maybe because sitting here doing nothing felt worse than eating something I didn't want.

Maya was perched on the edge of the visitor's chair, one leg folded under her. She hadn't left — not since Claire and Jess were ushered out.
She watched me quietly, arms crossed like she wasn't sure what to say next.

That made two of us.

"Don't feel like eating?" she asked gently.

I shrugged. "Just... don't feel much like anything right now."

She nodded like she got it.

"Your voice hasn't cracked once today," she said after a pause. "I don't mean that in a bad way. It's just... different."

"I know." My voice came out flat. Soft — too soft. I didn't even flinch at it anymore. Maybe I was getting used to it. Or maybe I was too tired to care.

Maya leaned forward a little. "The doctor's going to come back soon. He said he'd talk to you once the full blood panel comes in."

I didn't answer.

There was a clock on the wall across from me, ticking just loudly enough to be annoying — one of those off-white plastic ones with black numbers and a red second hand that jerked forward every tick.
It felt like it hadn't moved in hours.

"I hate this," I whispered suddenly. "I hate not knowing what's happening to me."

Maya reached out and touched my hand, just lightly. "You will know. And when you do... we'll deal with it."

I looked down at our hands.
My fingers looked thinner than I remembered. The shape of them... different. Like even the little things were quietly betraying me.

I didn't even realize I'd stopped eating until my fork slipped out of my hand and hit the tray with a soft clatter.
The sound made me flinch.

Maya looked up.
I kept staring at the mashed potatoes like they were going to explain something to me. Like they could make this all make sense.

"If I'm really..." I started, but the words caught.
I swallowed hard, tried again.
"If I'm turning into a girl... does that mean I have to start using... she and her?"

My voice sounded small. Barely mine.

Maya didn't flinch.
She didn't fumble for words or try to dance around it.
She just looked at me for a second, then said quietly, "Yeah. I think so."

It hit like a punch to the chest — not because she was mean about it. She wasn't.
She was just... honest.

"That's what people will expect," she added, softer now. "Especially once they see you. If your body's changing... they're going to assume you're a girl."

I didn't say anything.
I just kept looking at my tray, like if I focused hard enough it would swallow me.

"I'm sorry," Maya said, reaching across the table to touch my hand. "I don't know what's causing this. I don't. But you're still you, Riley. Even if people start calling you something else."

I didn't pull away, but I didn't look at her either.
Because I didn't know who "me" was anymore.

There was a knock, then the door creaked open.

Dr. Hendricks stepped in, still holding that same manila folder from earlier — only now it looked heavier. Thicker. Final.

He gave a polite nod to Maya, then looked at me.

"Riley," he said, voice calm but firm, "I have the results from your full blood panel and follow-up scans."

I sat up a little straighter, though my chest tightened with every word.

Dr. Hendricks moved to the end of the bed, flipping open the folder. "First off, your bloodwork confirms what we initially suspected. Your hormone levels are consistent with those of a biological female. Estrogen is high — naturally high — and we're not detecting any measurable testosterone activity."

I swallowed hard.

He looked at me carefully. "We also ran a chromosomal analysis."

My heart pounded in my ears.

"Riley... your chromosomes are XX."

Maya inhaled sharply next to me.
I just stared at him.
No words. Just a buzzing in my skull.

"We weren't expecting that," he continued. "Given your childhood development, this is extremely rare. But the karyotype is clear. Genetically, you are female."

The room seemed to tilt a little.

Dr. Hendricks gave me a moment, then continued. "To better understand what's going on internally, we also performed a pelvic MRI. It showed the presence of internal structures — a uterus, fallopian tubes, early-stage ovarian development. Everything points to a functioning, if still maturing, female reproductive system."

My hands were cold.
I didn't know what to do with them.

Dr. Hendricks hesitated, then said the words that made it all feel real.

"If this continues... in time, your body will begin menstruation. Likely within a few months, if not sooner."

The buzzing in my head turned to static.
I wasn't sure if I was breathing anymore.

Maya moved closer. She didn't say anything — just sat there, her knee against mine.

Dr. Hendricks closed the folder with a soft thunk and rested his hand on it.

"We'll need to keep monitoring everything closely," he said. "And there are going to be a lot of decisions ahead. But for now—"

He stopped.
Because I wasn't looking at him anymore.
I was staring at my hands. They didn't even feel like mine.
None of this did.

I opened my mouth to say something — anything — but no sound came out.

Just then, there was another knock at the door.
A nurse leaned in. "Doctor? You're needed in Room Fourteen."

Dr. Hendricks gave a small nod, then looked back at me.
"I'll be back in a bit. Try to rest, Riley."

He stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Maya sat beside me, still as stone.

I turned to her, barely able to speak.
"What if... what if I'm not supposed to be Riley anymore?"

She looked at me. Really looked at me.
Then she opened her mouth to answer.

But before she could say anything, I fainted again.

10. Nothing Left to Lose

A soft beep. Then another.
The murmur of voices behind a wall.
Cold air on my arms. Plastic against my skin. That hospital smell again — sharp and too clean, like bleach trying to scrub out something it couldn’t reach.

I opened my eyes slowly. Everything was dim, like the lights were turned down low to keep the room quiet — like even the air was trying not to make too much noise.

Maya’s face appeared in the corner of my vision — tired, but alert. Her hair was a little messy, like she’d run her hands through it too many times. She was still wearing the same hoodie she had on earlier, sleeves pushed up, a faint coffee stain near the cuff.

“You’re awake,” she said, voice low and careful.

I swallowed, but my throat was raw. “What… happened?”

“You fainted again,” she said. “Right after the doctor left. They moved you to a different room to monitor everything. You’ve been out for a few hours.”

I tried to sit up, but my body didn’t want to listen. My arms felt like rubber. My legs were numb under the thin blanket. The IV in my wrist tugged gently — a plastic tether I hadn’t noticed before.

Everything ached.
Not just sore — deeper than that. Like my bones were too tired to hold me together.

My mind felt like it was floating above me — not connected. Not present. Just… hovering.

“Did they say anything else?” I asked.

Maya hesitated, her lips pressing into a line. “No. Not yet. They’re just watching your vitals for now. Making sure your body’s stable.”

I nodded, but it didn’t feel like a yes. It just felt automatic. Like my head was moving without permission.

I glanced toward the door — it was slightly ajar, just enough for the light from the hallway to spill in like a crack in the world. Somewhere out there, I could hear a nurse wheeling a cart. A distant phone rang once, then stopped. A voice paged someone to Radiology on the crackly intercom.

“Claire and Jess…?” I asked, voice barely more than breath.

“I didn’t call them back in,” she said gently. “Didn’t think you were ready yet.”

“Thanks,” I whispered.

For a while, neither of us spoke.
The monitor beeped.
The air conditioner kicked on.
Somewhere outside the room, a door opened and closed.

I stared at the ceiling — too white, too smooth, like it had nothing better to offer me.

Then I said it.
The same thought I couldn’t get out of my head.

“I don’t think I’m going to wake up tomorrow and be me again.”

Maya didn’t pretend to have an answer.
She didn’t tell me I was wrong, or that I’d feel better with sleep, or that it would all work out somehow.
She just sat there, solid and quiet. A warm shadow against the buzz of a too-white room.

Then, after a long moment, she said softly, “Maybe… maybe you were always meant to be both.”

I turned my head, just enough to see her through the dim light.

“I mean it,” she added. “Some people are born one way. Some grow into another. But maybe you were always meant to live somewhere in between. Maybe one or both of your parents made that choice — or didn’t understand what they were choosing. And now… now it’s catching up.”

I didn’t answer.

Maya’s voice dropped, almost like she was afraid to say it too loud.
“Maybe they thought keeping it quiet would make it go away. Or maybe they just didn’t know how to explain it. But if your body was meant for both… that’s not a mistake, Riley. It’s just… complicated.”

She paused, then added, even softer, “And maybe that’s why they named you Riley.”

I blinked. “…What?”

“It’s a name that works either way,” she said. “Boy or girl. They could’ve picked anything. But they chose one that wouldn’t have to change. Maybe they wanted to leave you a way to exist in both worlds.”

Outside the room, the hallway noise dimmed. The intercom cut off mid-sentence. Even the monitor seemed to fade into the background.

I lay still, the words circling my chest like slow-moving fog.

Not broken.
Just complicated.

*

There was a soft knock on the door.

Before either of us could answer, it opened partway — slow, hesitant, like the person on the other side was bracing for whatever was waiting inside.

Coach Walker stepped in — hat in hand, literally. His baseball cap, the same navy one he wore every single practice, was clenched tight between his fingers, the bill bent and misshapen from how hard he was gripping it. He didn’t meet my eyes right away. Didn’t even glance fully into the room.

“Hey, kid,” he said, voice low and rough like he’d swallowed gravel on the walk over.

Maya sat up straighter in her chair, suddenly alert. I blinked at him, not quite ready for another visitor. Not ready for him. He looked out of place in the sterile white light of the room — like he belonged under stadium lights, not fluorescents. The collar of his windbreaker was flipped up, like he’d thrown it on in a rush.

Coach shifted awkwardly near the end of the bed, as if his feet weren’t sure whether they were supposed to stay or go. His eyes flicked toward the floor, then the edge of the bed, then finally somewhere just to the left of mine.

“I, uh… heard you were in here. From campus health.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice almost apologetic. “Didn’t feel right not coming by.”

I gave a faint nod. I didn’t know what to say. My throat felt tight again, the air suddenly too thick to pull in fully.

He took a breath, one of those long, heavy ones you take before saying something you don’t want to say.

“I don’t want to make this harder than it already is, Riley. But I need to be upfront.”

Maya tensed beside me, her fingers curling into her jeans, her gaze locked on him.

Coach’s voice softened, but not enough to hide the weight behind it. “We got the medical notice from the nurse and the doctor. And… well, based on everything that’s happening — hormonally, physically — you’re not eligible to stay on the men’s team.”

It hit like a slap, even though I saw it coming. The words still landed with all the weight of a blow to the chest.

“You’re dropping me?” I asked. My voice cracked halfway through, sharp and broken in my own ears.

Coach looked like he hated himself for nodding. “Yeah. I am.”

I felt the sting in my eyes before the tears came. They burned — slow at first, then fast, like a fuse catching flame. I tried to hold them back, tried to sit still, tried to be fine. But it was like trying to stop a flood with a paper towel. My shoulders tightened. My breathing hitched. Every part of me wanted to disappear into the bed, into the floor, into nothing.

Maya reached for my hand again, her fingers gentle and steady. But I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t want her to see the way my face crumpled, the way I couldn’t hold myself together anymore.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered, voice shaking so hard it barely held together. “I didn’t… I didn’t choose this.”

Coach swallowed hard. His eyes dropped to the floor again, and for a moment, he looked a hundred years old. Like he’d aged ten seasons in the past ten minutes. “I know.”

I stared at the ceiling — one of those ugly ceiling tiles with rust-colored water stains in the corner. The kind you start counting when you’re trying not to cry. My heart was pounding again, louder and faster than it should’ve been. I felt like I was crumbling from the inside out, like every part of me was being peeled away. Like I didn’t belong to myself anymore.

“But,” he added, his voice catching, “I talked to the women’s coach. If you want… you can transfer. Try out for the women’s team. It’s your choice.”

That stopped me.

Try out for the women’s team?

The words didn’t even make sense at first. My brain couldn’t hold them. Couldn’t hold anything.

Because immediately, images flashed through my head — the locker rooms, lined with rows of hooks and damp towels and the smell of sweat and old cleats. The stares. The whispers. The way the guys on my old team would talk behind my back — or to my face. The way the women might look at me like I didn’t belong. Like I was trespassing. Like I was wrong no matter where I stood.

I imagined walking into that space and feeling alien in every direction.

Coach must’ve seen my face, because he held up a hand quickly.

“No pressure,” he said, his voice gentler now. “No one’s gonna force you. But the door’s open.”

I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
There weren’t words left for any of this.

He nodded like he understood and quietly backed toward the door, his footsteps soft against the floor tiles. He paused at the threshold, then turned back just once.

“You’re still one of mine, Riley. Don’t forget that.”

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him with a sound that felt too final — like it sealed something in or locked something out.

And I broke.

There was no warning this time. Just the collapse.

The tears came fast, like they’d been waiting for permission. My whole body shook — chest heaving, breath catching — and I buried my face in my hands, not even caring that Maya was still there. Not even caring that I was crying like a little kid.

Because this wasn’t about soccer anymore.

It was about everything I was losing — piece by piece, minute by minute.
My team. My place. My self.
And the terrifying truth that I didn’t even know what I was becoming.

I sat there shaking, trying to hold onto something — anything — that felt solid.

Maya’s hand was still on my back. Quiet. Warm. Grounding.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

But after a long time — maybe a minute, maybe more — the words came.

They were thin. Dry. Barely more than a breath.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

Maya lifted her head, startled. “What?”

I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, eyes still stinging. My voice wobbled, but it held.

“I’ll try out for the women’s team.”

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.

The doors to Mall of America slid open like a portal to a different world — one where I wasn’t defined by hospital gowns or whispered hallway glances.

Instead, I was surrounded by polished floors, skylights three stories above, and the unmistakable hum of Camp Snoopy just beyond the food court. Somewhere, a little kid squealed as the log chute splashed down, and the smell of Auntie Anne’s pretzels hung in the air like a warm invitation. The overhead speakers played a faint remix of Kiss from a Rose by Seal, and the tiled echo of weekend shoppers buzzed around us like static.

“Ready?” Maya asked, dangling a pair of jeans in front of me.
She wore a denim jacket with buttons on the collar — one said “Save Ferris” and another was Lisa Simpson holding a protest sign.

I took a step forward. The spinny world of Snoopy’s roller coaster lights flashed in my peripheral vision. The smell of buttery popcorn mingled with cinnamon pretzel wafts.

“Yes,” I whispered.

We navigated through throngs of shoppers toward Bloomingdale’s — one of the big anchors on the south end. Inside, the women’s clothing section was a world apart: neat rows of pastel blouses, skinny-legged jeans in sizes unknown to me, and tags that said 5, 7, 9 — not small, medium, large.

A mannequin nearby wore a lime-green windbreaker over a cropped tee that said Angel in glitter. Everything felt glossy, like stepping into an issue of Teen People.

Maya pulled a pair of dark-wash jeans and a simple white tee from a rack.
“Start here,” she said. “Something neutral.”

I nodded, slipping into the changing room — cold air and bright light washing over me. The door creaked as I shut it behind me. My hands shook as I buttoned the jeans.
They fit. Not too tight. Not too loose — like they almost belonged.

I stepped out. Maya’s eyes softened.
“Looks good,” she said simply.

Next, we hunted for tops. I picked out a few — a pale blue scoop-neck tee, a soft gray cardigan. There were more adventurous options, too — sheer tanks with spaghetti straps, tiny floral crop tops — but I passed those for now.

At one point, I looked into the central atrium at Camp Snoopy, its tiny coaster cars winding by smiling kids. The Paul Bunyan log ride splashed down again in the distance. I thought of the rides I used to take with Garrett and Jess, unaware of what I might feel like now if I tried to ride it again.

My heart squeezed.

But Maya squeezed my hand. “Let’s grab those jeans for now, okay?”

We rounded a corner into Sears. I lost count of how many times Maya said, “What about this?” or “Just try it.” It felt like being coached — gentle but persistent. She held up a cute ribbed vest at one point and a tan jacket that looked like it belonged in Clarissa Explains It All.

Finally, I emerged holding a pair of fitted khaki pants.
“They’re… okay?” I asked, unsure.

Maya smiled softly. “More than okay.”

I could feel the eyes of a few shoppers as we carried our items toward the checkout. Nothing loud. Just looks.

A teenage girl with crimped hair and frosty blue eyeshadow turned to glance at me once, then quickly turned back. An older woman in a floral blouse gave us a pause-and-blink kind of stare.

But it didn’t matter.

Because today, I chose to try.

****

The bag handles were digging into my fingers by the time we walked into Camp Snoopy. Even inside a giant mall, it still felt like its own world — pine trees (which were really real), cartoon statues, the laughter of kids echoing under the glass roof. Somewhere, the little train clanged around the corner with its slow, steady rhythm. Its bell rang out in that familiar, old-timey way that always reminded me of Christmas, even in June.

Kids in bright windbreakers ran past us holding giant plush Snoopy. A dad pointed toward the ferris wheel with a camcorder on his shoulder, the strap bobbing with every step. The air carried the smell of fresh popcorn, fried dough, and the faint rubbery scent of freshly washed rides.

“I used to come here with my cousins,” Maya said, nudging my shoulder gently. “Like, the summer it opened. We’d ride the log chute ten times in a row.”

I smiled. “That sounds like something you’d do.”

We wandered through the rides, past the Kite-Eating Tree and Paul Bunyan’s Log Chute. The animatronic Paul gave a slow, goofy wave as a log boat floated by beneath him, soaked riders shrieking and laughing. The air smelled like corn dogs and rubber. People bustled around us, but for a second it felt still — like we were kids again. Or like I was trying to remember how to be one.

“Wanna sit for a minute?” Maya asked, pointing to a bench near the carousel.

I nodded, grateful. My feet were sore. Or maybe I was just worn out from trying so hard to feel okay.

We sat side by side, bags at our feet, carousel music drifting through the air like some slow lullaby. The horses moved in time to a tinny version of Rainbow Connection, their painted eyes glossy under the overhead lights.

“You’re different now,” she said quietly after a while.

I stiffened a little. “You mean how I look?”

“No,” Maya said quickly. “Well, yeah, but… not just that. It’s like you’re… softer. But stronger too. I don’t know. It’s weird. In a good way.”

I didn’t quite know how to respond. So I just looked out at the carousel instead — watched the painted horses go around and around in slow, dizzy circles. A little girl in jelly sandals waved at her mom each time she passed, the same goofy smile lighting up her face again and again.

Maya leaned in a little closer.

“Today was fun,” she said. “Even if it was awkward. I’m glad I got to be the one with you.”

I smiled. “Thanks for helping me. I probably would’ve ended up buying, like, socks and nothing else.”

She laughed. “You’d make them work. Somehow.”

There was a pause — not uncomfortable, just long enough to notice. Her hand brushed against mine on the bench. She didn’t move it away right away.

I didn’t notice.

I was too busy watching the carousel.
It spun lazily beside us, its painted lights blinking against the glass ceiling. Laughter and music drifted through the air, distant and dreamy. The skylights above shimmered with late afternoon light, filtering down like a hazy spotlight through floating dust motes.

Maya shifted just a little closer on the bench, like she was trying to get comfortable — or maybe just closer to me.

She reached down, adjusting one of the shopping bags with her toe. “You know… that cardigan you picked? Kinda perfect on you.”

I gave a half-laugh. “You picked it.”

“Yeah, but you made it look better than the mannequin,” she said with a grin.

I looked at her, confused. “It’s just gray.”

She smirked. “Gray’s not the point, genius.”

I shrugged, not getting it. “Well, thanks, I guess?”

Her smile lingered longer than it probably should have, eyes tracing my face for a moment too long. Then she quickly looked away, pretending to check the time on her cheap watch. The numbers glowed dull green on the digital screen, the kind that beeped every hour and came from the kiosk between the food court and Radio Shack.

“You ever think maybe this version of you was always in there?” she asked, voice casual but with a weight tucked just underneath.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

She tilted her head. “I mean… maybe this isn’t new, exactly. Maybe it’s just finally… visible.”

I didn’t know how to answer. My chest tightened in that weird, twisty way it did when I didn’t understand how I was supposed to feel. I looked back at the carousel instead. The little girl waved again, and this time her mom waved back with both arms.

Maya nudged me again, this time more playful. “C’mon, you really don’t see it?”

“See what?”

“That you’re—” she hesitated, cheeks pinking just a little, “—kind of cute like this?”

I laughed, brushing it off like it was a joke. “Okay, now I know you’re messing with me.”

Maya just smiled and looked away again, lips pressed together in a way that said nope, not messing.

But I didn’t catch that part.
I was too busy trying to figure out who the heck I was becoming.

****

We left Camp Snoopy through the north walkway, passing a giant statue of Lucy holding a “The Doctor is In” sign. The fiberglass looked a little faded under the overhead lights, her plastic grin stuck in that smug, all-knowing expression.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at it.
“Should’ve stopped there earlier,” I muttered. “Might’ve saved everyone the trouble.”

Maya laughed softly beside me. “You’d probably sass her. Get kicked out of your own therapy booth.”

The crowd thinned as we walked, the distant sound of rides fading behind us. The mall felt less like a theme park again — more like what it was: a monument to shopping and food courts and fluorescent lighting.

