Neither Here Nor There
Ethan learned, very quickly, that truth did not travel faster than a good story.
Clara’s version had softness built into it–red eyes, gentle captions, the language of concern. It was the kind of story people shared without feeling cruel, because it gave them a role. They could be kind. They could be helpful. They could be part of a rescue.
Ethan’s truth was harder to hold.
It came with documents.
It came with clinical words.
It came with photographs that made people avert their eyes, not because they didn’t believe him, but because believing him required them to accept an uglier reality: that harm could hide inside domestic tenderness.
And it came with his body.
His body, which had become the most visible part of his private suffering.
On Monday morning, Ethan stood in front of his bathroom mirror with his hair tied back and watched his own face look back at him as if it belonged to someone he had met recently.
The hair tie sat against his scalp like a gentle pressure, a boundary he could feel even when he didn’t look. The strands were gathered tight enough to clear his eyes, but not tight enough to pull. He had tied it the same way twice already this morning, the first time too loose, the second too tight.
Now it sat in the middle.
His jaw was still smooth.
He tilted his chin and waited–out of habit, out of stubbornness–for stubble to declare itself.
Nothing.
He pressed his fingertips lightly along his jawline.
The skin was soft.
The texture was calm.
He hated that he no longer knew whether the hatred was for the softness itself or for what it represented.
His chest throbbed faintly beneath his T-shirt, a low tenderness that reminded him he had been touched in ways he hadn’t consented to. He adjusted his shirt unconsciously, fingers pulling at the fabric near his sternum.
He caught himself.
His hand dropped.
Not that habit, he thought.
Not this morning.
He turned the tap on and drank water straight from his bottle, cold enough to sting his teeth.
Nothing added.
Nothing ritualised.
Just water.
He set the bottle down and stared at the mirror again.
His voice would still sound like him if he spoke.
His face looked… softened.
His body felt tender.
Neither one thing nor the other.
Neither the man he used to be nor the person Clara had been tracking in her notes.
Ethan’s phone buzzed on the counter.
A message from Maya.
Dr. Rani can see you today at 2. I’m coming to pick you up at 1:15.
Ethan stared at the message.
A part of him felt relief–something solid, scheduled.
Another part felt dread, because doctor appointments had stopped being reassurance and started being confirmation.
He typed: Okay.
Then he stared at the word.
Okay.
He had been saying it a lot lately.
He washed his face, dressed, and left for work.
The office was quieter than usual for a Monday, but Ethan still felt like he was walking into a room full of mirrors.
People glanced.
Not everyone.
Not in a dramatic, pointed way.
But enough that he could feel the weight of curiosity on his skin.
He sat at his desk and opened his laptop.
Emails.
Tasks.
Deadlines.
The familiar world of deliverables tried to wrap itself around him again.
Ethan attempted to let it.
He answered messages.
He joined a call.
He kept his voice steady.
He kept his expression neutral.
During a meeting, his coworker asked him a question and he answered without hesitation. He heard his own voice–unchanged, firm–and felt a flash of relief.
He still had that.
He still sounded like himself.
Then he caught his reflection in the glass of the meeting room door as he stood to leave.
Hair tied back.
Face softened.
Skin too calm.
A faint fullness in his chest under the soft shirt, made subtler by the fabric but not invisible.
He looked like a man who had been edited.
He walked back to his desk with his shoulders tight.
At 11:08, Ivan messaged him.
Lunch today? I want to talk.
Ethan stared at the text.
Ivan.
The friend who had shut down the group chat as much as he could. The friend who had not asked him to prove himself with theatrical vulnerability.
Ethan typed: Can’t. Doctor at 2.
Ivan replied: Then after. Or tonight. I’m not letting you handle this alone.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He stared at the sentence.
Not letting you.
The words might have irritated him in another context.
Today, they made something in his chest loosen.
Ethan typed: Tonight. Hawker. 7.
Ivan’s reply came quickly.
Okay. I’ll pick a place near you. And bro–ignore the noise. People talk because they don’t know what to do with ugly truth.
Ethan stared.
Ugly truth.
He thought of Clara’s Instagram story.
Please pray for us.
He swallowed.
He set the phone down and worked until 1.
At 1:12, his phone buzzed again.
Clara.
A message from a number he had not blocked yet, because part of him still believed blocking was a kind of escalation.
I’m going to tell them everything you were like with me if you keep doing this. You don’t want that. You know you don’t.
Ethan stared at the message.
His mouth went dry.
He could smell tea in his memory.
He could feel the warmth of his mug in his hands.
He could feel her fingers in his hair.
Comfort turned weapon.
He didn’t reply.
He took a screenshot.
He forwarded it to Maya.
Then he locked his phone and breathed.
Do not react.
Do not give her footage.
At 1:15, Maya appeared at his desk.
She didn’t ask permission.
She simply stood there with her tote bag and a face that looked like she was ready to fight the world.
Ethan stood.
His chest twinged as he moved, a faint sting under his shirt.
He ignored it.
They left.
