The Apartment Of Practice
Chapter 4 – The Apartment of Practice
The rented room was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet that came after rain when the kampung roads steamed and the crickets sang like they were grateful to be alive.
This quiet was different.
It was the kind that pressed against the ears until you started hearing your own thoughts too clearly.
On the first night, Chen Wei lay on the thin mattress and listened to the ceiling fan click on each rotation. The sound wasn’t loud, but it was consistent–tick, tick, tick–as if the room had a small mechanical heart and it was unimpressed by his existence.
Outside, the city hummed.
A distant motorcycle. A car alarm that cut off abruptly. Someone laughing in the corridor, footsteps receding.
Inside, Chen Wei stared at the ceiling and wondered what he had done.
His suitcase sat open on the floor like a mouth.
The dress lay folded on the chair he hadn’t used.
A blouse and a skirt, still creased from packaging.
A cheap wig in a plastic net.
A small pouch of makeup products he had bought with hands that trembled so badly the cashier had asked, “Encik okay?” and he had nodded too fast.
Just for the plan, he told himself.
The words had already started to feel thin.
Plans were supposed to be clean.
Step one. Step two. Step three.
In his mind, the plan looked simple:
- Become “Wei Ling.”
- Enter university.
- Get close to Mei Xuan.
- Confess.
- Win.
But now that he was actually here, with the dress within reach and no wall between houses, it didn’t feel like a plan.
It felt like standing at the edge of a swimming pool at night, the water dark, knowing you were about to jump without knowing how cold it would be.
He rolled onto his side.
His phone buzzed once.
A notification–an old group chat from school, people spamming stickers about how “freedom” felt good.
Chen Wei didn’t open it.
He stared at the screen until it dimmed.
Then he turned the phone face-down.
The next morning, he woke up with sunlight leaking through the thin curtains.
The room smelled like him–detergent, sweat, old dust.
He sat up, rubbed his face, and felt the heaviness still in his chest.
He had dreamed of Mei Xuan.
Not romantic.
Just ordinary.
Her scolding him for being late.
Her elbowing him at the pasar malam.
Her voice saying his name, familiar and sharp.
He lay back down and stared at the ceiling fan.
The thought came uninvited.
If I stop now, I can still go back.
But go back to what?
A wall that he refused to climb.
A gate where he hid behind curtains.
A friendship already cracked.
He exhaled.
In the harsh clarity of morning, he admitted something he hadn’t admitted before.
He wasn’t doing this only because he wanted Mei Xuan.
He was doing it because he didn’t know how else to survive wanting her.
Desperation made people brave.
Or stupid.
Sometimes both.
He started with the simplest thing.
A list.
He opened his notes app and typed:
Wei Ling – Checklist
- Skincare
- Makeup basics
- Hair
- Clothes
- Voice
- Posture
- Mannerisms
- Name
He stared at the list until it looked ridiculous.
Then he stared until it looked possible.
The internet became his teacher.
In the kampung, the only “makeup tutorial” he had ever seen was his aunties dabbing powder on their faces before going to weddings, the compact snapping shut like a secret.
Here, in the private glow of his phone screen, he watched videos of girls blending foundation, drawing eyebrows, fixing eyeliner mistakes with a patience that felt unreal.
He paused, rewound, replayed.
He wrote notes.
Blend outward. Don’t drag. Concealer under eyes. Set with powder. Don’t overdo.
He learned words he had never used before.
Contour.
Highlighter.
Primer.
He whispered them quietly to himself like they were spells.
In the bathroom mirror, he studied his face.
His features were not harsh.
He had always been told he looked “soft” for a guy.
Aunties had said it with affection, like softness was cute on boys but not something to be taken seriously.
Now, he searched his own reflection with a different hunger.
He saw his jawline.
His brows.
The faint shadow of facial hair that always annoyed him.
He touched his cheek and felt the stubble.
The thought of presenting as a girl with stubble made his stomach twist.
So he shaved.
Not the quick, careless shave he did before school.
A slow one.
Careful.
He lathered soap, dragged the razor gently, watched hair disappear.
When he rinsed his face and looked up, he saw something that startled him.
Not a girl.
Not yet.
But a version of himself that looked… cleaner.
Younger.
Almost unfamiliar.
His chest tightened.
A small flicker.
Not triumph.
Not relief.
Something in between.
He told himself it was just satisfaction at doing something properly.
But his fingers lingered on his cheek longer than necessary.
He went shopping like he was committing a crime.