We passed a kiosk selling Beanie Babies and Tamagotchis, their digital faces blinking blankly from behind smudged plastic. Someone walked past carrying a Claire’s bag stuffed with glitter scrunchies and nail polish that smelled like bubblegum.

I glanced into the reflection of a shop window as we passed. The girl looking back still felt unfamiliar. She moved like me. Held the bags like me. But there was a softness in her frame I didn’t recognize. Her eyes looked too big for her face. My face.

I looked away.

“You okay?” Maya asked, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her butterfly clip was starting to slip, catching the light in a prismatic sparkle as it bounced.

“Yeah,” I said automatically.

We walked a little further before she spoke again. Her voice was careful — light, but not too light. “You know… if this is who you’re becoming… it’s not a bad thing.”

I frowned a little. “You mean because now I get to join the long list of people who are constantly confused and terrified?”

Maya chuckled. “No. I mean because… I think she’s kind of amazing.”

I stopped walking for a second, caught off guard. “What?”

Maya looked at me — really looked — eyes soft but certain. “I just mean… I see you. And I like what I see. That’s all.”

My heart stuttered a little, but my brain scrambled to deflect.

“I’m wearing jeans and a flannel,” I said, shrugging. “Hardly a fashion icon.”

She smiled. “Yeah. But somehow you make it work.”

I looked away again, cheeks hot. “You’re really bad at compliments.”

“No, you’re just really bad at hearing them.”

We stood outside the main entrance now, the parking lot ahead glowing under the amber mall lights. Sodium vapor lamps buzzed above us, casting everything in a soft orange haze. A few shopping carts clanked somewhere in the distance, pushed by a bored teenager in a Super Kmart vest.

Maya reached out and gently tugged one of the shopping bags from my arm, lightening my load.

“Anyway,” she said with a casual shrug, “if I were into girls… I’d totally have a crush on you.”

I froze.

Maya kept walking.

My brain stalled for a second — trying to piece together what she meant, whether it was a joke, a test, or something else. I caught up with her a moment later, heart racing for reasons I didn’t understand.

“Wait, you are into girls,” I said dumbly.

She gave me a sideways glance, lips quirking. “Exactly.”

I got into the car as we drove off back to campus.

The radio was on low — some soft pop song humming through the static — but neither of us was really listening. I think it was that new Natalie Imbruglia single, the one that always sounded like someone was almost crying while singing. Fuzzy bass thudded through the old car speakers, the kind with cassette deck buttons that stuck sometimes.

The dashboard glowed faint green in the dim light, and the windshield wipers creaked rhythmically, brushing away the mist clinging to the glass.

I fidgeted with the edge of the shopping bag in my lap, still feeling the weight of her words back at the mall. It sat in my chest like a pebble in my shoe — small, but impossible to ignore. The handle crackled softly under my fingertips as I twisted it back and forth.

After a few minutes, I finally said it. Quiet. Hesitant.

“So… you like me?”

Maya didn’t take her eyes off the road. “Yeah,” she said simply.

I swallowed, then added — softer — “But we’re…”
I hesitated. The word caught on my tongue like a splinter.
“…Girls.”

The car was quiet except for the windshield wipers dragging across glass. The silence made the air feel thicker, like we were both breathing something heavier than oxygen.

Outside, the glow of passing streetlights flickered over the dashboard like a slow pulse. The edges of the highway signs blurred as we passed them, green and unreadable.

Maya’s grip on the steering wheel didn’t change, but her voice did — gentle, like she was unwrapping something fragile. “Yeah. We are.”

I stared out the window. My reflection in the glass didn’t help. It was still me. It wasn’t. I didn’t know anymore. The headlights from a passing car painted brief shadows across my face, warping the image into something unfamiliar for a moment.

“I’ve never… I mean, I wasn’t…” I bit my lip, trying to find the right shape for the sentence. “I didn’t think anyone would ever say that to me. Not now. Not like this.”

“You don’t have to say anything back,” Maya said quickly. “I’m not trying to push you into something. I just… I wanted to be honest.”

I nodded, heart hammering. I didn’t know if it was fear, confusion, or something else entirely.

“I’m still figuring everything out,” I said.

“I know.”

“I’m not… I don’t even know who I am yet.”

She glanced at me, and for once, there was no teasing in her smile. Just quiet understanding.

“That’s okay, Riley. You’ve got time.”

****

We made it back to our dorm room.

Maya tossed her keys on the desk and flopped onto her bed like she’d just finished a marathon. Her jacket slid off one shoulder, and she kicked her sneakers off with a groan.

I didn’t say much. Just climbed onto my own bed and stared at the ceiling, the bags from the mall still sitting near the door, unopened. They looked like artifacts from someone else’s life.

The overhead light buzzed faintly, but I didn’t feel like turning it off. I didn’t feel like doing anything, really.

My body felt weird — not just from everything happening inside it, but from… today. From her.

Butterflies.

I hadn’t had those in years. Not since middle school when Megan Taylor let me hold her hand behind the bleachers and I thought I might actually float away.

But that was when I was a boy.

Now?
Now I didn’t even know what I was.

I still liked girls. That hadn’t changed. But everything else had.
And suddenly, the idea of liking girls — as a girl — felt complicated in a way it never had before.

I shifted on the mattress, wrapping the blanket tighter around my shoulders. My heart was doing this slow, fluttery thing, and my stomach was all tangled up in knots.

Was it okay?
To still feel that way?
To maybe… be a lesbian?

Even thinking the word made my face warm.

In the hallway earlier, two girls passed by and whispered dyke loud enough for me to hear. I pretended I didn’t, but it stuck — a sharp little splinter in the back of my mind. The kind of word that echoed, even after you told it to shut up.

That wasn’t what I wanted people to see when they looked at me. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I wasn’t brave or bold. I was just… confused.

I still liked Maya’s smile.
Still liked the way she stood up for me.
Still thought she was beautiful.

But how do you even say that when you’re not sure who you are yet?

Back when I was a boy, I liked girls. No one questioned that. No one stared.
But now, if I like a girl… suddenly it’s a whole thing. A label. A political act. A target.

I buried my face into my pillow, the fabric warm from the day, and let out a quiet sigh.

Is it still the same kind of love?
I didn’t know.
And that was the scariest part of all.

I looked over at Maya.

She was lying on her side, one arm tucked under her head, hair spilling over her pillow like a curtain of dark waves. Her breathing had slowed, steady and soft, like she was trying to give me space without actually leaving.

Her eyes met mine — soft, open, like she knew I was thinking too loud again.

And then she smiled.

Not a big smile. Just a quiet one. The kind that settles into your chest and stays there.

There they were again.

The butterflies.
Tiny, invisible things fluttering around in the space behind my ribs. The same ones I’d been trying to ignore since the mall… maybe even longer than that. But now they weren’t so easy to swat away.

And somehow, now that it was quiet, now that the world wasn’t moving so fast — I could feel them more clearly.
They weren’t just nerves. They were wanting.
Wanting her hand again. Wanting her to say my name the way she did earlier.
Wanting to understand what all this meant, even if I was terrified of the answer.

I looked back up at the ceiling, heart thudding gently.

She liked me.
She really liked me.
Not because of who I used to be. She liked me, right now.
Even when I didn’t know what that meant.

And the truth was…
I liked her, too.
Maybe I had for a while.
Maybe I just didn’t let myself see it until now.

I turned onto my side, facing her fully. My throat tightened a little, but I didn’t look away.

“Maya?” I said, barely above a whisper.

She blinked, eyebrows lifting. “Yeah?”

I hesitated. My fingers fidgeted with the hem of the blanket, twisting it into soft little folds.

Then I said it — quiet, breathless, but real.

“I think… I think I love you, too.”

Her face changed slowly, like a sunrise. Not shock. Not confusion. Just… warmth.
The kind that made my chest ache in the best possible way.

She didn’t say anything right away.
She just reached across the small space between our beds and gently took my hand in hers.

Her fingers were warm. Steady. She didn’t squeeze — just held me like it wasn’t a question.

And somehow, that one small gesture made everything feel a little less impossible.
A little less scary.

The rain had started sometime in the middle of the night — just a light drizzle, barely tapping the dorm windows, but steady enough to pull the world into a hush.

I was sitting cross-legged on my bed in one of the oversized sweatshirts Maya had helped me pick out. It still felt strange, wearing something soft and fitted.

Maya sat across from me, her sketchpad open on her lap, pencil moving lazily across the page. She wasn’t drawing anything in particular — just looping shapes and half-finished flowers.

Music played softly from her little radio on the desk. Tori Amos, or someone like her. Breath and piano keys. It filled the silence like a lullaby for the parts of us still learning how to speak.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired,” I mumbled, leaning back against the wall. “And I’m not even doing anything.”

“You’ve been doing a lot, actually,” Maya said, not looking up. “Existing is exhausting when you’re not sure who you are.”

I gave a weak laugh. “Poetic.”

She shrugged one shoulder, eyes still on the page. “It’s true.”

There was a long pause — not awkward, just… full. My heart had started that weird fluttery thing again, and I could feel it in my throat.

I glanced at her — at the way the lamplight caught the curve of her cheek, the faint smudge of graphite on her knuckle. Her hair was tucked behind one ear, and she was humming, barely audible.

I didn’t mean to stare.
But I also didn’t look away.

Maya must’ve felt it, because her pencil stopped. She looked up slowly, meeting my eyes.

Her expression changed — softened.

“What?” she asked gently.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

She tilted her head. “Riley.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t have the words. Not yet. I was still trying to understand the shape of them inside me.

But I knew what I felt.
And I think she did, too.

Maya set the sketchpad aside. She crawled across the narrow space between our beds and sat beside me, close enough that her knee brushed mine.

“Can I?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, lifting her hand just slightly toward my face — not touching me yet, just hovering in that tantalizing space between need and consent. Her gaze was intense, filled with a mixture of vulnerability, desire, and an unspoken promise that made my heart race in my chest.

I nodded, feeling a rush of warmth flood my cheeks.

And then she leaned in. Slow. Deliberate. No words, just the weight of her body pulling mine in. Her lips brushed mine — soft at first, tentative — but it didn’t take long before that softness turned into something deeper. Something demanding. She kissed me like she was marking me, like I was the only thing in the universe that mattered in that moment.

I kissed her back with everything I had. Not to fix anything, but because I needed this — her.

Her hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer, her body pressing into mine like she wanted to erase any space between us. My chest was tight, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from the fire she was lighting inside me.

I let her take the lead. Her lips trailed to my jaw, down my neck — every kiss a silent promise. And when her hand slid beneath my shirt, fingertips grazing skin, my breath caught. But I didn’t stop her. I wanted this. I needed this.

Her lips found my pulse, kissed it hard enough that I knew she could feel it racing beneath her mouth. Her touch was hot — moving with purpose now, hands sliding up, pushing me closer, harder, like she needed to see if I could burn with her.

She paused for just a second, like she was asking if I was all in. And when I nodded, she didn’t hesitate.

Her touch became bolder. Her kisses deeper, more demanding — each one making me forget where we were. Each touch pulled me further into her orbit, closer to the edge, closer to that point where nothing else existed but us. My fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, needing the heat, the connection, the skin against skin.

The world outside — everything that had been loud and sharp — vanished. All I could feel was the heat between us. The hunger. The need.

I didn’t care about anything else. Not the history, not the fear. Just her, and the way she made everything feel like it was on fire.

As we pulled away, I couldn’t help but grin. “So, what now?”

Maya chuckled, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “How about breakfast? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“Breakfast it is,” I replied.

We headed out of our dorm to the dining hall.

We stepped into the hallway, the lights above buzzing faintly. A couple of girls passed us, one of them giving me a quick smile — like I belonged there. Like I’d always belonged. It still felt strange, but not… bad.

Outside, the rain had finally stopped, leaving the pavement slick and shining. Everything smelled like wet leaves and campus coffee — oddly comforting. Maya walked beside me, her hands in her jacket pockets. Close, but not too close. Just enough.

The dining hall wasn’t far, but we took our time.

“I bet they still have waffles,” Maya said, glancing at the clock on the wall as we passed the student center. “And if not… we riot.”

I laughed — a real one this time. It bubbled out without effort.

“Can’t believe we did what we did and now we’re talking about waffles,” I said under my breath.

Maya bumped her shoulder gently against mine. “It’s called balance.”

And somehow, it was.
Everything was still confusing — my body, my future, even my feelings. They were all a mess.

****

We made it to the dining hall just as the breakfast line was thinning out. The clatter of trays, the smell of eggs and maple syrup, the low hum of early conversations — it was all there, familiar and noisy and warm.

And then I saw them.

Jess and Claire.

They were sitting at a round table near the far window, half-finished bowls of cereal between them. Claire was mid-sentence, animated like always, but her hands froze the moment her eyes found me.

Jess turned too, slower — like she was bracing herself.

I stopped walking.

Maya noticed right away. “You okay?”

“They’re here,” I said softly, not moving.

She looked, then gently placed a hand on my back. “We don’t have to—”

“No,” I said quickly. My voice felt too thin. “I don’t want to hide.”

Maya nodded once, and we started walking again — slowly, like we were approaching a wild animal that might bolt or bite.

Claire’s eyes stayed on me the whole time, unreadable. Jess looked down, then back up, clearly unsure what to do with her face.

When we reached the table, I opened my mouth — but nothing came out.

Claire was the first to speak. “Hey.”

Jess gave a small wave. “Hey.”

Maya smiled politely and slid into the chair next to Jess, leaving me the spot beside Claire. I sat down stiffly, trying not to fidget. My tray was still in my hands.

Nobody said anything for a second.

Claire finally cleared her throat. “You look… different.”

It wasn’t mean. It wasn’t kind either. Just honest.

I gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

Jess shifted. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” I lied. I looked down at my tray. Waffles. Syrup in a little plastic cup. I poked at it with my fork.

Claire’s voice was quieter this time. “We’re still getting used to everything. It’s a lot.”

“I know,” I whispered.

“We just… wish you’d told us.”

I looked up then, meeting her eyes. “I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know what was happening to me.”

Jess bit her lip, looking guilty. “That’s fair.”

It was quiet again.

Then Maya broke the silence with a soft smile. “Waffles are good today.”

Jess snorted. “They always are on Fridays.”

And just like that, the tension started to thin. Not gone. But cracked, just a little — enough to let some light in.

Claire glanced sideways at me. “So, uh… are you sitting with us?”

I blinked, surprised by the question.

“I’d like that,” I said quietly.

Maya smiled and took a bite of her toast.

Jess nudged the syrup toward me. “Go for it before Claire hogs it all.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “I only hog the syrup when it’s the good kind.”

Maya grinned. “Fake maple forever.”

We all laughed — not loud, not quite together, but enough.

And for the first time in days, I let myself believe this might actually be okay.

Not perfect. Not simple. But real.
Ours.
And maybe even worth staying for.

The women's team practiced on the east field, the one with the uneven turf and the crooked goalpost that never got fixed.

My former coach had told me to show up there at 3:30 sharp. "Unofficial," he said. "Just drop in. Show them what you've got."

It wasn't a real tryout. Not officially. But I knew what it really was.

A test.

I was early. Not by much, but enough to stand there awkwardly with my cleats in one hand and that too-tight feeling in my chest again. The girls were scattered across the field — stretching, passing, tying up ponytails. A few glanced my way. Not hostile. Not exactly friendly either.

Just... waiting to see what I was.

I found a patch of grass near the sideline and started warming up alone — hamstrings, knees, ankles. The motions were familiar, muscle memory stuff. My body still knew what to do, even if it didn't feel like mine lately.

"Hey."

I looked up.

A tall girl with light brown skin and curly hair in a bandana stood a few feet away. She had a captain's armband and the kind of confidence that didn't need to prove anything. Her eyes weren't unkind — just sharp.

"You're Riley, right?"

I nodded, straightening up.

She gave a short whistle. "Damn. Didn't think you'd actually show."

"Neither did I," I said quietly.

She watched me for a beat, then stuck out a hand. "Daniell. Coach told us to expect you."

I shook it. Her grip was strong.

"Look, we don't care what you used to play," she said. "All that matters now is if you can keep up. That fair?"

"Fair," I said, even though I was already replaying every drill I'd ever failed in my head.

"Cool," she said, already turning. "Let's see what you've got, then."

Danielle jogged back toward the others without looking back, and I followed like I had something to lose. Maybe I did.

Coach Lacey was already setting up cones for warm-up drills — tight zigzags meant to test footwork and ball control. She had that look — the kind of coach who didn't believe in small talk. Just movement, sweat, and results.

"Riley," she said, not even raising her clipboard. "Grab a vest. You're blue today."

I pulled one from the plastic bin, slipping it over my long-sleeve tee. It smelled like grass and old detergent.

"Pair up," Coach barked. "Two lines. Passing drills. I want tight control, two-touch max. Eyes up."

The girls moved without hesitation, grouping off in pairs. I hovered for a second too long before Danielle motioned with a tilt of her head.

"You're with me."

We faced each other across a six-yard space. The ball rolled toward me. I trapped it with my right foot, passed back. Clean.

Again.

Danielle's touches were sharp — just enough power, just enough spin. Not showing off, just steady. She didn't talk much. Just nodded when a pass was solid, frowned slightly when I sent one too wide.

We went back and forth, our shoes slicing through damp grass.

I tried to quiet the noise in my head — all the things I'd overheard in the locker room last week, the way Coach Walker couldn't look me in the eye, the echo of Jess saying, "I just need time."

Focus.

Trap. Pass. Shift weight.

"Alright!" Coach Lacey called. "Split for 3v3. Half-field. First to two."

Danielle pointed to me and two other girls — a short redhead named Lexi and a stocky defender called Val.

We started fast.

Danielle had control in the midfield, barking directions like a general. "Wide! Riley — run left! Overlap!"

The ball came to me and I took it on instinct, dragging it past a defender with a move I hadn't practiced in weeks. My lungs burned, but I didn't stop. I cut in, quick pass to Lexi, who sent it back on a short flick.

One touch.

I took the shot.

It hit the inside post and bounced in.

I froze for a second — like maybe I dreamed it — before I heard Danielle shout, "There we go!" and slap my back hard enough to sting.

Lexi grinned at me. "Nice footwork."

We rotated teams after the first match. My pulse was still racing, sweat clinging to my collar despite the misty air. I tugged at the neckline of the vest and tried to stay focused, but I could feel it — the sideways glances, the ones that weren't there at the start.

As I headed toward the sidelines to grab a sip of water, I passed a group of girls sitting on their cleats, tying laces and catching their breath.

One of them — tall, blonde, with a sharp voice I hadn't heard earlier — didn't lower it when I got close.

"I don't care what Coach says. It's still weird," she muttered.

Another girl snorted. "We're seriously letting a guy just... join? Like, does that not mess with everything?"

"Did you see the shot though?" a third girl said. "She's good."

"Yeah, well, maybe if I had testosterone for eighteen years, I'd be good too."

They laughed — low and bitter.

My chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped everything out and left only the echo of their voices behind. I kept my eyes on the grass, blinked fast — once, twice — but it didn't help.

The tears came anyway.

Danielle caught my eye from across the field. Her expression shifted. One second it was neutral, the next it was something closer to concern. She didn't say anything. Didn't wave me over or call attention to it. But I saw the way her brows drew in, like she wanted to fix something but didn't know how.

Coach Lacey blew her whistle from mid-field. "Let's go again — clean passes, quick turns. Play like you mean it."

But I couldn't.

I dropped the water bottle and walked off the field.

I didn't run. I didn't storm off or throw anything.
I just... left.
Past the edge of the field, past the scraggly bleachers, through the small gap in the chain-link fence where the maintenance guys kept forgetting to patch it.

I sat behind the storage shed, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight like I could hold myself together that way. The crying had mostly stopped by the time I got there — or maybe it just ran out of steam. Either way, I felt hollow.
Not broken. Just... emptied.

I heard footsteps crunching in the gravel before I saw them.

Danielle came around the corner first, her cleats scraping with each step. She crouched a few feet away, giving me space.

"You okay?" she asked, voice quiet.

I didn't answer right away.

"They were out of line," she added. "You didn't deserve that."

"I know," I said softly. "Doesn't make it hurt less."

She nodded, resting her arms on her knees. "No. It doesn't."

Another set of steps followed — steadier, heavier. Coach Lacey appeared behind her, arms crossed. Her face wasn't exactly warm, but it wasn't cold either.

"You walked off my field," she said.

I looked down, ready to be chewed out.

But she didn't yell. She just exhaled and leaned against the shed wall.