The first time, he went to a small pharmacy chain, the kind with bright lighting and shelves that made everything look too exposed.
He wore a mask.
He wore a cap.
He kept his eyes down.
He walked toward the makeup aisle and felt his heart hammer.
Two teenage girls stood nearby, giggling and testing lip tints on their wrists.
Chen Wei’s hands went cold.
He imagined them turning and laughing.
Eh, why that guy here?
But they didn’t look.
They didn’t care.
The world did not stop to judge him.
That was the first lesson.
Most people were too busy living their own lives.
He grabbed a few items quickly–foundation, concealer, a cheap eyeshadow palette, mascara, a small brush kit.
At the counter, the cashier scanned them without expression.
Chen Wei held his breath.
The cashier said, casually, “Member card?”
Chen Wei shook his head.
The cashier nodded, bagged the items, said, “Thank you.”
That was it.
No ridicule.
No lecture.
No catastrophe.
Outside, Chen Wei stood in the sunlight and realized his palms were sweaty.
He exhaled, shaky.
A laugh escaped him–quiet, almost hysterical.
He had been terrified of buying makeup.
And nothing had happened.
He didn’t know whether to feel foolish or brave.
He felt both.
Back in the room, he laid everything out on the bed like tools.
He watched a tutorial again.
Then he tried.
The first attempt was awful.
The foundation shade was wrong–too warm, making his face look like it belonged to a different person.
His eyeliner stabbed his eyelid like betrayal.
Mascara clumped.
He wiped it off, tried again.
Worse.
He wiped it off, tried again.
On the fourth try, his hands stopped shaking as much.
On the sixth, the eyeliner line became less crooked.
On the eighth, he found a rhythm.
The act itself–applying, blending, adjusting–became strangely calming.
It required focus.
It demanded presence.
For the first time in months, Chen Wei’s mind stopped looping around Mei Xuan like a planet.
He was just here.
In a rented room.
Staring at a mirror.
Trying to draw a softer version of himself.
When he finally leaned back and looked at his face, he froze.
It wasn’t perfect.
He could still see “Chen Wei” in it.
But there was something new.
A hint.
A suggestion.
His eyes looked bigger.
His brows looked cleaner.
His skin looked smoother.
He looked… pretty.
The word hit him like a slap.
Pretty.
It was a word that had never belonged to him.
His throat tightened.
He stared until his eyes burned.
Then he laughed under his breath.
“Stupid,” he whispered.
But the smile on his face didn’t look like the usual smug grin.
It looked softer.
Almost shy.
He turned his head slightly, studying the angle.
The light from the window caught his cheekbone.
He lifted his chin.
For a second, he saw her.
Not Mei Xuan.
Wei Ling.
It was faint.
But it was there.
His chest warmed.
Then guilt arrived instantly.
He wiped his face clean with a makeup remover pad until his skin turned red.
The mirror returned to “Chen Wei.”
His chest cooled.
He stared at himself and felt strangely… empty.
He didn’t like that emptiness.
That scared him more than the makeup.
He started growing his hair out.
In the kampung, his hair had always been cut short, practical.
His mother loved bringing him to the same barber, the old uncle who always said, “Same style ah?” and then cut it the same way without waiting for an answer.
Here, he stopped cutting.
At first it was just laziness.
Then it became intention.
He bought shampoo that smelled like flowers.
He bought conditioner.
He watched videos on how to reduce frizz.
He learned to towel-dry properly instead of rubbing like a madman.
He looked at himself in the mirror more often.
Not with vanity.
With curiosity.
He practiced tying his hair up.
He practiced letting it fall.
When it reached his ears, he felt something that surprised him.
A small, private satisfaction.
Like his body was moving in a direction he hadn’t known it could move.
Again, he told himself–
Just for the plan.
But the words were starting to sound like a lie he repeated because he didn’t have a better one.
Clothes were harder.
Makeup could be removed.
Hair could be hidden under a cap.
Clothes changed how you took up space.
They changed your silhouette.
They changed your relationship with your own body.
The first time he put on the blouse, his hands shook.
The fabric slid over his shoulders, light and unfamiliar.
He buttoned it slowly, breath shallow.
Then he stepped into the skirt.
He pulled it up.
He stared at himself.
He looked ridiculous.
His legs were too hairy.
His posture too stiff.
His shoulders too tense.
He looked like a boy wearing a costume.
His stomach turned.
He yanked the skirt off and threw it on the bed.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, breathing hard.
His hands clenched.
He hated the feeling.
Not because he was ashamed.
Because he was disappointed.