"Some of those girls have a lot to learn," Coach said. "But so do you — about how to handle shit like that. It's not fair, but it's real. You want a spot on this team? It means pushing through that noise. Not running from it."

"I wasn't running," I whispered. "I just... couldn't breathe out there."

She didn't respond right away. Then, softer: "That's fair."

Danielle stood, brushed off her knees, then looked down at me. "You coming back out?"

I hesitated.

My legs were stiff. My heart felt heavier than it had all week. But I nodded anyway.

"I'll try."

"Good," Coach said. "Because talent's not your issue. Your heart's in the right place. You just gotta let it carry you."

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, took a breath that didn't feel deep enough, and stood.

The shed cast a long shadow over the grass as I followed Danielle and Coach back to the field. The others were still drilling — a triangle pass pattern this time, three cones, sprint to receive, redirect, pass.

Coach pointed to a spot. "Slot in with Lexi and Dani. Let's see how you do."

I nodded and jogged over. My legs felt heavier than they should. My chest was tight again, not from emotion this time — just from effort.

Lexi tossed me a half-smile. "Hey," she said, not unfriendly.

I fell into the rotation. Ball to Lexi. Sprint to the next cone. Receive from Dani. Pivot. Pass.

It should've felt automatic.

But something was off.

My timing was clumsy — just a half-second behind, like my reflexes were fogged up. My passes were slower, less punch behind them. On the third rotation, I stumbled on the cut and had to chase the ball as it rolled out of line.

Lexi caught it and sent it back gently. She didn't say anything, but I felt the hesitation in her silence.

I kept going.

Sweat soaked through my shirt. My breathing got ragged faster than I remembered. The strength I used to feel in my calves and thighs — that solid, spring-loaded power — just wasn't there. Everything felt dulled. Like someone turned the volume down on my own body.

Coach called for a short scrimmage. Danielle pulled me onto her squad again, but I knew I wasn't ready. Not like this.

We played short field, three-on-three. I tried to push myself, tried to call on the speed and instinct that had made me a starting midfielder last semester.

But when the ball came, I hesitated.

When I cut left, I was slower than the defender.

When I took the shot, it died at the goalie's feet.

By the end, I was bent over near the sideline, hands on my knees, lungs burning like they hadn't since pre-season drills.

Danielle came over and handed me a water bottle. She didn't say anything.

I didn't meet her eyes.

Because she knew.

And I knew.

I wasn't the same player anymore.

****

The locker room echoed with the usual post-practice sounds — running water, slamming lockers, the hiss of a sports bag zipper. I sat on the edge of the bench near the far wall, trying to stay small, hoping the ache in my legs would distract me from the heavier ache under my ribs.

I'd been the last one into the locker room, hoping most of them would be gone by the time I made it there.

I was wrong.

Laughter floated from around the corner — it didn't exactly sound joyful. It had that tight, sharp edge to it. Like something being sharpened.

I kept my head down.

Too late.

"Hey."

I didn't look up. But I knew that voice. The tall blonde from earlier — the one who didn't bother to lower it during practice.

"What, you get lost or something?" she said. "Men's locker room is down the hall."

Another girl giggled behind her. "Maybe she forgot which team she's on."

I stood up slowly, but not to fight. Just to leave.

"Seriously though," the blonde girl said, stepping closer, "we're supposed to feel safe in here. And no offense? You being in here... doesn't exactly help with that."

I swallowed. My fingers trembled as I gripped the strap of my bag. "I'm not here to bother anyone. I'm just trying to change and leave."

"Oh, so now you care about rules?"

More laughter.

My cheeks burned. I tried to move past them, but one of them stepped in front of the aisle, blocking me. I looked up, met her eyes for a split second.

Big mistake.

"What? Gonna cry again like you did on the field?" she said, voice syrupy-sweet. "You're not a girl just because you say so."

Something cracked behind my ribs.

Before I could move, someone's voice cut through.

"Enough."

Danielle.

She'd come back — hair damp, cleats hanging from one hand. Her voice was calm but cold.

The group turned.

"I said, that's enough," Danielle repeated. "We're teammates, not middle school mean girls. Back off."

One of them rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, Dani, you seriously—"

"Yeah," she snapped. "I seriously. She belongs here more than any of you right now."

Silence.

They didn't argue after that. Just grabbed their stuff, muttering under their breath as they filed out.

Danielle didn't say anything else. She just waited until they were gone, then looked at me.

"You okay?"

I nodded, barely. "They don't even know what they're talking about..."

My voice cracked, but I forced it out. "I'm not... I didn't choose this. I didn't do anything."

Danielle's expression softened. "I know."

I looked down at my hands. "I didn't change who I am. My body did."

She was quiet for a beat, then said, "Yeah. And that's not something you owe them an explanation for."

****

The dining hall buzzed with the usual dinner noise — forks clinking, trays sliding, muted laughter echoing off the beige walls. The air smelled like overcooked pasta, industrial dish soap, and something vaguely tomato-based that had probably started as soup.

I stood in line with my tray, eyes scanning the options. Meatloaf. Salisbury steak. Something labeled "turkey tetrazzini" that looked like regret.

I passed them all.

At the end of the line, there was a big metal pan of roasted vegetables — zucchini, potatoes, carrots, red peppers. Probably from lunch, maybe from yesterday. I didn't care. I scooped a double portion next to a scoop of rice and a square of cornbread that steamed faintly when I touched it.

It was hot. It was quiet. It was enough.

I found a corner table by the window, far from the TV blaring game highlights and the group of baseball guys shouting over a ketchup bottle.

I took a bite of rice and closed my eyes for a second. The locker room still buzzed under my skin — their words, their laughter. The way it felt like the whole room turned inside out. And Danielle. Standing there. Defending me without asking for anything back.

I didn't know what to do with that.

Another bite. The zucchini was soft, a little soggy, but it grounded me. Warm food in my mouth. My body, still aching. My heart, still uncertain.

I was just starting in on the cornbread when a voice pulled me back.

"Mind if I sit?"

I looked up.

Maya.

She had her own tray — pasta, a breadstick, some weird Jell-O square wobbling like it was alive.

"Yeah," I said, my voice softer than I meant.

She slid into the seat across from me, giving me a small smile. "Heard practice was rough."

I didn't answer.

She didn't push.

Instead, she broke her breadstick in half and offered me a piece.

I took it.

Maya twirled her pasta with a fork, pausing only to flick a piece of lettuce off her plate like it offended her.

"So," she said between bites, "Danielle texted me."

My brows lifted. "You two text now?"

"She's in my women's lit class," Maya shrugged. "We've passed notes about how awful the professor's breath is. Solid foundation for a friendship."

I almost smiled.

"She told me what happened. In the locker room."

The warmth that had been growing in my chest flickered, and I looked down at my tray.

"She didn't tell me to talk to you about it," Maya added. "That's me."

"I don't really want to relive it."

"You don't have to. I just..." She trailed off, chewing slowly. "I hate that you're going through this alone."

"I'm not," I said before I could stop myself. "Not when you're here."

Maya's eyes met mine, soft and certain. She reached out, just briefly, and touched my wrist — not enough to draw attention from anyone else, but enough to say she was still with me.

"You're stronger than you think," she said. "And you've already done the hardest part."

I didn't answer.

Because part of me wasn't so sure.

I poked at the last of the roasted potatoes with my fork, watching them slide across the tray. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. Students came and went. The world kept moving.

Then, just as I lifted the cornbread to my mouth, a voice cut through the hum of the room — sharp, male, loud enough to be deliberate.

"Hey! Riley Whitlock!"

Heads turned. So did Maya.

I froze.

The voice was familiar.

I looked toward the entrance.

And felt my stomach drop.

He was standing just inside the dining hall doors. Windbreaker, athletic pants, clipboard in one hand.

My former coach.

Looking right at me.

“Riley Whitlock!”

I looked up from my tray, heart thudding in my chest.

The sudden sound of my name echoed sharper than it should have across the noisy dining hall. Conversations didn’t stop, but they dipped — just slightly — enough to make me feel like half the room was now aware of me.

Maya stiffened across from me, her eyes darting toward the voice. “That’s your former coach, right?”

I didn’t answer. Just nodded and stood, my body moving before my brain had even caught up. The tray felt too heavy in my hands, like it might slide right out of my grip.

He was already heading toward the side exit of the dining hall — not rushing, not dramatic. Just a quiet motion, like he knew better than to cause a scene. Like he wanted this to be private.

I dumped my tray in a daze and followed him out.

The night air hit me like a slap — cool, damp, earthy. The scent of wet leaves and concrete filled my lungs. The sidewalk was still slick from earlier rain, the concrete shimmering faintly under the glow of the overhead lamps. I didn’t know if I was shivering from the cold or from everything suddenly pressing in on me.

Coach stood a few feet from the door, arms folded tight, eyes on the gravel. One of those humming sodium lights buzzed above him, casting everything in a yellow haze like an old streetlamp in a dream. He looked out of place — too real for the blur of campus nightlife happening just beyond the hedges.

“Sorry for the public callout,” he said, not looking at me right away. “I didn’t know where else I’d find you.”

I stuffed my hands into my hoodie pockets. My fingers were damp. Maybe from nerves. Maybe from the rain. “What’s going on?”

He took a breath — long and tired, like it was costing him something to say any of this.

“Heard about what happened after practice. Locker room.”

My stomach twisted. Hard. The memory was still fresh: the confused stares, the sidelong glances, the silence that followed me like a shadow once I changed.

“Word gets around,” he added. “I’ve been in this business a long time, Riley. When players run crying from the field, people notice. Doesn’t mean they understand, but they talk.”

“I didn’t cry on the field,” I muttered. “It was after.”

Coach cracked the faintest smile. “That’s more like you.”

We stood there in silence for a second, just the buzz of the overhead light and the distant thrum of traffic cutting through the dark. A breeze passed by, and the leaves around the dining hall entrance rustled, sharp and papery.

“I miss having you on my team,” he said suddenly. “You were one of the best I ever coached. Footwork, hustle, instinct. You had all of it.”

I didn’t say anything. My throat was tight again, the kind of tight that made it hard to even breathe right. There was something about hearing it — hearing past tense — that cut deeper than I expected.

“But the rules are the rules,” he went on. “Men’s teams are for men. Women’s teams are for women. That’s how the school sees it, and that’s how the athletic board wants it.”

He looked over at me then, and for a second, I saw how tired his eyes were. Like he’d argued about this behind closed doors more than once. Like maybe he'd tried.

“I didn’t want to let you go.”

My voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m not even the same player anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

I looked down at my sneakers, wet at the soles. Water had seeped in around the edges, soaking my socks. “My body’s different. Slower. Weaker. I get tired faster. I used to be fast — like, really fast. Now I just feel like I’m dragging. Like the spark’s gone. The zing.”

Coach nodded slowly, still hugging his arms across his chest. His breath misted in the air, briefly visible under the glow of the lamp. “You’re still learning your body, Riley. You’re going through more changes than most people deal with in a lifetime, and you’re doing it under a spotlight.”

“I thought maybe I could still be good,” I said. “Not even great. Just… worth it.”

“You are,” he said, without hesitation. “Even if you don’t believe it yet.”

The door creaked behind us — someone going in or out of the dining hall — but neither of us turned. The moment was too still, too full.

“I don’t know if the women’s team will give you a fair shot,” he said. “But I know what you’re made of. I’ve seen it. You keep showing up like you did today? You’ll earn your place.”

I blinked hard, willing the sting in my eyes to go away before it could turn into anything worse. I felt like if I blinked too fast, I’d break.

“You ever need a place to kick a ball around,” he added, “my door’s open. Might not be a team anymore, but you’re still one of mine.”

Then, without another word, Coach turned and walked away.

****

When I got back to the dorm with Maya, I didn’t say anything.
Not in the elevator.
Not in the hallway.
Not when we stepped inside and the door clicked shut behind us.

The hallway had smelled like overcooked ramen and someone’s too-strong cologne. The kind of mix that usually made us laugh. Not tonight. Tonight, it just made everything feel more suffocating.

I went straight to my desk.

The drawer stuck for a second — old wood swollen from humidity — but I yanked it open. The orange bottle was right where I left it, tucked under a folded notepad and a busted wristwatch I hadn’t worn in months. The label had started to peel at the corner.

I twisted off the cap with shaking fingers.

Maya didn’t ask.
She just stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, watching me.
Not with judgment. Just… there. Present. Still.

The overhead light buzzed quietly, casting a faint golden halo over the ceiling. Outside, faint voices drifted in through the cracked window — laughter, footsteps, the low beat of a passing car stereo.

I tipped two pills into my hand and swallowed them dry. No water. No pause. The taste coated my throat — chalky, bitter. Familiar.

Maya finally spoke, her voice low. “Do they actually help?”

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the scuff mark on the floor by the mini fridge. It looked like a comet streak — something burned in from a move-in day gone wrong. I didn’t even remember who made it. Maybe it had always been there.

“They keep the spiral from getting out of control. Usually.”

She came over slowly and sat beside me, careful not to crowd me. The mattress shifted slightly with her weight.

“Coach just wanted to tell me he still cares,” I said. “But he can’t do anything. Rules are rules. Boys with boys. Girls with girls.”

Maya nodded. “That’s the world we live in.”

I let out a small, bitter laugh. “Then where the hell does that leave me?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached for the edge of the blanket and pulled it around my shoulders like she had when we were kids hiding from the world in pillow forts and flashlights. Back when everything scary could be solved with a flashlight, a hug, and maybe some fruit snacks.

The weight of the blanket settled on my shoulders like muscle memory. Like something old and safe trying to protect something new and vulnerable.

“I don’t know where it leaves you,” she said softly. “But I know I’m not going anywhere.”

Outside, a siren whined in the distance. Someone on our floor slammed a door and shouted about microwave popcorn. But inside our room, everything was still.
For now.

Maya’s hand lingered on the edge of the blanket, her fingers brushing mine — soft and steady, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to stay but had already made up her mind not to leave.

I turned to look at her.
Her eyes were already on me — wide, steady, searching. Like she was waiting for a sign. Or maybe giving me one.

“I feel like I’m disappearing,” I whispered.

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re just changing. That’s not the same thing.”

I couldn’t hold it in anymore — not the ache, not the need to feel something good, something real. Something that didn’t have to be explained or justified.

I leaned in.
So did she.

It wasn’t tentative this time. It wasn’t soft or slow or unsure.

It was full of everything we hadn’t said out loud — the fear, the fire, the fight to still be here after everything. Her lips met mine, and for a moment, I stopped thinking. Stopped worrying about rules, or teams, or who saw what in me.

There was only this — her breath, her hands on my jaw, the warmth of her knees pressed into mine. The way she held me like I wasn’t fragile, but worth holding anyway.

She kissed me like she meant it. Like I wasn’t broken. Like I was worth it.
And I kissed her back like I believed her.

And so I wake in the morning and I step outside…
No, seriously. I actually did.

Barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, hair sticking up like I’d fought a tornado in my sleep. The air was crisp — fall was finally starting to show up for real — and the quad smelled like wet grass and the cheap soap they used in the dorm bathrooms.

I took a deep breath.
I got real high.

Okay, not high high — more like that floaty, still-smiling kind of high you get after something good happens and your body hasn’t caught up yet.

And then, for no reason except that it felt right, I threw my arms up and yelled:
“WHAT’S GOING ON?!”

A few birds flapped out of a tree nearby. Someone across the courtyard shouted back, “You good?”

“NOPE!” I called, laughing.

I couldn’t help it. My cheeks hurt from smiling. Everything still hurt — my legs, my heart, the echo of yesterday — but something inside me had cracked open, and light had actually gotten in this time.

I couldn’t stop myself.

I ran down the hallway barefoot, the carpet rough under my heels, my arms swinging like I was in a one-woman parade.

“And I say, hey-ey-ey!
Hey-ey-ey!”

A door creaked open two rooms down. A girl with purple scrunchies and smeared eyeliner poked her head out, still chewing on a Twizzler.

She blinked at me. “Hey… a-what’s going on?”

I grinned, breathless. “Exactly!”

And I spun back toward my door, heart pounding in the best way — like it finally remembered how to beat for joy.

I flung the door open, still laughing, and saw Maya stretched across the bed in one of my oversized tees, flipping through a beat-up issue of Sassy magazine like nothing in the world had changed.

She looked up.

I didn’t wait.

I crossed the room in two steps, climbed right onto her bed, and kissed her.

It wasn’t slow or nervous like before. It was bold. Sure.

Maya made a small surprised sound in the back of her throat — somewhere between what are you doing and don’t you dare stop.

She didn’t pull away.
She leaned into it.

One hand on my hip. My fingers in her hair. The edge of the mattress dipping as we shifted closer, laughter still buzzing in my chest like a leftover spark from the morning air.

When we finally broke apart, she was smiling that crooked, smug little smile of hers.

“Well,” she said, breathless. “Good morning to you too.”

****

We ended up missing breakfast.
Not on purpose.
It just kind of… happened.

One minute I was kissing her, the next we were curled up in a tangled pile of blankets and limbs, half-laughing, half-dozing, warm and weirdly safe in the soft morning light slanting through the blinds.

We didn’t even talk much.

She ran her fingers up and down my arm while I stared at the ceiling, not thinking about anything important for once. Every time I tried to sit up and say, We should go, her arm would tighten around my waist and I’d forget what I was doing.

We were still like that when the clock on the wall ticked past 10:00.

“Crap,” Maya mumbled, finally glancing up. “Wasn’t the dining hall supposed to close, like, thirty minutes ago?”

I blinked at the clock. “…Oops.”

She groaned and flopped onto her back. “That was your fault.”

“Was not,” I said, rolling onto my side to face her. “You’re the one who kept sighing dramatically every time I moved.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And you kept humming What’s Up under your breath like a dork.”

I smirked. “Fair.”

We lay there for a few more seconds, neither of us quite ready to let go of the quiet. The room still smelled faintly like lavender detergent and sleep. A breeze stirred the curtains just slightly, lifting the edge like even the wind was reluctant to disturb us.

And then my stomach growled loud enough to make the moment shatter.

Maya snorted. “Okay, that’s the universe yelling at us. Come on — brunch raid in the vending machines?”

I sighed. “Only if we get the last raspberry Pop-Tart.”

“Split it,” she said, grabbing her socks. “But I call dibs on the less broken one.”

****

We left the dorm still grinning, hands stuffed in hoodie pockets, hair a mess, both of us half-heartedly pretending we weren’t walking straight to the vending machines to scavenge breakfast.

The campus had that sleepy Saturday feel — crisp air, damp sidewalks, crows yelling at nothing from the treetops like they owned the place. Someone in the dorm next door was blasting Alanis Morissette through a cracked window. You oughta know.
A couple of guys tossed a football on the quad, half-aiming, half-bored, like they were doing it more for the vibe than the sport.

Maya reached out without a word and laced her fingers through mine.

I didn’t pull away.

It felt… right. Easy.
Even if it made my chest flutter in that anxious, oh-my-God-people-can-see-me kind of way.

We passed the main walkway near the library. I was mid-sentence — something dumb about how I’d rather eat old gum than attempt campus oatmeal again — when I heard a voice.

Behind us. Too close.

“Yo. Is that Riley?”

We both turned, slowly.

It was a guy I half-recognized from biology, maybe. He stood with two other guys in letterman jackets — all backward caps and soda cans, the kind of guys who traveled in packs like they were afraid of being quiet too long.

“Dude,” one of them said, nodding at our hands, “tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

The first guy laughed. “No way. That’s Riley. Riley from the guys’ team.”

Then, louder — too loud — “Damn. So it’s true. You’re really one of those now.”

I blinked. “One of what?”

He smirked. “You know… carpet munchers. Dykes. Whatever you’re calling it these days.”

Maya went stiff beside me. I felt it — the way her body locked, her breath hitched.

The guy holding the soda fake-whispered, “Should we give them space, or are they gonna start making out right here?”

They laughed — because they thought it was funny. They thought it was safe to laugh. Safe to make a scene out of us. Safe to be cruel and know nothing would happen to them for it.

I felt Maya’s fingers dig into my palm. Hard. I knew if I looked at her, I’d break — not from shame, but from the heat of all those eyes. From being seen like we were a joke. A punchline.

I looked the main guy dead in the face.

“Go fuck yourself!” I said, in a stern voice.

Then I turned and kept walking, still holding her hand.

I deserved that raspberry Pop-Tart.

Like, really deserved it.
For the record, I didn’t even get the good half — Maya ate the one with the frosting mostly intact. Mine was the corner bit. The one that looks like it got dropped in a vending machine mutiny. You know the kind. Flaky, kind of sad, more cardboard than treat.

But whatever.

Because we walked away.
Because I didn’t let go of her hand.
Because even when my chest was tight and my pulse was racing and I felt like I might come apart at the seams… I didn’t run.

I guess that counts for something.

We were back in the dorm by late morning, Maya on her bed flipping through a used psych textbook with highlighter scars from four different owners — each one using a different color like they were competing for most chaotic annotation.

She was on her stomach, swinging her feet in the air and humming something under her breath. I was curled up in the window ledge like a cat, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands, trying to finish the Pop-Tart crumbs without dropping any on the radiator. The sunlight caught the edge of the foil wrapper, making it gleam like treasure in a cereal box.

That’s when someone knocked, then walked right in.

“Hope you’re decent,” Jess called out, already halfway through the door like she lived here.

Claire followed, balancing a tote bag on one shoulder and carrying a plastic shopping bag like it held the cure for emotional distress.

“We brought backup Pop-Tarts and emotional support Oreos,” Claire announced triumphantly, holding the bag up like it was the Ark of the Covenant. “Your stomach growled in class yesterday. It echoed. I thought someone’s Tamagotchi was dying.”

I froze mid-bite.
Maya froze mid-page-turn.

They both looked at us. Then down at the tiny pile of pillows on Maya’s bed. Then at the fact that I was clearly not in my bed clothes, and Maya… well, Maya looked smug in my hoodie. Smug and warm and very much not subtle.

Jess blinked.
Claire blinked.

Jess tilted her head. “Wait… are you guys…?”

I didn’t say anything.
Maya didn’t either.

Jess’s eyes went wide. “OH.”
Claire let out a long, slow “OHHHHHHHHHHHH,” like she was winding up a cartoon sound effect.

Then silence.

Then Jess said, very calmly, “Okay. Cool. Took you long enough.”

Maya snorted. I just stared. “Wait, what?”

Claire grinned, dropping the bag onto the desk. “Riley, you literally look at her like she’s made of Pop-Tarts and existential answers. You think we didn’t know something was going on?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No words came out. Just air.

Jess tossed a pillow at me — the scratchy blue one with the worn embroidery that said Class of ‘94. “We’re not mad. We’re just mad we weren’t the first to hear about it. We demand cute stories. Or at least dramatic ones.”

Maya leaned back on her elbows, smug. “You want full story?”

“Exactly,” Jess and Claire said at the same time.

Jess dragged over my desk chair, flipped it around backwards, and straddled it like she was ready for gossip war. Claire grabbed my beanbag and plopped down with a crinkle.

And just like that… it didn’t feel scary anymore.

It felt like friendship.
Like safety.
Like maybe the world hadn’t tilted completely after all.

****

After the long story, Jess got up and laughed — a sharp, barky kind of laugh like she couldn’t help herself. She stretched her arms over her head, spine popping, then cracked her neck with a dramatic tilt like she’d just finished a Broadway monologue.

“You didn’t have to go tell everything.”

“But I thought you wanted…” I started, sitting up straighter on the edge of the bed, the corner of the blanket still tangled around my ankle.

Claire was already snorting into a throw pillow, her face half-buried, shoulders shaking.

Jess smirked, brushing imaginary lint off her jeans like she was a judge on a dating show. “I wanted the drama. Not, like, a minute-by-minute walkthrough of your hand placement.”

Maya groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God, Riley.”

“What?! You started it!” I said, defensive but already blushing. I could feel the heat crawling up my neck like I’d swallowed a heater.

She peeked at me through her fingers. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d give them the director’s cut.”

Claire wheezed, “Coming soon to Video and Laser Disk.”

I grabbed a pillow and launched it in her direction, but it missed and smacked the wall.

The room broke into giggles — real, loud, stupid giggles.

****

The room finally calmed down after a solid fifteen minutes of Jess doing impressions of all our professors ordering coffee.
“Okay,” Claire said, brushing her hair out of her face. “We’ve been emotionally wrecked, overfed, and mildly insulted. Clearly, the only logical next step is a party.”

Jess perked up. “There’s one in Foster Hall tonight. Third floor. Somebody’s birthday. Somebody named Jake, I think? Or maybe Blake. One of those guys who smells like Axe and owns one shirt.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Ugh, yes. That one green flannel he thinks is lucky.”

Maya raised an eyebrow. “Are we actually doing this?”

Claire smirked. “C’mon. If not now, when? This is peak girlhood: bold lipstick, too much eyeliner, a playlist with Garbage and TLC.”

“Throw in some No Doubt and Jewel, and I’m in,” Jess said, reaching for her backpack. You could hear the faint rattle of a pack of Camels tucked inside.

Maya looked at me. “What do you think?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Let’s go.”

I didn’t feel fully okay — not yet. But I felt surrounded. I felt held. That was enough.

We threw on hoodies and eyeliner, passed around a roll of cheap body glitter,” and by the time we opened the door to leave—

We stopped.
Dead in our tracks.

On the dry erase whiteboard outside our dorm door — the one Maya usually doodled frogs on — someone had scrawled:

DYKES GO HOME.

The marker ink bled slightly into the cheap surface, like it had been pressed too hard.
Ugly and permanent.

It wasn’t a dry erase marker.
It was a Sharpie.
The kind that bled through notebook paper and left shadows behind no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Whoever wrote it didn’t even try to be clever. Just fast and loud.

The hallway was quiet, save for the dull hum of the soda machine down the hall and the faint static of someone’s Nirvana tape playing through thin dorm walls.

No one said anything at first.

Jess stepped forward, fists clenched. “Fucking cowards.”

Maya touched my hand again. “Riley…”

I stared at the word.

I’d known people would stare. I knew there’d be whispers. But this — this was different.
This wasn’t whispering.

This was someone wanting us to feel afraid. To feel marked.

I took the cap off a red dry erase marker from our door caddy — the one Maya always used to draw tiny frogs — and scrawled underneath in bold, slanted letters:

WE ALREADY ARE.

Claire exhaled through her nose, smiling. “Hell yes.”

The dorm phone rang around 4:15 — right as Maya was in the middle of trying to curl her bangs with a pencil.

We both jumped.

The phone’s plastic shell rattled slightly against the desk, its coiled cord twitching like a startled snake. I stared at it for a second like it might explode.

“Are you gonna get that?” Maya asked, blinking upside-down from her bed, her bangs now flared out in awkward little loops.

I sighed and picked up the receiver, the beige plastic cool and slightly sticky against my palm. “Hello?”

A pause. Then:
“Riley Whitlock?

“Yes,” I replied.

“This is Dr. Hendricks. I wanted to follow up on your labs now that we’ve had time to run a more thorough analysis. Do you have a moment to talk privately?”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Maya didn’t say anything. She just met my eyes for half a second, then slipped off the bunk in one smooth motion and walked out. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving behind a faint trace of raspberry body spray and the sound of a Prince cassette still playing softly on the little stereo by the window.

The silence after the door shut felt like a vacuum.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Riley, as we mentioned before, your chromosome panel came back as XX, which did surprise us given your medical history and presentation.”

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear.

“It’s possible,” he continued, “that you were born with a condition called CAH — congenital adrenal hyperplasia — or something very similar. That would’ve caused your body to produce higher levels of androgens before birth, which can lead to masculinized traits in early development, even if the chromosomal sex is female.”

I swallowed. My mouth was dry. My fingers curled around the phone cord, twisting it tight.

“So I was… born like this?”

He was quiet for a second. Not awkward — just careful.
“You were likely born genetically female, yes — but your hormone levels may have masked or altered how that presented. Over time, those hormone levels changed — and that's why your body is realigning with your chromosomal sex.”

Realigning.

The word echoed in my chest like a dropped book in a quiet room.

“That also explains,” he added, “the recent loss of male secondary sex characteristics — and the development of female ones. Including the vocal shift you mentioned. It’s actually not uncommon in this kind of case, especially since you didn’t have a very deep voice to begin with.”

I stared at the phone cord looped tight around my fingers. My knuckles were white. Thin red lines pressed into my skin, but I didn’t let go.

“How long…” I started, my voice barely more than a whisper. “How long have I been like this?”

“I don’t think this is a sudden change,” he said gently. “Your body has likely been shifting for some time — possibly even before you noticed it consciously. Sometimes these changes begin gradually, and the mind does its best to ignore them. Or explain them away.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
My whole body felt like it wasn’t mine — like I was watching this conversation happen to someone else, some girl with my name who didn’t know she was a girl until it was too late to be anything else.

“I understand this is a lot to take in,” he said. “But I want you to know you’re not alone. And I’d be happy to talk again once you've had time to process all of this. There are support groups, counselors — we can help you find a path forward.”

I murmured a thank you and hung up.

The click of the receiver settling into its cradle was final. Too final.

The silence afterward was deafening.
Even the stereo had gone quiet — the cassette must’ve ended, leaving only the soft whir of the tape spinning out.

I sat on the edge of the bed like someone had pressed pause on me.
Like my whole life had been rewound and taped over.

The dorm room was quiet,
but my head wasn’t.

XX.
Realigning.
Born female.

A body that had been playing both sides without telling me.

I stared at my palms like they might offer some kind of answer.
They didn’t.
They just sat there — small, a little calloused, shaking faintly in my lap. The leftover imprint of the phone cord still pressed into one finger.

So that was it, then.
I wasn’t transitioning. I wasn’t even changing in the way people meant it.

I was… returning?
Undoing?
Unfolding into something that had apparently always been there — hidden behind old hormone levels and middle school soccer trophies and a voice that never quite cracked all the way.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
So I just sat there.

Outside, a car rolled by, bass thudding faintly under a blur of TLC or maybe Boyz II Men. The radiator clicked once, then went still again. Somewhere, down the hall, someone was laughing too loud — like they hadn’t just realized their whole life had a hidden layer they never saw coming.

After a few minutes, the door creaked open.

Maya stepped in, holding two half-melty cones from the student center — one chocolate, one vanilla. The kind from the self-serve machine near the vending machines, always a little uneven.

She held them up like peace offerings.
“You looked like you could use one of these,” she said softly.

I didn’t say anything.

She crossed the room, handed me the vanilla, and sat beside me without asking. Her backpack thudded gently against the side of the bunk as she lowered herself to the floor beside me, knees pulled up.

I stared at the cone for a second, then took a bite.
It was cold. Sweet. Comforting in a way I didn’t know I needed. Like the exact opposite of everything else happening in my body.

We sat there in silence, the kind where every second counts but no one needs to speak yet.
The ice cream started to drip slowly down the side of the cone, and I wiped it with my thumb without really thinking.

Finally, Maya nudged my knee with hers. “Want to talk?”

I shook my head.

She nodded like she understood. Like she’d already heard every version of the silence I couldn’t name.

And then she said, “Okay.”

And we just… ate ice cream.
Together.

We sat in silence for a while.

Outside the window, someone was skateboarding on the sidewalk too fast, the clack of wheels breaking the rhythm of an otherwise still afternoon. A car alarm started bleating a few blocks away — high, annoying, then suddenly cut off. But in here, it was just the low hum of the mini fridge and the slow, quiet drip of ice cream melting onto a folded paper napkin on the floor.

I stared at the cone in my hand, watched a drop slide down onto my thumb.

And then I said it.
Soft. Not shaky. Just… real.

“They said I’m genetically female.”

Maya didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She didn’t do that thing where people try to comfort you too fast — the quick nods, the awkward reassurances. She just listened.

“They said it’s something I was probably born with. That my body made too much testosterone or something when I was little, and that’s why I looked the way I did. But now… now it’s fading. And I’m changing back to what my DNA says I’ve always been.”

She was still watching me. Still quiet.
The ice cream was melting faster now, pooling slightly in the cone like even it didn’t know what it was supposed to be.

I kept going, because if I didn’t say it now, I might never.

“I don’t know how to feel about it. Like… what does that make me? Was I ever really a guy? Am I supposed to be relieved? Angry? Grateful?” I let out a short laugh, the kind that doesn’t make it past your throat. “Like, thank you universe for the weird hormonal detour?”

Maya set her empty cone down on the desk, beside a half-used pink Bic lighter and a sticker-covered Walkman. Then she reached for my hand.

I didn’t pull away.

“I just… I don’t know who I am anymore,” I whispered.

Her thumb brushed lightly over mine — a small, anchoring motion.
“Maybe you’re still figuring it out,” she said softly. “And maybe that’s okay.”

I looked up at her.
She was already looking at me.

As her fingers traced the soft curves of my body, a shiver of anticipation coursed through me like electricity, igniting a fire that only she could quench. Each delicate touch was both a question and an answer, awakening sensations I had longed for yet never fully understood. Our lips met in a passionate kiss, a collision of warmth and hunger that sent shockwaves through my body. Our tongues entwined in an ancient dance, a rhythm that felt both primal and necessary, as if the universe had conspired to bring us to this moment.

Maya's hand wandered lower with a purposeful grace, exploring the contours of my body, her touch both tender and possessive. I could feel the heat radiating from her fingers, each caress igniting a storm of sensations in my most intimate areas. A soft moan escaped my lips, an involuntary sound of pleasure that seemed to echo in the air around us, amplifying the intensity of the moment as Maya’s fingers delved deeper, exploring the softness and warmth that lay beneath.

With a teasing smile, Maya broke the kiss, her eyes locked on mine—deep, dark pools filled with desire and mischief—as she slid down my body. I could feel the cool air kiss my skin where her warmth had just been, leaving me breathless and yearning. Her lips brushed against my skin, trailing a path of fire down to the juncture of my thighs. The sensation was exquisite, every brush igniting a blaze of urgency within me.

With a playful glint in her eye, Maya leaned in, her tongue flicking out to taste the sweetness of my arousal. My breath hitched in my throat as fire ignited in my core, and I gasped, my back arching instinctively off the surface beneath us. It felt as though time stood still; the world around us faded away, leaving only the two of us, tangled in this sacred moment of intimacy.

My fingers tangled in Maya’s hair, urging her closer as waves of pleasure washed over me, each flick of her tongue sending shivers cascading through my body. She delved deeper, teasing and pleasuring me in ways I never thought possible, her movements fluid and confident, as if she was painting a masterpiece upon my skin. The sensations were overwhelming—heat, need, and an intoxicating blend of pleasure enveloping me, drawing me further away from reality.

Our bodies moved in perfect harmony, a rhythm that felt both instinctual and divine, our moans intertwining in a symphony of desire. The air was thick with the scent of our skin, mingling with the heat of our breaths as Maya's tongue continued its relentless exploration. I felt my climax building, a tidal wave of pleasure threatening to consume me, rising higher with each tantalizing sweep of her mouth.

As the waves crashed over me, I surrendered completely to the sensations, letting go of everything but the ecstasy that enveloped us. My cries of pleasure echoed through the room, raw and unrestrained, a testament to the depths of our connection.

The world blurred into a haze of emotion as I rode the waves of climax, my body convulsing with intensity, each pulse sending shockwaves of pleasure through my entire being. It was as if I had been set free, unshackled by the bonds of restraint, and I lost myself in the raw beauty of the moment—my heart pounding, my breath ragged.

As the waves of pleasure began to subside, Maya crawled back up to me, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of triumph and tenderness. Our bodies pressed together once more, slick with sweat and the remnants of our passion, our hearts pounding in unison. We shared a passionate kiss, the taste of each other still lingering on our lips—a blend of sweetness and heat, a promise of more to come.

In that moment, we had discovered a love that transcended the boundaries of society, a love that was raw and real and full of life. It was a connection that felt as if it had been carved into the very fabric of our beings, one that would forever change the trajectory of our lives. As we lay entwined in each other’s arms, I knew that this was only the beginning of a journey that would challenge us, transform us, and bind us together in ways we could never have imagined.

As the afterglow of our shared ecstasy lingered in the air, I lay there, my heart still racing, my body a canvas of warmth and satisfaction. The soft glow of the setting sun filtered through the curtains, casting a golden hue across the room, illuminating the space where we had just intertwined our souls.

Maya nestled against me, her head resting on my chest, her breath slow and steady as she savored the moment. I could feel the gentle rise and fall of her body, a soothing rhythm that calmed the residual tremors of pleasure still coursing through me. Her hair, a cascade of silky strands, tickled my skin, and I absentmindedly ran my fingers through it, cherishing the intimacy of this simple act.

“Wow,” she finally murmured, her voice soft and dreamy, breaking the comfortable silence that enveloped us. “That was... incredible.”

I chuckled softly, the sound reverberating in my chest. “Incredible doesn’t quite cover it, does it?”

She looked up at me, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and affection. “I don’t think there are enough words in the universe to describe what just happened.”

I smiled, brushing my thumb against her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my touch. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, and I could sense the weight of everything unspoken hanging in the air between us. “I’ve never felt anything like that before,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Maya’s expression softened, and for a moment, we simply gazed at each other, the world outside fading away as we basked in the aftermath of our connection. It was a look that spoke volumes—of shared secrets, of uncharted territory, and of a bond that had deepened in a way I had never anticipated.

“Do you think this changes things?” she asked, her brow furrowed slightly as she searched my eyes for answers.

I took a deep breath, considering her question carefully.

“I think it has to,” I said. “We just crossed a line, Maya. A beautiful, messy line, and I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Her lips curled into a smile, slow and certain, and I felt warmth bloom through my chest — not just desire, but something deeper. Steady. Real.

“I don’t want to pretend either,” she said softly. “I want to explore this… whatever this is.”

The air shifted again — charged with possibility, thick with unspoken hopes. That sweet, nervous electricity buzzed under my skin like a current waiting to spark.

I leaned down, brushing her lips with mine — a soft kiss, lingering with the taste of everything we weren’t ready to say yet. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was a promise. A beginning.

Her eyes didn’t break from mine. They held me there — not shy, not hesitant, but claiming. Like she was pulling me in with gravity she didn’t even have to summon. The world around us faded into soft blur. All I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears.

She wasn’t just looking at me.
She was seeing me.
Really seeing me — deep, unflinching, like she could read the parts of me I hadn’t even sorted out yet.

And in that gaze, I felt something stir — something desperate, something hungry, but not just for her. For truth. For something that felt like home.

My breath hitched, but it wasn’t fear.
It was want.

Not just for the heat of her hands or the curve of her mouth — though I wanted those, too — but for the safety in her presence. The sense that maybe, after everything, I could be held without having to explain who I was.

“I don’t know what this becomes,” I whispered, my forehead resting lightly against hers.
“But I want to find out.”

She smiled again, eyes bright. “Me too.”

I was in the middle of schoolwork when the dorm phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey Riley?"

It was Claire.

"Hey, Claire."

"Guess where I am?"

"Duh, in your dorm."

"Nope. I’m outside your window."

"...What do you mean? That makes no sense."

"I'm on a mobile phone. Just like in Clueless."

I blinked and turned toward the window. And yep — there she was, standing on the sidewalk below, waving like she’d just reinvented the future.

She held up the brick-sized phone like it was a prize from a game show.

Maya looked up from her psych notes on the other bed. “Is that Claire?”

“She’s on a mobile phone.”

Maya blinked. “Who does she think she is, Cher Horowitz?”

"You should get one too."

"I don't know," I said, looking down at her from the window. "Aren’t they, like… really expensive?"

I felt kind of ridiculous — talking on the phone while literally watching her from above, like some weird modern-day Rapunzel moment.

"Yeah, they are," she said, grinning. "In fact, it's costing me minutes just talking to you right now."

She gave me a wave. "I'll see you inside."

The line went dead.

Costing her minutes? What does that even mean?

She’s costing me minutes of my work time just calling me on the phone.

I watched her head inside, phone still in hand like it was some kind of time bomb.

I hung up the dorm phone and sat back down at my desk, staring at my half-finished worksheet like it had betrayed me.

Costing her minutes. What even was that? Did the phone charge her like a long-distance call every time she opened her mouth?

Maya raised an eyebrow from across the room. “She’s going full ‘rich girl in a teen movie,’ huh?”

“I think the mobile phone is melting her brain.”

I tried to refocus — pencil in hand, book open, highlighter uncapped and already drying out — when the door flung open like it owed Claire money.

She burst in, slightly out of breath and full of purpose, her mobile phone still in hand and her sunglasses inexplicably on indoors.

“I have a plan,” she announced.

Maya and I exchanged a look.

“Do we want to know?” I asked cautiously.

Claire ignored me and threw herself dramatically onto Maya’s bed. “There is a record store downtown. They’re doing a one-day sale on used CDs and old concert tees. Like, vintage. Nirvana. L7. Hole. And I need backup.”