He didn’t want to look like a boy wearing a costume.
He wanted–
He didn’t know what he wanted.
The next day, he shaved his legs.
It took forever.
He cut himself once.
He cursed.
He kept going.
When he finished, his legs were smooth.
He ran his hand over his calf.
The sensation startled him.
It was… different.
His skin felt more sensitive.
More exposed.
He stood under the bathroom light and looked at his legs, bare and unfamiliar.
A strange thrill prickled through him.
Not sexual.
Not exactly.
More like… delight.
He put on the skirt again.
This time, it sat differently.
The smoothness changed the whole effect.
He added the blouse.
He put on the wig.
He tried makeup.
When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see “ridiculous” immediately.
He saw something closer to an illusion.
He tilted his head.
He adjusted the wig.
He smoothed the skirt.
He stepped back.
The girl in the mirror was not perfect.
But she existed.
Chen Wei’s throat tightened.
His fingers lifted to his lips.
He touched the lipstick–too bright, too obvious–and then laughed softly.
“Okay… Wei Ling,” he whispered.
Saying the name out loud felt like stepping into a new room.
He said it again.
“Wei Ling.”
The fan clicked.
The city hummed.
And for a moment, alone in a rented room, Chen Wei felt something dangerously close to peace.
He practiced walking.
At first, he felt like an idiot.
He watched videos–how to walk in heels, how to move hips subtly, how to keep shoulders relaxed.
He didn’t have heels yet.
He practiced in slippers.
He stood in front of the mirror and tried to soften his stance.
He lowered his voice.
He tried speaking with less roughness, more air.
It sounded fake.
He tried again.
He sounded like he was mocking women.
That disgusted him.
He stopped.
He sat down and put his face in his hands.
Then, slowly, he realized something.
Wei Ling didn’t have to be a caricature.
Wei Ling didn’t have to be a performance of femininity.
Wei Ling could just be… him.
Softened.
Adjusted.
Not pretending to be someone else.
Just allowing the parts of himself he had never allowed.
That thought made his chest ache.
He tried again.
This time, he didn’t aim for “girly.”
He aimed for “gentle.”
He let his shoulders drop.
He let his movements slow.
He let his hands speak.
When he talked, he focused on smoothness instead of pitch.
It felt better.
Less fake.
More natural.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
Wei Ling looked back.
Not a parody.
Not a joke.
A person.
And Chen Wei felt a ripple of something in his stomach.
A fear.
Because if Wei Ling was a person, then this wasn’t just a plan.
It was a life.
He created a new social account under the name Wei Ling.
He didn’t post his face.
Not yet.
He followed a few accounts–fashion, makeup, campus life, Malaysian WLW creators who spoke carefully, coded, but still honest.
He watched their videos.
He read their captions.
He learned words that made his chest tighten.
Community.
Chosen family.
Safety.
He read comments from strangers supporting each other.
He saw queer Malaysians talking about finding pockets of belonging.
He didn’t comment.
He didn’t like.
He only watched.
But inside, something shifted.
A sense that he wasn’t alone in being complicated.
A sense that there were worlds beyond the one his kampung had offered.
One night, his phone suggested a clip: a girl in a dorm room brushing her hair, laughing softly, saying, “Sometimes I didn’t know who I was until I let myself try.”
Chen Wei stared at the screen.
His throat tightened.
He turned the phone off and sat in the dark.
The sentence echoed.
Until I let myself try.
Try what?
Try being loved?
Try being seen?
Try being… himself?
The thought made him dizzy.
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
His heart felt heavy.
Not with sadness.
With possibility.
Possibility was terrifying.
Because it meant he might change.
And if he changed, he couldn’t return to who he used to be.
Near the end of the first month, he did something he hadn’t planned.
He went outside as Wei Ling.
Not far.
Just to the 24-hour convenience store at the corner of the street.
It was almost midnight.
The city air was cooler then, less oppressive.
He wore the simplest outfit he could manage–a loose hoodie, a skirt hidden under it, a mask, the wig tucked neatly, a little makeup to soften his face.
He stared at himself in the mirror for ten minutes.
He rehearsed breathing.
In.
Out.
He grabbed his wallet and keys.
His hand hovered over the door handle.
He froze.
This is stupid, a voice in his head hissed.
You’re going to get laughed at.
You’re going to get hurt.
Another voice–quieter, steadier–whispered:
Just go.
He opened the door.
The corridor lights buzzed.
He walked down the stairs carefully.
Each step felt too loud.