Maya blinked. “This is the emergency?”

Claire pointed the mobile phone at us like it was a wand. “This glorious piece of overpriced plastic has told me it’s a sign. We’re going. Now.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I doubt those things will ever become popular with the price of it.”

Claire gasped like I’d insulted her future children. “Blasphemy.”

Maya snorted. “She’s not wrong. You could buy a semester’s worth of ramen for what that thing probably costs for batteries..”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Mock me now. But one day, everyone’s gonna have one of these in their pocket.”

“Sure,” I said. “Right next to our flying cars and laser backpacks.”

****

The mall was already buzzing by the time we got to Southdale — teenagers everywhere, loitering by the fountains, couples holding hands, someone blasting TLC from a boombox balanced on a bench like they were auditioning for a low-budget music video.

Claire walked ten feet ahead of us like she was on a mission. She had her mobile phone in one hand and her sunglasses perched unnecessarily on top of her head, radiating chaotic mall queen energy.

“We hit the record store first,” she declared, weaving through a group of middle schoolers in matching windbreakers. “Then pretzels. Then... possibly the photo booth, if I’m feeling sentimental.”

“Is that the same photo booth that printed your face on one of those ‘Best Friends Forever’ strips with that girl you dated for like four days?” Maya asked.

“Her name was Carly, and it was six days,” Claire said without turning around.

We passed the escalators and the directory map, dodging a kiosk guy trying to sell us knockoff sunglasses.

That’s when Claire stopped.

Mid-stride.

Right in front of Radio Shack.

The sliding doors didn’t open automatically — you had to tug them. But that didn’t stop the fluorescent lighting from practically buzzing through the glass.

Rows of camcorders, giant remote controls, walkie-talkies, and a wall of tangled cords filled the window like some kind of tech museum curated by a very excitable uncle.

Claire took one slow step toward the entrance, then another.

Maya and I exchanged a look.

“Oh no,” I said. “She’s doing the thing.”

“She’s absolutely doing the thing,” Maya said.

Claire turned back to us, eyes wide. “Do you think they’ll let me test a pager?”

We decided to go in.

The door gave a sad little jingle as it opened, and the whole store smelled like plastic packaging and battery acid. Rows of wall clocks blinked out of sync. A shelf of floppy disks sagged near the corner, and someone had stacked car phone adapters like they were exciting.

Claire made a beeline toward a rotating display of cassette-to-CD converters, but I got distracted by something glowing in the back.

A display table — front and center — featured a brand-new Windows 95 setup, the monitor so boxy it looked like it had its own seatbelt. A white sign read WELCOME TO THE FUTURE in bold red marker.

A guy in a red Radio Shack polo stood beside it, explaining something to a college-aged couple. He gestured at the monitor like he was unveiling a spaceship.

“It’s all connected now,” he said. “Computers talking to each other across the country. Some folks are calling it the World Wide Web. You can send messages. Get news. Even shop from home.”

Claire blinked. “Shop. From home.”

“With the right modem and a subscription to one of the online services,” he added. “Like CompuServe. America Online. Prodigy.”

“What’s a modem?” I asked.

“It hooks your computer up to your phone line,” he said proudly. “You dial in, hear that buzzing sound — then boom. You’re online.”

Maya frowned. “What happens if someone picks up the phone while you’re using it?”

He hesitated. “It, uh… disconnects you.”

We all just stared at him.

Claire crossed her arms. “So it’s slow, expensive, and gets ruined by a phone call. Wow. The future kinda sucks.”

The sales guy gave a stiff little nod, like he wasn’t sure if we were impressed or just mocking him.

(We were definitely mocking him.)

Claire tapped the side of the monitor. “Call me when I can print pizza through this thing.”

He didn’t even blink. “You joke, but they’re already talking about ordering food online.”

Maya muttered, “Next you’ll say we can meet people through it.”

“People do meet through it,” he said, sounding almost hurt. “There are message boards. Chatrooms.”

I squinted at the screen, where a clunky gray window with black text was open. “This whole thing looks like a toaster that learned how to type.”

Claire turned away with a dramatic sigh. “Okay. I’ve seen the future. It’s beige and full of disappointment.”

We made our way back to the mall walkway, past a kiosk selling mood rings and another one pushing hair crimpers like it was still 1989.

As we rounded the corner toward the record store, Claire shook her head. “Can you imagine, being on a computer and listening to music from.. was it… The World Wide Web?”

Maya laughed. “Or where you could share photos. Or talk about movies.”

I scoffed. “Yeah. And maybe someday, we’ll all have our own pages. With glitter fonts and song lyrics and—wait. No. That’s ridiculous.”

Claire grinned. “God, I hope not. That sounds like the end of society.”

“And what about that modem thingy?” I said, shaking my head as we passed a rack of glitter chokers and velvet scrunchies. “You have to dial in just to read the news? What happens if your mom picks up the phone in the middle of it?”

Maya gave me a side glance. “Then your global network of... whatever crashes and burns, obviously.”

Claire snorted. “Technology is wild. First they got phones in cars, now they want us reading books on computers. What’s next, TV on a floppy disk?”

I laughed. “Yeah, sure. And maybe we’ll have mini televisions in our pockets too.”

Maya raised her eyebrows. “Okay, now that’s just science fiction.”

I grinned. “I have a feeling the machines in Terminator would happen before all these even take off.”

That made all three of us laugh — maybe too loud for the mall, but we didn’t care.

We were heading to the record store, when Claire stopped halfway to the escalator, practically vibrating with an idea. “Screw it. We’re going to Electric Fetus.”

Maya blinked. “Downtown?”

Claire nodded. “Yes. Grimy floors, incense smell, actual used CDs with character. No pastel displays. No overlit jewel case walls. Just real music. Weird music.”

I hesitated. “Didn’t we see a guy smoking a clove cigarette in there last time?”

“Yes. And he was singing Björk lyrics in Icelandic. It’s a vibe.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “Fine. But if someone tries to sell me a bootleg of The Cure recorded in a basement, I’m blaming you.”

Claire tossed her mobile phone in her bag and grinned. “Come on. Time to touch some dusty jewel cases and breathe in patchouli until our souls reset.”

****

The door to Electric Fetus creaked like it hadn’t been oiled since the 70s.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of patchouli, vinyl sleeves, and maybe... dryer sheets? Someone had tied a bandana to the overhead fan, and it flapped lazily as music played — something raw and echoey that might’ve been Mazzy Star or a bootleg of Siouxsie and the Banshees.

The lighting was low and moody, and the carpet looked like it had survived a few acid trips.

Claire made a delighted noise. “Home.”

We split off instinctively — Maya headed toward the tapes and zines, Claire went straight to the wall of Imports and Rarities, and I wandered to a bin labeled Local + Unsigned.

A handwritten sign above it read: Touch With Respect. Some of these are your classmates.

I flipped through cracked plastic jewel cases, pausing at a CD with a Sharpie label that just said No Hope in February. Very Minneapolis.

Nearby, Claire was holding up a scratched Babes in Toyland CD like it was treasure. “Only three bucks! That’s like... one vending machine heartbreak.”

Maya didn’t even look up. “You still owe me five dollars from the last one.”

Claire waved a hand. “Semantics.”

I ran my fingers along a row of faded concert T-shirts tacked to the wall: Sonic Youth, L7, The Breeders. They smelled faintly like laundry detergent and rebellion.

From the corner, a guy behind the counter shouted, “We’ve got new used in — left of the incense rack, behind the velvet Elvis.”

I turned just in time to see Maya hold up a cassette and call across the store, “Riley! You still like 10,000 Maniacs?”

I moved deeper into the aisles, past a rack of bootleg live shows and foreign-language soundtracks. The lighting was dimmer back here, dust motes dancing in the air like tiny ghosts.

My fingers skimmed over jewel cases and battered cassettes until one stuck out — not because it was flashy, but because it was familiar.

A scratched-up mix tape.

Not a store label. Not a band name. Just a piece of masking tape on the front with smudged black marker:
"RILEY’S ROAD TRIP MIX – SUMMER ‘89"

My heart did a weird, lurchy thing.

I picked it up slowly, turning it over in my hands like it might vanish. The handwriting looked like mine — no, was mine. Blocky, half-cursive. The A side listed songs I hadn’t thought about in years:
Tom Petty – Free Fallin’
Natalie Cole – Miss You Like Crazy
Cheap Trick – The Flame

I blinked hard.

This was the tape I’d made with my cousin the summer before we both started middle school. We’d played it in Dad’s old Ford during that long trip to Michigan.

Claire wandered over with a Bauhaus T-shirt draped around her arm. “Whoa. What’s that?”

I held it up, still stunned. “It’s mine. Like… actually mine. From when I was a kid.”

Maya appeared at my side, peeking at the label. “You sure?”

“I never made more than one of these. It even has that dumb doodle in the corner — see?” I pointed to the faint outline of a soccer ball with wings.

Claire whistled. “What are the odds?”

Maya gently touched my arm. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

“Of what?” I asked, voice smaller than I meant.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “But it made its way back to you.”

I turned the tape over in my hand again, just to be sure I wasn’t imagining it.
Same cracked corner. Same smudged doodle. Same exact order of songs — even down to the one that cut off halfway through because the boombox batteries had died. It was mine. No doubt.

“I’m gonna ask,” I said, already walking toward the counter.

Claire blinked. “Ask what?”

The guy behind the register looked up from a pile of flyers, eyebrow ring catching the overhead light. His T-shirt said Support Your Local Weirdos, and he looked like he meant it.

“Hey,” I said, holding up the cassette. “This… this is mine. Like, actually mine. I made this when I was a kid.”

He leaned over the counter and squinted at the label. “For real?”

“Yeah. Summer of ’89. I drew that dumb little soccer ball with wings. I remember every track on it. I must’ve played it a hundred times.”

He turned it over in his hands, nodding slowly. “Huh. That came in last month. Some guy dropped off a milk crate of old cassettes from his brother’s attic — most of them weren’t labeled. Said they were probably junk, but we put out a few anyway.”

Then he looked up at me again — really looked. His brow furrowed a little, like something had just clicked.

“Wait… you’re a girl?” he said, squinting slightly, like maybe the lights were too bright or he wasn’t sure if he was asking the right thing.

Maya stiffened next to me, just barely. Claire was already shifting forward like she might say something.

But I didn’t flinch. I just met his eyes.

“Yeah,” I said calmly.

He blinked. “Huh.”

He held the tape up again, looking at it, then back at me. “Wild. You just don’t expect that kind of full-circle thing, you know? Like… the universe sneezed and it landed back in your hands.”

I gave a half-smile. “Something like that.”

He handed it over with both hands, like it might break. “Well… welcome back, I guess.”

Maya touched my arm. Claire didn’t say a word, but her eyes were steady.

I tucked the tape gently into my jacket pocket. “Thanks.”

The guy just nodded, then leaned back against the counter and muttered, “Damn. I should probably stop smoking before work.”

**

The bell over the door jingled behind us as we stepped back into the sharp sunlight, cassette safely tucked in my pocket like a secret.

None of us said anything for a second.

Then Claire burst out laughing. “Okay but… did he seriously say ‘the universe sneezed’?”

Maya grinned. “I don’t think he’s seen the inside of a clear thought since Reagan was president.”

I snorted. “He sure didn’t pass the D.A.R.E. Program, did he?”

That got all three of us laughing — the real kind, the kind that echoes down the block and makes people turn their heads. The kind that doesn’t ask permission.

For a minute, it didn’t matter that the tape came from a different life. It didn’t matter what the guy saw — or thought he saw — when he looked at me.

All that mattered was this moment: the smell of city pavement after rain, the sound of Claire’s ridiculous snort-laugh, Maya’s hand brushing against mine as we walked.

And the little plastic tape in my pocket.

Like proof I was always meant to get here. Even if the road had no map.

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.

The field behind the dorms wasn’t much — patchy grass, one net with a ripped corner, and more squirrels than goalposts — but it was ours.
The kind of space that didn’t care who you were, just whether you showed up.

Jess showed up first, in her oversized hoodie and beat-up sneakers, carrying a soccer ball under one arm like she knew exactly what she was doing. Claire and Maya followed, laughing about something I didn’t catch. Their voices carried on the breeze, easy and warm, like the past week hadn’t been chaos.

I already had my hair tied back and cleats laced, the itch in my legs impossible to ignore. I hadn’t played since tryouts. Not really. Not like this.
Not without fear trailing behind every step.

“Okay, Riley,” Claire said, tossing her backpack down by the bench. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Don’t hurt her pride,” Jess teased. “She’s already got team trauma.”

I gave her a look. “You’re the one who kicked the ball backwards during gym last semester.”

“Strategic chaos,” she said, deadpan.

We played two-on-two. Me and Maya versus Jess and Claire. No refs. No drills. Just laughs and trash talk and a ball that somehow kept rolling into the bushes every other play. Someone's playlist played faintly from a portable speaker near the bench — Blur, then Alanis, then some cassette tape with half-warped sound.

Maya scored twice. I only got one — but it felt good.
Not because I was perfect. But because I was playing. Moving. Sweating. Laughing.
And maybe… healing.

We collapsed on the grass afterward, breathing hard, limbs sprawled across the sun-warmed dirt like we’d just played in the World Cup.

“I missed this,” I said, pulling my hair tie loose and letting the breeze hit the back of my neck.

Jess groaned. “My shins are going to sue me.”

“You didn’t even run that much,” Claire said, rolling onto her side.

“Excuse you, I moved with intention.”

Maya snorted and leaned back against my legs. I let her stay there, even when sweat stuck our skin together. It felt… good. Familiar. Like a part of me I hadn’t lost after all.

We shared a water bottle, passed around a granola bar Maya found in her backpack (possibly from last month), and talked about nothing.
Music. Weird professors. The vending machine conspiracy on floor three.
The sun was warm on our faces. For a second, life felt ordinary again.

I leaned back on my elbows and then it hit me all at once.

Not like pain — not right away.
More like this weird, warm pressure low in my belly. A drop. Then another.
And then the unmistakable, icy panic of something’s not right.

I sat up fast.

Maya turned. “Hey, you okay?”

I didn’t answer.

I was already standing, already backing away from the group, one hand pressed awkwardly against the waistband of my shorts.
My heartbeat had gone wild — too fast, too loud. My breath came shallow.

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Riley?”

“I— I need to go,” I said, voice tight.

Maya saw my face and was on her feet immediately. “Hey. Hey, what is it?”

“I think—” My voice cracked. “I think it started. I thought the doctor said I had a month. I thought—”

She stepped closer, her voice soft. “If I am thinking of what’s going on, I believe they also said… or less.”

Everything inside me spun.
My skin felt too tight. My lungs, too small. This wasn’t just a moment.
It was a line.
A line I couldn’t uncross.

Maya reached out and took my hand.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Come on. We’ll figure it out.”

I blinked fast. My throat burned. I didn’t want to cry here. Not now. Not with Jess and Claire still watching from the grass, starting to realize something was wrong.

“Can we just… go?” I whispered.

Maya nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

She didn’t let go of my hand the whole way back.
Not once. Not even when we reached the dorm steps and someone passing gave us a second glance.
Because in that moment, I needed something steady.
And she chose to be that.

****

The tile was cold under my bare feet, and the hum of the flickering fluorescent light made my skin itch.
I stood there frozen in front of the sink, arms crossed tight, like I could hold everything in if I just clenched hard enough.

Maya locked the door behind us.
The sound echoed slightly in the otherwise empty bathroom — a soft click that felt heavier than it should have.
No one else was in here — just rows of stalls, beige and dented, and the faint scent of cheap hand soap and that odd campus bleach-lavender mix they used to “sanitize” everything.

She moved gently, not saying anything yet, just waiting.
I leaned back against the counter and finally let out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t think it would happen. Not yet. Not like this.”

Maya opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her bag hit the floor with a soft thud as she knelt and rummaged through it, hands moving with quiet purpose. She came back with a pad, handing it to me without a word.

I stared at it like it was from another planet.
The pink wrapper crinkled faintly in my hand — foreign, loud, too bright.

“I don’t even know how to…” I trailed off.

“It’s okay,” she said, kneeling slightly to help adjust the waistband of my shorts without asking. Her hands were gentle, practiced, like this wasn’t weird or awkward — just something she knew how to do.
“I’ve got you. It’s like wearing a slightly cursed sticker at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

I laughed — sort of. More like a choked hiccup. “This isn’t funny.”

“No,” she said, meeting my eyes. “But if I don’t make it a little funny, I’ll start crying with you.”

That nearly did me in.

I ducked into the stall and changed as best I could, trying to keep my hands steady, trying not to look at anything too closely. The pad felt bulky, foreign, like I was wearing a secret I couldn’t un-know now.

When I came back out, Maya was sitting on the edge of the counter, legs swinging. Her sneakers tapped lightly against the cabinet below, and she didn’t say anything right away. Just waited.

“I feel gross,” I muttered.

“You’re not.”

“I feel… like I don’t even know my body anymore.”

She reached out and tugged me gently between her knees, wrapping her arms around my waist. Her embrace was solid, grounding — like she was building a space around me that nothing else could break through.

“You’re learning it,” she said quietly. “And it’s learning you back.”

I laid my head on her shoulder.
The fabric of her shirt was soft against my cheek, warmed by her skin.
She smelled like sunscreen and that faint powdery scent her laundry always had — something familiar, something safe.

Maya didn’t rush me.
Her hands stayed on my back, steady and warm. Just there.

“I didn’t think I’d feel so…” I started, but the words tangled.

“So what?” she asked gently.

“Small,” I whispered. “Weak. Like everything that made me me just… bled out with it.”

Maya pulled back just enough to look me in the face. Her fingers found my jaw, light and careful.

“You think this makes you weak?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I feel like I’m supposed to be strong, like I’m supposed to be brave, but all I want is to curl into a ball and disappear.”

She leaned her forehead against mine.
Her breath was soft and steady, her closeness quieting something that had been screaming inside me all day.

“You’re bleeding and still here. Still showing up. Still learning how to be in this body when the world keeps shifting under your feet,” she said softly. “That’s not weakness, Riley. That’s survival.”

The tears I’d been holding in finally spilled over. They came slow at first, then fast — warm streaks across my cheeks, more relief than collapse.

She didn’t flinch. She wiped them away with her sleeve and kissed my cheek — not like she was trying to fix me, but like she wanted me to know I didn’t need fixing.

****

We didn’t say much on the way back to our dorm room.
The hallway felt too bright. Too loud.
Someone was laughing behind us, the slap of flip-flops echoing down the tile, but it all felt like background noise from another life.

By the time we stepped into our dorm room, I didn’t even bother kicking off my shoes.
I crossed the floor, climbed onto my bed, and curled into the blanket like it was armor.
I tucked it over my head, even though the room wasn’t cold.

I didn’t want light.
Or noise.
Or the smell of someone’s popcorn from down the hall.
I just wanted to disappear.

Maya didn’t ask questions.
She didn’t try to pull me up or talk me out of it. She just sat at her desk, quietly moving aside a notebook and clicking the desk lamp off so the room dimmed to something gentler. The soft glow from the hallway light slipped under the door in a thin line — the only thing left illuminating the space.

I could feel her watching, though. Her presence was steady — like gravity, like breath — even when she didn’t say a word.

My chest ached. Not from cramps, not entirely. It was heavier than that. Bigger. Like I’d been cracked open and filled with wet cement.

I felt hopeless.

I buried my face deeper into the pillow. The tears came again, silent this time, sliding into the cotton.
I didn’t try to stop them.

Maya came over without a word and crouched beside the bed.
Gently, she lifted the hem of the blanket and helped me slip off my shoes, one at a time.
Her fingers brushed my ankle, warm and careful, like she was afraid I might shatter.

Then she sat down beside me, the mattress dipping just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone.

I shifted, eyes still puffy, voice raw. “Can I ask you something?”

She looked down at me and nodded.

I swallowed hard. “Do you think I can… get pregnant now?”

Maya didn’t answer right away. Her brows pulled in slightly, but not out of shock — more like she was bracing for the weight of the question.
I rushed to explain, my words trembling.

“I know it sounds dumb, but… when I was little, I always thought I’d be the one giving someone else a baby. Not… not the one who—”
My voice cracked.
“Not the one carrying it. I just didn’t think that was supposed to be me.”

A tear slid across the bridge of my nose. I didn’t wipe it away.

Maya didn’t flinch.
She reached down and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, then kept her hand there, steady against my cheek.

“It’s not dumb,” she said quietly. “It’s not dumb at all.”

I closed my eyes, and for a second, I let myself imagine a version of the world where this body made sense to me — where nothing had ever felt out of place.
Where I didn’t have to keep relearning how to exist in my own skin.

I shifted under the blanket, curling in tighter, like maybe the smaller I got, the less complicated everything would feel.

“I just…”
I put my hands up to my face.
“Dear God, Who Am I?”

Maya looked down at me, her expression softening like something in her heart cracked open.
I hadn’t meant to say it out loud — the question that had been echoing in my chest for weeks. Maybe for years. But once it was out there, hanging between us, I couldn’t take it back.

Maya slid her hand from my cheek to my shoulder, grounding me with her touch.

“I don’t know the answer,” she said gently. “But I don’t think God made a mistake.”

I blinked at her, surprised.

She leaned forward a little, her voice quiet but full of conviction.
“Riley… maybe this isn’t a curse. Maybe it’s a gift. I mean—”
She hesitated, choosing her words.
“You could experience something most people never will. One day… if you wanted to… you could carry life. That’s not a failure. That’s a miracle.”

I let the silence settle for a moment.

“You think this is a miracle?” I asked, my voice trembling, a bitter edge behind it I didn’t mean to put there.

“I think you’re a miracle,” she said simply.

And somehow, that hurt even more than it helped — because I didn’t feel like a miracle.
I felt like a question with no answer.
A story with too many drafts and no clear ending.

But I didn’t say any of that.
I just reached for her hand again under the blanket.
And Maya gave it to me without hesitation.

Maya didn’t move.
She stayed there beside me, thumb gently brushing across the back of my hand like she was syncing her heartbeat to mine, like she could hold me together with something as small as touch.

I stared at the ceiling, eyes glassy.

“You really believe that?” I asked softly. “That this isn’t some kind of cosmic screw-up? That I didn’t just… get lost between two blueprints?”

Maya gave a quiet laugh — not because it was funny, but because the weight of it was too big for silence alone.
“Riley, the world is full of screw-ups. People destroy things every day, on purpose. But this? You? No. You’re not one of them.”

I looked over at her, and she met my gaze head-on — steady, certain, no flinching.

“You didn’t get lost,” she said. “You’re being found.”

That cracked something inside me.

It wasn’t loud. Just a quiet shift, like the thawing of ice under spring light. But it was enough to let one more tear slip free.
And then another.

Maya reached forward and wiped it with her sleeve again.

“You’ve always been Riley. You’ve always been you. This doesn’t erase the person you were. It just… layers her. Makes her more.”

I bit my lip, nodding slowly, but the knot in my chest didn’t unravel all at once.

“Do you think,” I whispered, “if we ever had a baby… it would be okay? That people wouldn’t just see me as… confused or wrong?”

Maya leaned in and kissed my forehead — slow, deliberate, warm.

“I think if we ever had a baby, that kid would grow up knowing exactly what it means to be loved.
And nothing else would matter.”

I closed my eyes.
Let myself believe her for just a second.
Let myself breathe.

The blanket still felt like armor.
But Maya felt like home.

The dorm room smelled faintly like highlighters and Josta. My notebook was open in front of me, pages curled slightly from where I’d rested my elbow too long, and the textbook for our Dutch language elective lay between me and Maya like a stubborn peace treaty.

“Okay,” I said, tapping my pen. “Try it again. ‘Ik woon in…’”

Maya squinted at her notes. “Ik woon in… uh… Groningen?”

I nodded, grinning. “Nice. And I live in… Amsterdam.”

She made a face. “Everyone says Amsterdam.”

“Well, I’m not ready to be from Eindhoven yet. That feels too advanced.”

She laughed and nudged my leg under the desk. “You’re getting good at this. Show-off.”

“Hardly. Half the time I feel like I’m trying to clear my throat while saying a sentence.”

She flipped a flashcard. “‘Hoe gaat het?’ That means—”

“‘How are you?’” I said. “Easy. ‘Goed, dank je.’”

Maya smiled. “Dutch isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.”

“It’s kind of… weirdly comforting,” I admitted. “Like it’s close enough to English that I don’t feel lost. But different enough that it still feels like I’m learning something real.”

Maya nodded. “Plus, it makes us sound cooler when we talk about weekend plans. ‘Ik ga naar de bibliotheek.’”

“Ooh, look at you,” I teased. “‘Going to the library’ in style.”

She tilted her head toward me. “You think someday we could actually go? To the Netherlands, I mean?”

The question caught me off guard. I looked up from my notes, blinking.

“Sure,” I said. “We’ll ride bikes in Utrecht. Eat stroopwafels in Rotterdam. Maybe even fall asleep on a train and end up in The Hague.”

Maya smiled, a soft, dream-shaped kind. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

For a moment, the books didn’t matter. The stress didn’t matter. It was just me, her, and the sound of Dutch verbs echoing off the dorm walls like a promise we might actually keep.

Maya was halfway through a sentence about tulip fields when we both heard it.

The sound was sharp. Muffled, at first — the kind of raised voices that filtered in through cheap dorm walls and under badly-fitted doors. Then clearer. Louder.

Someone was arguing in the hallway.

I glanced at Maya.

She set her pencil down, quietly.

“…Why the hell is he in the women’s dorm?” a man’s voice snapped. Angry. Echoing just enough that the words carried past the door.

“I’m telling you, this is absolutely inappropriate—”

Another voice — a woman this time — cut in, brittle with frustration. “You are not his father, so don’t act like you know what’s best—”

“I was his father longer than you were ever around!”

More footsteps. A third voice now — someone older, calm but firm. “This isn’t the place for this conversation. Please step into the office.”

“No, I want to know what kind of school lets a boy sleep in a girls’ dorm. What kind of sick—”

My hand clenched around the pen.

They were talking about me.

Maya shifted closer, silent. I could feel her eyes on me, even as my own stared straight ahead at the Dutch verbs on the page. Ik ben. Jij bent. Hij is.

He.

I swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry, but we are following protocol,” the calm voice — the head of housing, maybe — tried again. “She has every right to be here.”

“He?” the man shot back. “He is not a she just because he says so. I want answers. I want to know what kind of school lets this kind of thing happen.”

Silence.

Then footsteps.

A door closing down the hall.

Maya reached out, slowly, and laid her hand over mine. Neither of us spoke for a long time.

The pencil rolled off the desk and hit the floor.

Outside, the noise had faded — swallowed up by the door to the admin office.

But inside me, it still echoed. Every word. Every he. Every wrong name.

And suddenly, the Dutch words on the page didn’t mean anything anymore.

I don’t remember standing up.

I don’t remember opening the door.

I just remember Maya calling my name — once, quietly — and then the sound of my own heartbeat drowning out everything else as I stepped into the hall.

The admin office door was half-closed, the voices inside low but heated. I didn’t knock. I didn’t pause.

I pushed it open.

Three heads turned: the head of housing, Mr. Ellis, sitting stiffly behind his desk; my mother, arms crossed, cheeks blotchy with anger; and my father — or whatever word I was supposed to use for the man who hadn’t called me since I moved in — standing like he owned the place.

His mouth dropped open when he saw me.

“You want answers?” I said, my voice louder than I meant it to be. “Then ask me.”

“Riley—” Mr. Ellis stood up halfway.

“No,” I said. “It’s fine. Apparently, I don’t get to have a private life anymore.”

My dad pointed a finger like he was scolding a dog. “This is a girls’ dormitory. You shouldn’t even be in here.”

“I live here.”

“You’re a—” He stopped himself. “You’re not a girl.”

“I am,” I said. “You just don’t want to understand how.”

He scoffed. “Oh, come on. You were born a boy. That’s a fact.”

“No,” I said, louder now. “I’m intersex.”

The word hit the room like a dropped plate.

My mother’s arms uncrossed.

My father blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t choose this.” I said, my voice shaking. “I didn’t even know at first. My body just… started changing.”

My dad’s face twisted. My mom looked like she was trying to catch up to the words.

“I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be a girl,” I went on. “It started happening weeks ago. My voice, my face, everything. I thought I was sick. I thought I was losing it.”

Their silence was unbearable.

“It wasn’t until they ran all those tests — bloodwork, chromosomes — that they told me the truth. That I was intersex. That I was born this way. And no one ever told me. Not once.”

“You never told us that,” my mother said quietly, like her throat was closing.

I let out a breath that felt like it scraped my ribs raw. “Because I didn’t know. Not until now. And even if I had known—do you really think either of you would’ve believed me?”

My dad took a step forward. “You listen to me, young man—”

“I’m not a man!” I shouted. “I’m not your son. I’m your daughter. I’m eighteen years old, and you don’t get to control my life anymore.”

He froze.

Then he said it.

“Well, if that’s how you want to live… fine. But don’t expect me to keep paying for your collage anymore.”

The room spun.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

“I mean it,” he went on. “Tuition, housing, books — I’m done. I didn’t sign up to fund this shit.”

I stood there, heart thudding, eyes stinging like they’d been scrubbed raw. I tried to think of something clever, something bold and final to say — but the words wouldn’t come.

So I turned.

I pushed back through the office door and down the hall, past Maya who was already on her feet, calling after me.

I didn’t stop.

Not when my vision blurred.

Not when my knees nearly buckled halfway down the stairs.

I made it outside before the sob caught in my throat.

The cold air slapped my face, and I ran — across the quad, away from the building, away from their voices, away from everything.

I didn’t make it far.

Just back to our dorm room — heart pounding, throat tight, the sting of his words still burning in my chest. My hands fumbled with the door handle, but I finally slipped inside and let the door close behind me.

I didn’t even turn on the light.

I just sank to the floor, right there beside the bed, my breath catching in my throat like it didn’t know how to keep going.

The room still smelled like highlighters and Josta. Like comfort. Like before.

But I didn’t feel any of that now.

I heard footsteps a second later — fast, urgent — and then the door opened again. Maya.

She didn’t hesitate. She closed it behind her and came straight to me.

“Riley,” she said, soft but firm.

I shook my head, curling my fingers into the edge of the bedspread.

She didn’t ask what happened. She already knew.

Instead, she knelt beside me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders from behind, pulling me in like she’d done it a thousand times before — like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it was.

I turned and buried my face in her shirt, tears spilling fast now, too fast to stop. She held me tighter.

“He said he’s cutting me off,” I choked out. “He said he’s done.”

Maya didn’t flinch. Her fingers moved slowly through my hair, steady and grounding. “Then he’s not the person you needed him to be.”

“But he’s my dad,” I whispered. “He was supposed to love me.”

She kissed the side of my head. “Well, I love you.”

That broke me even more.

I let myself cry into her arms.

“You’re not alone,” Maya whispered. “You have me. You always have me.”

We stayed like that for a while — just breathing, just holding on.

Then—

BANG.

The door jolted hard.

We both flinched.

BANG. BANG.

“RILEY!” my dad’s voice exploded from the hallway. “Open this damn door!”

Maya’s hand found mine, but I was already standing.

“You think you can just walk away?” he shouted. “You think this is done?”

I stepped closer to the door. I could already feel the heat rising in my cheeks. My whole body vibrating like a live wire.

“And this?” he barked. “This trash on the whiteboard?”

My chest tightened.

“I saw what someone wrote. ‘Dykes Go Home.’ And what do you do? You write under it like it’s some badge of honor. ‘We already are.’ Real mature.”

Maya moved behind me, close enough to touch, but didn’t speak.

“I didn’t write the first part,” I said through the door. “I just answered it.”

“You answered it? You should’ve erased it and shut up. Instead, you put it on display.”

“I’m not ashamed.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I know you’re not. That’s the damn problem.”

Then his voice shifted — lower, meaner.

“You think pretending to be a girl makes you one? Putting on makeup, dressing like this, acting like you belong here? It’s pathetic.”

I blinked hard. My throat burned.

“You are not a girl,” he hissed. “I don’t care what some doctor says, or what you tell yourself. You’re not my daughter. You’re a confused little freak playing dress-up.”

Maya gasped softly behind me.

I marched to the door, shaking but steady, and stood just inches from it.

“I’m not going to say it again,” I said, loud and clear. “Get the fuck away from my room.”

Silence.

“If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling campus security. And the police.”

A pause — just long enough to feel like the air had thickened.

Then his voice came, low and cold.

“…You’re dead to me.”

I stared at the door.

My hand was clenched so tightly I could feel my nails cutting into my palm.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just turned and walked away — slow, stomping footsteps that echoed down the hall like gunshots.

When the sound faded, the buzzing light above us filled the silence.

Maya slid her arms around my waist from behind, holding me like she was afraid I’d come undone.

“Why didn’t you erase the message,”she whispered.

“I didn’t want to,” I said quietly. “I wanted to answer it.”

We were still standing by the door when we heard it.

The sound of his car — that stupid red Ford with the loud muffler — roaring to life outside the dorm. Tires screeched against the pavement like he couldn’t leave fast enough.

And then... silence again.

Maya didn’t let go of me. She just rested her chin on my shoulder, her breath warm against the back of my neck.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t want to.

A few minutes passed like that. Maybe more. I wasn’t counting.

Then came the knock.

Soft.

Gentler this time.

Maya’s arms tensed around me, but neither of us spoke.

“Riley?” It was my mom’s voice.

Calm.

Quiet.

Not like his.

There was a pause. Then:

“Can I come in to talk?”

I looked at Maya.

She gave the smallest nod.

I turned and opened the door.

Mom stood there in her coat, arms folded — not angry, not storming in. Just tired, and maybe a little sad. But her eyes met mine like she still saw me, not some stranger.

“Can I sit?” she asked softly.

I stepped aside. “Yeah.”

She came in, glancing around the room — the mess of notebooks and flashcards still scattered on the desk, the half-drunk can of Josta, the quiet aftermath of the storm that had just left.

Maya offered her the desk chair, but she waved it off.

“I’d rather sit with you.”

We sat down on the edge of the bed, just the two of us, and for a moment the silence hung between us like a thread waiting to snap.

And then I told her.

Not everything — not again — but enough. Enough to explain why, how, when. What the doctors found. What had changed.

What hadn’t.

When I finished, she didn’t ask a thousand questions.

She just pulled me into a hug.

A real one — which I needed.

She held on for a while, then said, “No matter what sex you are… you’re still my kid. And I still love you.”

That broke something loose in my chest — not in a painful way. In a way that let me breathe again.

She pulled back and looked at me, brushing some hair from my face. “And don’t worry about school. Your father hasn’t paid a dime for anything in years. He just likes to act like he has power.”

I almost laughed. Almost.

“Let him throw his tantrum,” she added. “I’ve got you covered. You’re not getting kicked out of school because of him. I won’t let that happen.”

Maya stayed quiet, but her hand found mine between us, her fingers lacing with mine like always.

Mom sat with us a while longer, her hands resting on her knees, eyes scanning the room like she was trying to make sense of a new map.

Then she looked at me, and her voice softened even more.

“Now… about your relationship,” she began. “Are you sure you want to be lesbians?”

Maya stiffened just a little beside me, but I squeezed her hand.

Mom wasn’t being cruel. Just cautious.

“You know,” she went on, “you can’t get married.”

I nodded.

“I know,” I said. “But maybe someday.”

Maya looked at me, and I saw the flicker of a smile behind her eyes.

“Yeah,” I added, stronger this time. “Maybe not this year, or even ten years from now… but maybe twenty. Or more. And when it’s allowed—when the world finally catches up—we’ll be ready.”

Maya grinned, eyes a little misty. “We’ll get matching dresses. Make everyone cry.”

That earned the first real smile from my mom.

“Well,” she said, giving a soft laugh, “I still hope I get a grandchild someday.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

She blinked, like she’d just remembered she had a son back home too — but didn’t say anything else.

Maya leaned against me. I leaned back.

“Well,” I said, trying to keep a straight face, “technically, I can get pregnant.”

Mom’s eyes widened. “Wait—what?”

Maya snorted. I just shrugged.

“Yeah,” I said. “Turns out biology’s full of surprises.”

“Oh my God,” Mom whispered, staring at me. “That’s… okay, wow. I—don’t even know what to say to that.”

I laughed.

And then, just like that, all three of us laughed.

We were still sitting on the bed, the three of us, when the room finally started to feel like it belonged to me again.
The sheets had gone a little wrinkled beneath us, and the faint scent of Maya's shampoo — something fruity, maybe apple — clung to the air, mixing with the leftover warmth from dinner.

No shouting. No footsteps. Just the soft hum of the desk fan and the faint noise of someone's TV down the hall — probably a rerun of Friends or Unsolved Mysteries crackling through the walls like a ghost from someone else's life.
Phoebe's voice drifted in, muffled and tinny, followed by a studio audience laugh track that didn't quite match the timing. A few doors down, someone coughed, and then the hallway went still again.

Mom leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed loosely like she was still sorting everything in her head. Her purse sat forgotten on the floor, half-unzipped, a cassette of Tracy Chapman sticking out the side.
The cassette case had a crack near the hinge, and the liner notes were curled at the edge. The corner of a crumpled napkin peeked out too, scribbled with what looked like a grocery list or maybe half a phone number.

"I guess I've got a lot of catching up to do," she said finally, her tone gentler than I'd heard in years.
Her voice had that late-night rasp, like she'd been holding back too many things for too long.

"You'll get there," I said.
My thumb brushed the edge of the comforter — that same faded one from back home, carried with me like a tether to something stable.

She nodded and gave me a tired smile. The kind that meant she wanted to believe me — maybe even did — but was still figuring out how.
Her eyes lingered a second too long on my face. Like she was trying to memorize it all over again.

Maya shifted beside me, then leaned over and said under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear:
"Vergeet die klootzak van een vader."
Her voice was light, but there was steel behind it — the kind of loyalty that burned quietly.

I snorted.
It hit too fast to hold back. My shoulders jumped and I pressed my lips tight to keep it from turning into a full-blown laugh.

Mom blinked. "What was that?"
Maya gave her the most innocent smile. "Dutch homework."
She reached casually for the spiral notebook near the edge of the bed, as if that sealed the deal.

I nearly lost it. I clapped a hand over my mouth, but the laugh still escaped — bright and unfiltered.
It felt good — real. Not like the nervous laugh I used to force when things got awkward. This one came from somewhere deeper.

Maya cracked up beside me, her laughter bouncing off the posters we'd stuck half-crooked on the cinderblock wall.
The curled corner of the Smashing Pumpkins poster flapped slightly from the fan's breeze, and the scotch tape holding up a photo booth strip fluttered loose.

Mom looked between us, suspicious. "I feel like I should be offended."
I wiped my eyes, still laughing. "Nah, we're just practicing conjugations."
My voice cracked a little mid-sentence, but neither of them blinked.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened even more. "I don't know what you two are saying... but I haven't seen you laugh like this in a long time."
Her fingers idly traced the hem of her sleeve — that old navy cardigan she always wore when she didn't know what else to do with her hands.

I glanced at Maya.
She winked.
And in that wink was every quiet reassurance I didn't know how to ask for — but somehow always got.

Mom glanced at the clock — the red digits glowing faintly in the dim dorm light — and then stood, brushing her hands on her jeans as if she were shaking off the weight of the day.
The digital numbers blinked 6:42, casting a soft red glow across the floor tiles. Somewhere down the hall, the faint buzz of a vacuum cleaner started up — probably the RA doing rounds before quiet hours.

"Well girls," she said after a bit of silence, her voice steady but lighter than before. "I know it's been a long day, but I'm taking you both out to dinner. Someplace decent. I'm not taking no for an answer."
She tugged her jean jacket from the back of the desk chair and slung it over her arm, already slipping back into her take-charge mode.

I blinked, caught off guard. "Where?"
She gave a sly smile — the kind she used to give when she'd smuggle movie snacks in her purse or let me skip school for "mental health days" back in high school.
The kind of smile that meant she already knew the answer was yes, even if we hadn't said it yet.

"Barbary Fig," she said. "Grand Avenue. Ever been?"
Maya's head snapped up. "Is that the place with the couscous and the mint tea?"
Her eyes lit up like someone had just promised her front-row tickets to Alanis Morissette.

Mom nodded. "And candlelight. And tablecloths. Let's go."
There was something warm in her tone — not just generosity, but intention. Like she was trying to stitch the day back together with good food and soft lighting.

Maya clutched her chest dramatically. "We're not eating out of paper baskets tonight? No Styrofoam cups or vending machine burritos?"
She widened her eyes like she couldn't believe such luxury existed on a college student's radar.

Mom smirked. "Not unless you plan on protesting by the dumpster. You both need a proper meal — something with real silverware."
She nudged her purse with her foot, sending a couple old receipts fluttering out.