Outside, the street lights painted the road yellow.
His heart hammered.
He kept his head down.
He walked like he was trying not to exist.
The convenience store’s bright light felt like a spotlight.
He stepped inside.
The cashier–a young guy chewing gum–looked up briefly.
Chen Wei’s chest seized.
The cashier looked away again, uninterested.
Chen Wei’s knees almost buckled with relief.
He walked through the aisles.
He picked up a bottle of water.
Then, for no reason he could explain, he picked up a pack of strawberry-flavored candy too.
Something silly.
Something sweet.
At the counter, he placed the items down.
The cashier scanned them.
Then, without looking up, he said, “RM4.80, kak.”
Kak.
The word slammed into Chen Wei’s chest.
It was casual.
Unthinking.
Just a gendered term a Malaysian used without effort.
But to Chen Wei, it felt like the world had briefly accepted the illusion as real.
His breath caught.
He handed over money with fingers that shook.
The cashier gave him change.
Chen Wei took the bag.
“Thanks, kak,” the cashier said.
Chen Wei nodded, unable to speak.
He walked out.
He didn’t stop walking until he reached the shadow between buildings.
Then he leaned against the wall and inhaled sharply.
His lungs burned.
His heart raced.
He pressed a hand to his chest like he could hold it down.
A laugh bubbled up.
Not hysterical.
Not forced.
Just… bright.
He covered his mouth with his sleeve, laughing silently.
His eyes stung.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry.
He wasn’t sure if the feeling was joy or terror.
Maybe both.
He stood there under the streetlight, bag in hand, and realized something that made him go very still.
The rush he felt…
It had nothing to do with Mei Xuan.
He hadn’t done it to impress her.
He hadn’t done it for the plan.
He had done it because he wanted to.
Because he needed to know.
Because being seen as “kak”–even for one careless second–had lit up something inside him like electricity.
He walked back to his room slower.
His steps felt different.
Less like he was escaping.
More like he was returning.
When he closed the door behind him, he leaned against it and exhaled.
He pulled off the wig.
He removed the mask.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
His makeup was slightly smudged.
His eyes looked bright.
He looked… alive.
He sank onto the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling fan.
The click-click rhythm seemed gentler now.
The city noise outside sounded like a lullaby.
He unwrapped the strawberry candy and put one in his mouth.
Sweetness spread across his tongue.
He closed his eyes.
A warm heaviness settled in his body.
Not exhaustion.
Not exactly.
More like afterglow.
The kind you felt after you finally did something you had been terrified of.
The kind that made your muscles loosen.
The kind that made the world feel softer.
He whispered into the dark:
“Wei Ling.”
The name didn’t feel borrowed tonight.
It felt… possible.
Then, inevitably, Mei Xuan’s face drifted into his mind.
Her eyebrows knitted.
Her mouth sharp.
Her eyes soft when she thought nobody was looking.
Chen Wei’s chest tightened again.
The plan was still there.
The reason he had come.
But now, it sat beside something else.
A new truth.
A truth that made him both excited and afraid.
He didn’t just want Mei Xuan to love him.
He wanted to understand why Wei Ling felt like breathing.
He wanted to know what it meant.
He wanted to know if this was a costume…
Or a door.
He turned on his side and looked at the small notebook on his desk.
On the first page, in careful handwriting, he had written:
Wei Ling (薇玲)
Underneath it, smaller, he had written:
Chen Wei (陈伟)
Two names.
Two selves.
One body.
He stared until the words blurred.
His phone buzzed softly.
Not a message.
A notification.
A public post from someone he still followed from school.
A photo of a university acceptance letter.
Comments celebrating.
Chen Wei scrolled.
Then he froze.
Because in the background of the photo–tagged casually–was Mei Xuan.
She stood with friends, holding her own letter.
Her smile was small but real.
Her eyes looked bright.
The caption read:
Next stop: new life.
Chen Wei stared at the screen.
His chest tightened.
He looked down at his own acceptance email.
Same university.
Same intake.
Same city.
The distance he had created was about to collapse.
He swallowed.
The afterglow in his body shifted into nerves.
A new kind of fear.
Not fear of being caught.
Fear of being seen.
Because now that Wei Ling existed–now that the name felt possible–
he couldn’t pretend this was just a scheme anymore.
He lay back on the bed.
The ceiling fan clicked.
The city breathed.
And Chen Wei–Wei Ling–stared into the dark and realized:
The next step was no longer preparation.
The next step was contact.
University was coming.
And so was Mei Xuan.