I glanced down at what I was wearing — an old T-shirt with a faded soccer logo and a hoodie. "Uh, do I need to change?"
Mom tilted her head. "Only if you want to. But I'm not about to judge. I'm wearing some cheap clothes from K-mart."
The jeans had a little bleach spot near the hem, and her sneakers looked like they'd been through a hundred school pick-ups and grocery runs — because they had.

That earned a laugh from both of us.
Maya grabbed a hair tie from her wrist and pulled her curls into a messy ponytail, still grinning.

Maya hopped off the bed and stretched, her spine cracking slightly. "Barbary Fig has that lamb dish I dream about. But I'll go vegetarian in solidarity," she added quickly, looking at me.
I smiled.
The offer sat in the air between us like a small, quiet gift — unwrapped and glowing.

Mom was already digging through her purse, muttering about where she put the car keys. She pulled out a wrinkled receipt, a roll of antacids, and finally held the keys up like a trophy. "Got 'em."
The keys jangled with a faded keychain that read #1 Mom — the paint half worn off.

"Classic mom purse," Maya whispered to me. "Could probably survive a week in the woods with that thing."
"Or build a small raft," I added.
We tried to stay serious, but both of us cracked up halfway down the hall.

As we filed out of the room, I paused by the door, taking a slow breath. The hallway still smelled like floor wax and popcorn, but something had shifted — not in the air, but in me.
A flyer for a campus poetry reading flapped softly on the corkboard across the hall, and a lava lamp glowed faintly from someone's open doorway.

I wasn't just surviving the day anymore.
I was stepping into whatever came next.
Not a clean break. But something new. Something mine.

Mom turned around and smiled at us. "Come on, girls. Let's go eat something fancy enough to make us feel like we've got our lives together."

****

We slid into her station wagon and buckled up, the familiar squeak of the seatbelts snapping into place.
The upholstery was that scratchy gray fabric with little navy-blue dots, and the backseat still had an old Goosebumps book and a crumpled Burger King kids' meal bag wedged between the cushions.

As Mom turned the ignition, the radio crackled to life — KOOL 108, her favorite station.
The dial glowed faintly green, and the speakers gave that signature pop before the sound came through — a little tinny in the back, but clear enough.

A DJ's voice faded out, and then the opening notes of "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" came on like fate.
That instantly recognizable synth line sparkled into the cabin, full of glitter and promise.

Maya and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
She shook her head like she couldn't believe it, ponytail swaying against the collar of her jean jacket.

Mom grinned as she pulled away from the curb. "Total coincidence," she said, but we didn't believe her for a second.
She gave a tiny shrug, but her eyes were too smug to sell it.

"I mean," I said, still smiling, "if you were trying to win Cool Mom points, that definitely helped."
I leaned back into the seat, arms folded loosely, the air smelling faintly like the lemony pine-scented car freshener clipped to the vent.

She turned the volume up just a bit. The car filled with the fizzy, bright sound of Cyndi Lauper's voice, windows cracked to let in the warm early fall air.
The breeze brought in that crisp-in-the-shade, warm-in-the-sun feeling — the kind that made you want to wear a sweater even though you didn't need one yet.

The chorus kicked in just as we hit the main road, and even though none of us sang out loud, we were all kind of dancing in our own way — Maya tapping the beat on her knee, me swaying my head lightly, Mom drumming her fingers on the steering wheel like she'd done a thousand times before.
The old Saturn station wagon rumbled gently beneath us, the kind of smooth ride where you could feel the vibrations of the music in the seat.

Outside, the city passed by in soft streaks of gold and rust and neon.
Storefront signs buzzed quietly, some flickering — a laundromat with "OPEN" in pink cursive, a bakery window glowing with pies lined up in the glass. A kid on a skateboard shot across a side street, Walkman clipped to his jeans.

The dusky orange light of early evening wrapped everything in that quiet kind of magic that only seemed to exist just before the streetlamps flickered on.
It was that golden hour lull — not quite day, not quite night — where every shadow stretched long and slow across the sidewalks.

Leaves skittered across the sidewalks, a few already turned to bright reds and yellows.
They danced along the curb like confetti from a party no one had invited us to but we were glad to witness anyway.

The world felt slow, suspended — like we were gliding through a movie scene.
Like a scene from a coming-of-age film with a perfect needle drop. Everything framed just right, nothing rushed.

And somehow, with the radio playing and laughter still lingering in the air, it didn't feel like we were running from anything anymore.
It felt like we were headed toward something.

****

By the time we pulled up outside Barbary Fig, the sun had dipped behind the brick buildings, and the front windows glowed amber.
The station wagon rumbled into a tight parallel spot, tires crunching over scattered leaves as the headlights dimmed. The golden windowpanes shimmered like old film stills, shadows flickering behind gauzy curtains.

The little wooden sign above the door creaked in the breeze, and I could already smell the spices—cinnamon, cumin, something lemony and warm—before we even opened the door.
There was something cozy and ancient about the scent, like someone had bottled sunlight and poured it over the walls inside.

People walked by in scarves and jean jackets, their laughter soft against the hum of Grand Avenue.
A couple in matching Doc Martens strolled past holding hands, and someone pushed open the door to the indie bookstore next door, letting out a gust of warm air and the sound of a cash register bell.

Inside, it felt like stepping into another world. Worn wood floors, tile mosaics, rich fabrics hanging in corners like secrets waiting to be told.
The air inside was warmer, quieter. The walls held colors like rust and plum and deep teal — dim but not dark, like memory.

There was a faint sound of jazz playing from an old speaker tucked behind the bar, blending with the gentle clink of silverware and quiet conversation.
Something with horns and brushed drums, low and smooth — the kind of music that didn't ask to be noticed, but stayed with you anyway.

The lighting was low, soft. Everything felt gold and flickering.
Candlelight danced along the rim of the glassware and the gentle curve of the ceramic vases on the window ledges.

A server in a black apron led us to a tucked-away corner table with a flickering votive candle and menus printed on thick, cream-colored paper that felt expensive just to hold.
The server moved quietly, like they were trained not to disturb the atmosphere — just become part of it.

We sat. We breathed. We just... existed, for a moment. No expectations. No fear. Just the warmth of the space and each other.
There was a hush at the table — not silence, just peace. Like the day finally remembered how to exhale.

The waiter brought mint tea in a silver pot with tiny glasses. Steam curled up into the air like a spell. The smell was sweet and fresh, almost like toothpaste but somehow better. Cleaner.
The pot clinked gently as it was set down. The little glasses had etched designs in the sides, and the tea was almost too hot to hold at first — almost.

"I feel underdressed," I said, half-laughing, smoothing my sleeves and glancing around at the boho couples and professors in scarves who looked like they belonged in old bookstore ads.
One man nearby had a turtleneck, wireframe glasses, and a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance on the table. Another was sketching in a pocket notebook while sipping espresso.

"You look beautiful," Maya said.
Her voice didn't rise above the table's glow — it landed softly, like it belonged only to me.

Mom didn't disagree. She just reached for the tea and poured with both grace and precision, like she did this sort of thing all the time.
The tea splashed gently into the tiny glasses without a drop spilled. She handed one to each of us, thumb brushing my hand for just a second longer than necessary.

The appetizers were light—stuffed grape leaves, olive tapenade with flatbread that crackled just right between your teeth. Everything tasted fresh and sharp and kind of magical.
The tapenade had just the right bite of garlic and lemon, and the grape leaves unraveled in soft, savory ribbons.

We sipped and nibbled and leaned into the calm, letting the tension of the day dissolve into the candlelight.
Somewhere, a fork clinked gently against a dish. Someone laughed too loud at a table across the room, and then the hum settled again.

Maya leaned toward me, lips close to my ear, and whispered,
"Als we terug zijn in de slaapzaal, wil je dan neuken?"
The Dutch lilt made it sound almost too graceful for what it meant.

I nearly choked on my tea and slapped a hand over my mouth.
"Maya," I hissed, grinning. "Shhh!"
My face went hot, and I stared hard at the plate of olives like it might rescue me.

Mom blinked. "What?"
Maya picked up her glass with the most innocent face in the world. "Still just Dutch homework."
She sipped her tea delicately, eyes wide like she hadn't just committed a verbal war crime.

I tried so hard not to laugh, but the smirk on her face made it impossible. I turned toward the window and bit my knuckle, but it didn't help. The giggle escaped.
It bubbled out bright and real — not the shaky kind from earlier in the day, but the kind that came from somewhere honest.

Mom narrowed her eyes. "I liked it better when I could tell when people were talking about me."
Maya gave her a wide-eyed nod. "We'll add subtitles next time."
That did it. Even Mom laughed.
Not just a chuckle, but a full laugh — head tilted back, eyes crinkled. A sound I hadn't realized I missed until I heard it again.

****

Dinner arrived in steaming tagines—mine was full of roasted vegetables, chickpeas, and couscous with cinnamon and almonds.
The heavy clay lid lifted with a faint puff of steam, and the scent hit instantly — sweet, spiced, earthy. The colors of the dish glowed in the candlelight: orange carrots, deep green zucchini, golden couscous.

The smell was warm and rich, like a memory I hadn't had yet. I took one bite and nearly melted into my chair. It was the kind of food that made you close your eyes without meaning to.
The kind of food that made you forget the noise, the hard parts, the distance between who you were and who you're becoming.

Maya's had lamb and something smoky I couldn't pronounce — harissa maybe? Whatever it was, the steam clung to her curls, and her whole face lit up after the first bite.
She made a little sound of joy, half-laugh, half-sigh, and for a second, she looked like a kid again — before the world asked her to be tougher.

Mom picked at a salad with pomegranate seeds and feta, her fork moving slowly like her appetite hadn't quite caught up with her yet. Her wine glass sat untouched at first, the deep red liquid catching the candlelight like stained glass.
She was quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn't empty — more like her thoughts were finally stretching out after being packed too tight for too long.

We didn't talk much at first. Just the occasional quiet comment about the food or the tile on the walls or the couple at the next table clearly on a first date.
They were awkward and overdressed, and the guy kept wiping his palms on his khakis when he thought she wasn't looking.

There was a comfort in the clink of silverware and the low hum of conversation around us. Someone at the bar was talking about a Twins game.
"...if Knoblauch doesn't tighten up at second, we're screwed next season," drifted in and out behind the jazz.

The server passed by with a fresh pot of mint tea, and the aroma bloomed between us again — cool, sweet, almost sharp.
The scent cut through the richness of the food like a breath of clean air after a storm.

Halfway through the meal, Mom looked at me and said,
"I want you to know... I'm proud of you."
She didn't raise her voice, but it landed heavy and warm in my chest like a stone that didn't hurt.

I blinked. My fork hovered over the couscous for a second too long.
I wasn't sure if I'd heard her right — or if maybe part of me had just needed to.

"For standing up for yourself. For being honest. And for surviving that man's temper."
She didn't say his name. She didn't have to.

Maya reached for my hand under the table and laced her fingers through mine. Her thumb brushed lightly against mine, steady and warm, and suddenly the whole restaurant felt quieter — like the world had turned down its volume for us.
Even the jazz seemed to fade back, the music curling up around the edges like it knew to give us space.

Mom smiled faintly and said,
"Girls just want to have fun, right?"
She tilted her head a little like she was testing the words out for herself.

I looked at her — I could tell she meant it. Not in that dismissive way people sometimes said it, like it was a punchline. But in the way that meant something real. Like she saw me. All of me.
Like she was trying — really trying — to step into the world I'd built for myself, not tear it down or peek at it from the outside.

Maya grinned.
"Is that a quote... or a request?"
Mom laughed, her whole face softening in a way I hadn't seen in years.
"Bit of both."
It was the kind of laugh that creased the corners of her eyes and made her whole body shift — like something had unknotted in her shoulders.

I smirked.
"We're already living it."
"Could've fooled me an hour ago," she teased, reaching for her wine at last and taking a small sip like a peace offering.
The rim of the glass caught the candlelight again, this time not like stained glass — but like a lantern held up in the dark.

And just like that, something in the air softened.
It wasn't magic. It was human. Earned.

Not everything was healed. The bruises on the inside — the ones you couldn't point to — were still there. The worry. The wondering. The what-ifs. But they didn't feel so sharp tonight. Not here.
Tonight they sat quietly at the edge of the table, like ghosts that knew they weren't welcome but stayed anyway, politely.

The pain was still there — it would be for a while — but right now, at a little candlelit restaurant in St. Paul, with mint tea and hand-holding and a mom who stayed... I felt okay.
I felt like maybe, the fun was finally ours to have.

And Whitlock takes control at midfield—cutting through two defenders—this girl is on fire today!"

The announcer's voice crackled over the PA system, half drowned out by the crowd noise. It wasn't a packed stadium, but it was enough — students ringing the bleachers with homemade signs painted in school colors, the steady smack of thundersticks keeping tempo, cowbells jangling out of sync, and someone's portable boom box still blasting from the tailgate lot behind the fence. You could smell bratwurst and rain-soaked charcoal from the grills, the scent riding the wind like a memory.

I didn't look at any of it.

Ball at my feet. Defender on my hip.

Focus.

The field was slick from this morning's rain — little patches of damp clung to the grass in uneven spots. My cleats caught and slid just enough to keep me alert, every step balanced on instinct. The wind cut through my jersey like it had teeth, sharp and persistent, making the fabric cling to my sides and whip at the hem.

The rival college — all black-and-red kits, loud and chest-thumping aggressive — were right on us. I could hear their bench shouting across the pitch, voices cracking like whips.

"She's going left! Watch the switch!"

They weren't wrong.

I juked right, spun left, and sent the ball sailing to Jess just before their center-back could clip my ankle. The moment felt slow and bright, like a snapshot mid-burst.

The crowd roared.

A couple girls behind the bench jumped up, waving signs that read "Go Whitlock!" and "No mercy!" in glitter marker. I spotted Claire pumping her fist in the third row, her purple sweatshirt sleeves pushed halfway up her arms.

Coach Walker's whistle rang from the sideline. "Good pass, Whitlock!"

I caught my breath, adjusted the band of my ponytail, and turned back upfield, eyes already scanning for the next move. Every muscle buzzed — not with nerves, but with purpose. For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like I was on the edge of falling apart.

This was our first real game since... well, everything.

Since the locker room. Since the blood test. Since that quiet, terrifying moment in the mirror where I finally saw the girl everyone else was starting to see.

But out here?

Out here, I was just Whitlock again.
Not the question. Not the exception.
Just a player with fire in her lungs and cleats on the turf.

**

The ball moved fast — way too fast.
Red-and-black jerseys pressed in from both sides, and just as I darted for the return pass, I felt a sudden slam against my shin. My foot slipped. The world tilted.

I hit the ground hard.

The sharp slap of skin meeting wet turf echoed louder than I expected. For a second, I just lay there, the sky spinning overhead — white clouds streaking across pale blue, like the world hadn't noticed I'd gone down.

The whistle blew sharp and short.
"Foul! Number seventeen, red!"

The crowd groaned. A few clapped. Someone yelled "Come on, ref!" from the bleachers. A horn blared faintly in the distance, maybe from a campus shuttle. Somewhere behind me, a portable boom box still played something grungy — a fuzzed-out guitar solo that didn't match the moment at all.

I rolled to my knees, teeth clenched, heart pounding in my ears. My leg burned — not broken, but it hurt. Real bad. I looked up — the girl who clipped me was already backing away, hands raised like she'd done nothing wrong. Her face was unreadable beneath her sweat-soaked bangs.

I heard Coach Walker shout something from the sideline, but it didn't register. Just noise.

The ref jogged over, glanced down at me, then waved toward the sideline. "You okay, twelve?"

I nodded, breathless, trying to get up. My cleats skidded slightly in the damp grass.

Coach's voice came again, louder now. "Whitlock! Sub out. You need a minute."

I froze.

"I'm fine," I said.

"You're limping."

I looked down. I was. A little. But I didn't care. I didn't want to come off. Not now. Not after everything.

"Whitlock," she said again, more firmly. "Sideline. Now."

I exhaled sharply, nodded, and jogged off the field, my shin still aching. My chest even more.
The sting of leaving — of being taken out — throbbed worse than the bruise forming beneath my sock.

Jess gave me a look as I passed. I couldn't tell if it was sympathy or frustration.

I sat on the bench too fast, pulled the water bottle into my lap, and stared at the grass. The label on the bottle was peeling from the condensation — a half-ripped sticker from some orientation-week giveaway.
BOB 100FM – New Country.
The cartoon logo's face was warped, but the bold slogan next to it still read:
"Turn your knob to BOB!"

Somehow, it made my throat tighten even more.

It hit before I could stop it.
Tears blurred my vision.

I wiped at them quickly, but they kept coming — hot, humiliated, angry. I tipped my head down, hair falling forward to hide my face. I didn't want this. I didn't want this to be part of the story.

It wasn't just the foul. It wasn't just the pain.

It was everything.

The pressure. The stares. The way people still looked at me like I didn't belong here — like being on the women's team was some kind of mistake waiting to happen.

A trainer approached with an ice pack, but I waved her off.

"I'm okay," I muttered.

Coach crouched down a few feet away, not right next to me — giving me a bubble of space. Just enough.

"You're playing great," she said quietly. "You just need to breathe."

I nodded, but I didn't look at her.

I didn't want anyone to see me like this.

Not my teammates. Not Coach. Not the kid in the front row with the face paint and cowbell who didn't even know my name.

I hated this.
I hated crying during a game.
I hated how the minute I stepped off the field, all that strength I'd built up cracked like it was made of glass.

"Sub going in!" someone shouted near the sideline.

I didn't look up.

Not until I heard the clatter of cleats jogging past and a voice — familiar, fierce, warm — call out:

"I've got it."

My eyes snapped up.

It was Maya.

She met my gaze for just a second — and gave me the smallest smile.

Confident. Solid.

Like she wasn't just stepping onto the field.
She was stepping in for me.

Coach gave a quick nod and clapped once. "Alright, Hernandez — show 'em what you've got."

Maya jogged into position like she belonged there. Because she did.

She didn't look back.

She didn't need to.

She already knew I was watching.

**

I wasn't able to play the rest of the game.
Every time I thought about going back in, the pain got worse — a sharp, hot throb right below my knee that refused to be ignored. One of the first aid staff came over and had me stretch and walk and ice it down while the crowd kept cheering like I wasn't even missing anything. She looked maybe twenty-five, ponytail sticking out the back of a battered university ball cap, clipboard in one hand, a roll of athletic tape in the other.

Eventually, she gave me a look and said, "Sorry, hon. You're benched until it heals."
"How long?" I asked, already knowing I wouldn't like the answer.
"A week or two, maybe more. Depends how you take care of it."
I nodded, biting down on the inside of my cheek.

No practice. No games. Just ice packs, elevation, and watching from the sidelines.
Awesome.

The smell of wet grass and popcorn from the concessions booth drifted over the bleachers. Some kid was still rattling a cowbell, and the boom box behind the bleachers hadn't stopped since the second half — someone had queued up "This Is How We Do It" on cassette, and it warbled slightly every time the batteries slipped loose.

Oh — and by the way?
We won. Five to two.

And guess who scored the final goal?
Yeah.
Maya.

I saw it happen from the bench — the perfect setup, the way she cut through the defense like she'd been born to do it, the way she launched that ball into the upper corner of the net like it owed her money.

The crowd exploded. Her teammates swarmed her. The announcer shouted her name loud and clear through the speakers, and even the rival team looked impressed. A couple of them clapped. One coach even muttered something and scribbled in his notepad like he needed to adjust strategy just for her.

And me?
I clapped.
I smiled.
I hurt.

Not just my leg — but that ache that comes from being so proud of someone you love... and still feeling like you're falling behind.

****

The sun was starting to set as we made our way across campus.
The sky was streaked with pink and gold, the kind of early evening light that made everything look a little softer than it really was. The kind of light that hit the tops of the brick buildings and made even the ugly science hall look like something from a postcard.

I clunked along on crutches, my gym bag bouncing awkwardly against my side.
Correction — was bouncing awkwardly.
Until Maya rolled her eyes, grabbed it off my shoulder, and threw it over hers without breaking stride.

"I got it," she said. "You already look like Bambi learning how to walk."
I laughed. "Gee, thanks."
She grinned. "A very cute Bambi."

I gave her a side glance. "Do you flirt with all your injured teammates, or just the ones you're dating?"
"Only the ones who can't chase me down."
I bumped her lightly with one crutch. "You're lucky I'm half broken."

We kept walking — her steady, me a little wobbly, but managing. The old concrete walkway clicked under our shoes, scattered with dry leaves that hadn't been swept yet. A flyer for a concert fluttered past our feet, snagged for a second on my crutch before blowing onward. I caught just enough of it to read: Björk – Live at First Avenue – November 9, 1995. Somewhere in the distance, a bike bell dinged twice before fading down a hill.

The crowd noise had faded. The field lights were just distant glows now. Campus was quieter, softer, like it had exhaled. Like we weren't being watched anymore. Just two girls heading back, sharing the sidewalk and the quiet.

"I'm proud of you," I said, finally.
She looked over. "For what?"
"For the goal. For stepping in. For killing it out there."
She shrugged, but I saw the pink in her cheeks. "I had good motivation."

I smiled, even though it stung a little.
Missing the next few games was going to suck.
But right now — walking beside Maya, the air cool on my face, the sound of her cleats clinking against the sidewalk — it didn't feel quite so heavy.

**

By the time we reached our building, my arms were sore from the crutches and I was more than ready to collapse.

Maya held the door for me, one hand still gripping my gym bag, the other pushing the entry open with a little dramatic flair like she was my personal butler.

"Milady," she said with a bow.

I rolled my eyes and hobbled inside, the rubber ends of my crutches squeaking against the linoleum tile. Someone down the hallway was blasting Alanis Morissette from behind a half-open door, the chorus of "You Oughta Know" bleeding into the common area like a war cry.

We were halfway down the hall when we both stopped.

Dead in our tracks.

The new whiteboard on our door — the one housing replaced after the last one.

Scrawled across it in thick, black permanent marker, all caps:

"YOU'RE AN EMBARRASSMENT TO REAL WOMEN."

Maya's body went rigid beside me.

I just stared at it. My heartbeat thudded in my throat, fast and loud and sick.

There was no witty response I could write back this time.
No passive-aggressive smiley face. No snarky comeback.
This wasn't even trying to be subtle.

"Who the hell—" Maya started, but her voice caught somewhere in her chest. I saw her jaw tighten.

We stood there for a few seconds longer.

Long enough to feel every set of eyes peeking from cracked doors down the hall.
Long enough to hear the silence between the walls get just a little heavier.
Long enough for the chill in my skin to settle deep.

I could feel it in my gut — that old familiar ache of being watched, judged, picked apart.

Like I was being peeled open again.

"This is the second time," I muttered. The words barely had weight behind them. I didn't even sound surprised anymore. Just tired.

Maya dropped my gym bag to the floor with a thud that echoed more than it should have. Her hand was already in her pocket, fumbling for the key. She didn't say anything else.

"I'll get something to clean it," she said finally, her voice low and sharp, the kind of tone that meant she was holding something back.

I didn't stop her.

I just stood there, staring at the words like maybe they'd rewrite themselves. Like maybe if I looked long enough, they'd fade.
But they didn't.
They just stared back. Permanent. Ugly.
Loud.

I stared at the mirror like it had betrayed me.
The dress — short-sleeved, black velvet, clingy in all the wrong places — hung off my shoulders like it belonged to someone braver. Someone who didn’t overthink every square inch of themselves.
The dorm mirror was tacked up with Scotch tape and Post-it notes, a few of them curling at the corners. One read “Don’t forget Dutch quiz Tues!” in Maya’s handwriting. Another had a doodle of a bat in a party hat.

The tag said “goth witch,” but the way I kept fidgeting with the hem made it feel more like “gender crisis in progress.”
Behind me, Maya was humming something off-key and dancing around the dorm room in fishnets and red lipstick, adjusting her vampire cape with zero shame.
The cassette deck on her side of the room was playing The Cranberries at low volume — “Zombie,” warbling faintly beneath the hum of the radiator.
“You look amazing,” she said, flopping dramatically onto the bed. “Seriously. The boots? Perfect. The eyeliner? Scary in a sexy way. The dress?” She gave a slow, theatrical thumbs-up. “Gay rights.”
She grinned behind a smear of Wet ‘n’ Wild lipstick, her red Solo cup of Mountain Dew tucked between her knees.

I turned back to the mirror. “I look like I borrowed this from someone cooler and forgot to return it.”
She sat up on her elbows. “You look like you. The real you. And yeah, maybe she’s nervous, but she’s still hot.”
A glow-in-the-dark pumpkin clung to the window behind her, suction-cupped in place since mid-October.
I let out a breath through my nose, tugged at the sleeves again. “It just feels… loud.”
“It’s Halloween,” she said. “Everyone’s loud. There’s literally a guy downstairs dressed as the Kool-Aid Man.”
From the hallway came a faint echo of “OH YEAH!” followed by scattered applause and someone yelling, “He broke the couch again!”

I cracked a tiny smile, but it didn’t stick.
My reflection still made my stomach twist.
I walked over to my closet and pulled the bag off the hanger.
Maya blinked. “What’s that?”
I held it up. “Plan B.”
She sat up straighter. “Wait. Is that—?”
“Yep.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not.”
I pulled out the tall blue wig, the strapless green dress, and the plastic red bead necklace. “If I’m gonna be uncomfortable, I might as well be unforgettable.”
The wig still had the remnants of a price sticker from Spencer Gifts, half peeled off.

Maya blinked once. Then burst into laughter.
“Oh my god. You’re really doing Marge Simpson?”
“I mean… yeah. Why not?” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “If I’m gonna be seen, I might as well be seen.”
She practically bounced off the bed. “I am so in love with you.”
Her cape flared as she twirled, and her Doc Martens thudded softly on the dorm’s cheap carpet tiles.

I stepped into the dress, still unsure if I was making the boldest move of my life… or the stupidest.
Probably both.

Maya sat back on her heels, watching me hold up the green strapless dress like it was made of dynamite.
“Want help?” she asked softly.
I didn’t answer right away. The dress felt heavier than it looked — not physically, but in all the ways that mattered.
I nodded once.
She stood up, walked over, and gently took the hanger from my hands. “Okay,” she said, calm and careful. “Let’s do this.”
I could hear the faint buzz of a hair dryer down the hall and the distant sound of someone blasting TLC’s “Creep” through half-closed dorm doors.

I turned away, unzipped the black velvet one I was already wearing, and stepped out of it slowly. The cool air kissed my shoulders. I didn’t hide. Not this time.
Maya didn’t say anything, didn’t smirk or make it weird. She’d seen me before — in quieter moments, on bad days, on days I’d wanted to disappear. But this was different.
She held the new dress open for me, arms outstretched like she was offering me armor.
“You sure?” she asked.
“No,” I admitted. “But do it anyway.”
She smiled. “That’s my girl.”
Her voice was barely louder than the rustle of the dress, but it cut deeper than any noise outside.

I stepped in.
The fabric clung at my hips, bunched at my ribs, and refused to go quietly over my chest.
“Here, lift your arms—no, not like that, like this,” she said, trying not to laugh as she adjusted the fit. “Jesus, how does Marge make this look easy?”
“It’s cartoon logic,” I muttered, trying to keep my balance. “Nothing has zippers.”
A plastic baggie of safety pins sat nearby, just in case. Maya had already MacGyvered half her outfit together with them earlier.

The dress finally settled into place with a tug and a shimmy. Maya zipped it up from behind — slowly, carefully, like she was closing a secret.
When I turned to face her again, the silence was thick.
Then she smiled. Wide and soft and a little bit in awe.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “And yeah, I’ve seen you without the dress… but somehow, this feels even more naked.”
I swallowed. “Because it’s me.”
“Exactly.”
She reached for the wig and placed it gently on my head, tilting it forward to get the angle right.
“Okay,” she said, stepping back. “Now you’re Marge.”
She handed me the red beads with a reverent little bow, like she was crowning me queen of Springfield.

I glanced at the mirror.
The beehive wig. The red beads. The green strapless dress that hugged me in all the wrong — and maybe right — places.
The mirror flickered slightly — the overhead light always buzzed like a bug zapper when the heat kicked on. I stared anyway. Somewhere in the reflection, behind the nerves and the costume and the girl I was still getting used to…
There I was.

**

We stepped outside into the hallway.
The tile floors were slick with the tread of combat boots and muddy sneakers, a couple stray candy wrappers already crinkled underfoot.
Girls were everywhere — laughter echoing off the cinderblock walls, dorm doors flung open with music spilling out like fog.
One room was blasting “Gangsta’s Paradise” on a boom box propped in the window, while another had Alanis Morissette belting through tinny desktop speakers.
A werewolf in a letterman jacket sprinted past us, chased by a girl with fairy wings and a plastic sword.
Her wings snagged on the fire extinguisher box, but she kept running, shouting, “You owe me Skittles!”
Someone had strung orange lights along the railing. A half-inflated pumpkin balloon bobbed near the ceiling.
The pumpkin was taped to the hallway smoke detector with masking tape — a clear violation of every rule on the dorm bulletin board, which now had a Sharpie mustache drawn on the RA’s photo.

Costumes ranged from lazy to legendary.
There was a Cleopatra. Three Spice Girls. At least six cats. One girl had fully committed to being a toaster, complete with cardboard and chrome paint.
A handwritten sign taped to her chest read “Insert bread here” with arrows pointing to a slot cut in the top.
No one looked twice at me.
And for a moment, that was more shocking than if they had.
I braced for whispers, for stares, for something — but it was just noise and girls and music and movement. And I was part of it.

Maya looped her arm through mine, smug as anything. “Told you. You’re perfect.”
I didn’t answer — not out loud. But I held my head up just a little higher.
My beehive wig wobbled slightly when I walked, and the red beads clicked softly with every step. But somehow, it felt okay.

Across the hall, someone in a Carmen Sandiego coat and fedora gave us a thumbs-up. Maya grinned and returned it.
Her cape swirled as she turned, catching the hallway light like a movie poster.

“Let’s get downstairs before the line for candy apples gets longer than your hair,” she said, tugging me gently forward.
“Do they even have candy apples?” I asked.
“No idea. But if not, we riot.”
From below, we could hear the rumble of voices and the bass thud of a song that might’ve been “This Is How We Do It” — or someone’s bad mix tape trying to be.
Somewhere down the stairwell, someone shouted, “They’ve got popcorn balls and Little Debbie cakes!”
I squeezed Maya’s hand a little tighter. Not out of fear. Just… because I could.

****

The party was already at full volume by the time we stepped into the commons room.
The door was propped open with a pumpkin-shaped candy bucket, half-full of crumpled candy wrappers and a melted Reese’s.
Someone had rigged black lights in the corners, and the stereo was blaring “This Is Halloween” from The Nightmare Before Christmas — loud enough to shake the floors.
A stack of jewel-case CDs sat beside the stereo, next to a mix tape labeled “Hallowicked Mix ’95” in glitter gel pen.
The smell of popcorn, cheap cider, and latex masks filled the air.
Someone had lit one of those cinnamon brooms from the grocery store, adding to the chaotic fall scent palette.
A fog machine puffed dramatically near the snack table, even though it mostly just made everyone cough.
Someone waved a folded Chicago Tribune at the haze, muttering, “Dude, this is not what they meant by atmosphere.”

And the costumes? Oh my god.
There were Animaniacs — all three of them, plus someone trying (badly) to be Dr. Scratchansniff.
Dot had little white gloves and carried around a can of Aqua Net, spraying her hair every five minutes.
A guy in a full Kool-Aid Man getup kept wandering through the crowd yelling, “OH YEAH!” and crashing into furniture like it was his full-time job.
Someone had rigged a disposable camera and caught him mid-crash. “We’re putting that on the dorm board!” someone shouted over the music.

But the best one? Easy.
Across the room, three guys had committed — fully committed — to being the Sanderson Sisters from Hocus Pocus.
Winifred’s wig was massive. Sarah’s dress was showing way too much leg for a guy with that much chest hair. And Mary… somehow had vacuum attachments strapped to his feet instead of a broom.
One of the vacuums still had a power cord dragging behind him like a ghostly tail.

I pointed.
Maya gasped. “Shut up. That’s amazing.”
“I kind of want to be them when I grow up.”
“Same,” she said, tugging me toward the cider table. “Let’s go before the vampire frat bros drink it all.”
We passed a group bobbing their heads to No Doubt now playing on the stereo — “Spiderwebs,” I think — while a girl in a giant inflatable crayon costume spun in place.

We passed two guys dressed as Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor and Al Borland.
Tim had a fake tool belt made out of a duct-taped fanny pack. Al was carrying a cardboard sign that read, “I don’t think so, Tim.”

We poured ourselves paper cups of cider and leaned against the wall, just watching.
The cider was lukewarm and a little too sweet, served from an orange Igloo cooler decorated with black duct tape bats.
The noise, the music, the laughter — it all buzzed around us like we were in the eye of a party hurricane.
One guy was trying to start a limbo line using a broom handle. Someone else was offering candy from an old popcorn tin and swearing it was "only a little stale."
Maya pulled a mini Twix from the pocket of her cape and handed it to me like it was a peace offering.

**

We hadn’t been standing there more than two minutes when a girl in a glittery cowgirl outfit walked past and did a double take.
Her boots sparkled with silver sequins, and she had a toy cap gun tucked into a glittery pink holster from the Halloween aisle at Target.
“Wait—are you Marge Simpson?”
I straightened a little. “Yeah.”
She grinned. “That’s amazing. Best costume I’ve seen all night, no lie.”
A loop of rhinestones bounced on the brim of her cowgirl hat as she turned.
Maya bumped my hip. “Told you.”
The cowgirl winked. “You nailed the wig.” And just like that, she was gone into the crowd.
Her perfume lingered faintly — something fruity and drugstore sweet, probably from Bath & Body Works.

Across the room, by the snack table, someone else had turned to look at me — a guy in a half-hearted cowboy costume, plastic badge and all.
His shirt was untucked, his jeans too clean. The kind of costume that screamed, "I forgot until ten minutes ago."
I knew him. Not well. Just enough to remember his name from one of the gen-ed lecture halls. Greg something.
He usually sat near the back, always with his Walkman clipped to his belt, headphones hanging loose around his neck.

He squinted.
Then his eyes widened.
And then he looked away fast — like if he stared too long, it might mean something.
I caught the way he muttered something to the girl beside him. The way she gave me a glance and then tucked her chin toward his shoulder, whispering back.
Her glitter hairspray caught the light like tinsel. She didn’t look hostile — just curious. Like she’d walked in on the last line of a joke she didn’t get.

The air felt tighter for a moment.
The music shifted to something slower — Mazzy Star, maybe — but the mood around us didn’t quite match the song.

Maya noticed. Her grip on her paper cup tensed.
“You okay?” she asked, voice low.
I nodded. “Yeah. Just… people suck.”
“Some of them,” she agreed. “But not all.”
Behind her, a girl in a Ghostface mask knocked over a bowl of Doritos and just left them there.

And before I could spiral, she leaned in and whispered, “You’re still the hottest in the room.”
I cracked a grin. “Low bar.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
We raised our cups in a little toast — cider and courage — and drank.
Mine had gone lukewarm, but I didn’t care. It was sweet, sharp, real.

And in the background, the Kool-Aid Man crashed into something again.
Someone yelled, “That was the RA’s chair!” followed by a burst of applause and a very unconvincing “My bad!”

**

A DJ had taken over the music now, switching from movie soundtracks and Halloween classics.
He was set up on a folding table draped with a black sheet, his mix CDs stacked in a shoebox labeled “Spooky Bops Vol. 1–3.” A lava lamp pulsed beside him in eerie red and green swirls.
“Ghostbusters” thumped through the room, followed by “Thriller,” then “Creep” by Radiohead, which got a weirdly emotional singalong from one corner of the party.
The stoner crowd — dressed in capes and clown wigs — swayed in a huddle, eyes half-lidded, chanting “I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo…” like it was gospel.

And then, somehow, the mood shifted.
The lights dimmed slightly. A slower song came on — “Nothing Compares 2 U” — and the energy in the room softened.
The black lights flickered down to just a few jack-o’-lantern nightlights on the window sills. Somebody turned off the fog machine, and the air finally started to clear.

Couples started pairing off. Some swayed clumsily, still in costume. A skeleton and a devil. Two matching M&Ms. Even Carmen Sandiego found herself dancing with Waldo.
They bumped elbows trying to slow dance, both laughing awkwardly as Carmen adjusted her trench coat to keep it from dragging.
Maya looked at me.
I hesitated.
Then I nodded.
She set her cider on the table and reached for my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her fishnets glinted in the dim light as she moved. The red on her lips still sharp even in shadow.

And together, we stepped toward the center of the floor.
We didn’t talk. We just moved.
Arms wrapped around waists, heads resting on each other’s shoulders, hips barely swaying to the beat. My cheek pressed gently against hers. Her fingers found the small of my back.
The music seemed quieter here, not because it was, but because we were.

It wasn’t flashy.
It wasn’t daring.
It was just… us.
But we could feel it. The eyes.
People noticed.
Not everyone in the room was kind.
Some whispers came louder than others.
“Queer.”
“Lesbo”
“Tranny”
“Gross.”
Each word landed like a tack on a balloon. Sharp. Fast. Designed to deflate.

I felt Maya’s breath hitch against my neck — and then steady.
Her grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened.

But then came other voices.
“Shut up.”
“Leave them alone.”
“They look better than you anyway.”
Somewhere, a girl clapped. Someone else snapped their fingers in a sarcastic, “you tried it” kind of way.

And then I heard it — “RILEY!”
Claire.
She came bounding through the crowd like a rainbow in a trench coat, dressed as Velma from Scooby-Doo, complete with round glasses and an orange turtleneck.
Her wig was crooked and she had a pair of red Keds that squeaked every time she stopped too fast.

Jess followed, wearing an oversized lab coat with a clipboard that said “Dr. Chaos, Evil Genius.” Her eyes found me and Maya and immediately softened.
Her safety goggles were pushed up on her head like she meant business.

Claire didn’t say anything. She just wrapped her arms around both of us like a human force field.
Her perfume was vanilla-sugar and dryer sheets.
Jess stood beside us, glaring daggers at anyone still whispering.
The glow from her clip-on earring strobed like a tiny police siren every time she moved her head.

“Dance with who you want,” Claire said firmly. “Anyone has a problem, they can go fuck themselves.”
I laughed, even as the tears threatened.
My mascara was probably toast, but I didn’t care. I was held, and seen, and here.

Maya leaned back slightly and looked at me. Her eyes were shining. “Still think this costume was too much?”
I shook my head.
Not anymore.
Not even a little.

****

The party noise followed us halfway down the stairwell — echoes of laughter, someone yelling about spilled punch, a final “OH YEAH!” from the Kool-Aid Man as we slipped outside into the October night.
The stairwell walls were still warm with body heat and smelled faintly like hairspray, cider, and caramel popcorn.

The air hit different out here.
Cool. Crisp. Still.
No fog machines. No flashing lights. Just the hum of the streetlamp and the crunch of leaves beneath our boots.
A couple carved pumpkins sat lopsided near the building entrance, their candles long burned out, one missing its jagged-tooth grin.

We walked side by side, Maya’s cape brushing against my arm, the beehive wig tucked under my arm now. I couldn’t do another second in it. The dress, though… I kept.
A breeze tugged lightly at the hem, lifting the edges just enough to remind me it was real, that I was still in it. Still me.

We didn’t say much.
The silence wasn’t awkward — just full. Full of what we’d just done, what we’d just faced. Full of words that didn’t need saying yet.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell quiet. A car drove past the campus edge, its headlights flashing briefly across the sidewalk before fading into the night.

When we reached the steps outside our dorm, we sat.
The cement was cold through the dress but solid, grounding.
I kicked off my heels and let my feet breathe, flexing my toes against the cold concrete.
The stockings had left faint lines across my ankles. My toes wiggled freely in the chill, pale under the glow of the buzzing porch light overhead.

Maya reached for my hand.
“You okay?” she asked after a moment.
I looked up at the sky. A few stars peeked through the suburban glow.
The kind of half-foggy night where the moon looked like it had been rubbed with a thumbprint.

“I don’t know,” I said. “That was a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“But it was also kind of… amazing?”
“Yeah,” she repeated, quieter this time.
We sat like that for a while — the wind tugging at our costumes, the world going on without us.
Inside the dorm, we could still hear faint thumps of bass through the brick walls. But out here, it might as well have been another planet.

Then Maya leaned her head on my shoulder.
“You’re really brave, you know.”
I snorted. “Marge Simpson brave.”
She chuckled, the sound muffled by my shoulder.

“I’m serious.”
I looked down at her.
And for a second, the fear melted.
“I love you,” I said. Not loud. Not shy. Just… true.
Maya smiled without opening her eyes. “I know. I love you too.”
The wind picked up again.
But this time, it didn’t chill me.
It wrapped around us like a blanket.