Dr. Rani’s clinic smelled like the hospital did, but smaller–less formal, more immediate. The waiting room was quiet. A man in the corner scrolled through his phone. A woman filled out a form with a tired expression.
Ethan sat with his hands clasped, hair tie pressing lightly at the back of his head.
Maya sat beside him, shoulders squared.
Ethan’s phone was face-down.
He could feel it vibrating in his imagination anyway.
When Dr. Rani called him in, Ethan stood and followed her into the consultation room.
The space looked the same as last time–desk, chair, anatomical posters, computer screen glowing.
Dr. Rani greeted him with calm professionalism.
“Ethan,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
Ethan almost laughed.
It was such a polite question for a life that had been turned inside out.
“I’m…” He swallowed. “Not great.”
Dr. Rani nodded as if that was expected.
Maya sat quietly in the corner, present but not interrupting.
Ethan took a breath.
“I found the source,” he said.
Dr. Rani’s expression sharpened slightly. “What do you mean?”
Ethan pulled out his phone and opened the folder.
He didn’t linger.
He showed the photos.
The packaging.
The notes.
His name.
Progress.
Dr. Rani’s mouth tightened.
She scrolled through the images carefully, her expression controlled in the way professionals wore when they were absorbing something disturbing.
When she looked up, her eyes were steady.
“This confirms exogenous exposure,” she said, voice even. “And it strongly suggests it was deliberate.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Deliberate.
The word felt heavier in a doctor’s mouth.
Dr. Rani continued, “I’m glad you documented this. For legal and medical reasons.”
Ethan swallowed. “What happens now?”
Dr. Rani tapped notes into her computer.
“Now,” she said, “we focus on stabilising your health.”
Stabilising.
Ethan’s stomach turned.
He hated how much the word sounded like Clara.
Dr. Rani noticed his expression and softened her tone slightly.
“This is not about continuing what happened to you,” she said. “It’s about reducing risk to your body. Your hormone levels have been altered over months. Your body adjusts to that. Abrupt, unsupervised changes can cause significant mood and physical symptoms. We need to approach it carefully.”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
“So… I can stop?” he asked, voice rough.
Dr. Rani paused.
“We need to know what your current levels are,” she said. “And we need to control the correction medically. Some changes may improve. Some may persist. Breast tissue, for example, can remain. And your body’s own hormone production may take time to recover.”
Time.
Ethan stared at her.
Time was the thing he had already lost.
Dr. Rani continued, practical. “We’ll repeat bloodwork today, and we’ll monitor your symptoms. If you’re experiencing severe mood instability, dizziness, chest pain, or anything concerning, you contact us immediately.”
Ethan nodded slowly.
His chest tenderness pulsed, as if responding to the word chest.
He swallowed.
“What about… reversing?” he asked quietly.
Dr. Rani’s gaze held his.
“I know that’s what you want,” she said, voice calm. “But the safest approach is not always a dramatic reversal. It’s a controlled stabilisation. Your body is in a transitional state right now. We need to minimise harm.”
Transitional.
The word landed like a sentence.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Maya shifted slightly in her seat.
Dr. Rani continued, “I’m going to be blunt because uncertainty is cruel. Your body has already undergone changes. Some will likely improve over time if exposure stops. But some changes–particularly breast development–may not fully reverse. And if your hormone axis has been suppressed, returning it to baseline can take time. We must proceed carefully.”
Ethan stared at his hands.
He could see them trembling faintly.
He clenched them into fists under the table.
Dr. Rani watched him.
“Ethan,” she said gently, “I also want you to be supported emotionally. What happened to you is traumatic. Your body changes are not your fault, and they do not define you. But they will affect how you feel in your skin.”
Ethan swallowed.
His mouth went dry.
He managed, “People keep talking.”
Dr. Rani’s brows lifted slightly. “Talking?”
“Online,” Ethan said, voice tight. “Friends. Work. She’s… controlling the story.”
Dr. Rani’s expression tightened. “That’s unfortunately common in interpersonal harm. We can provide medical documentation if needed.”
Ethan nodded.
Documentation.
Files.
Proof.
He felt like his life had become a folder.
Dr. Rani tapped again, then looked up.
“There’s another reality we should discuss,” she said.
Ethan’s stomach dropped.
Dr. Rani continued, “Your body changes may become more socially visible before they become medically stable. That can put you in an uncomfortable position. Some people choose clothing adjustments, hair adjustments, presentation changes for comfort and privacy. That is not the same as deciding your identity. It’s simply managing how you move through the world safely while your body recovers or stabilises.”
Ethan stared.
The words were careful.
She wasn’t telling him who to be.
She was telling him the world would look at him anyway.
He swallowed hard.
Maya spoke quietly for the first time. “He’s already being targeted. She’s implying he wanted it.”
Dr. Rani’s jaw tightened. “Then it is even more important you protect yourself.” She looked at Ethan. “This is not about giving in. It’s about agency.”
Agency.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He felt something in him shift–not relief, not peace, but a kind of clarity.
Agency didn’t mean undoing.
It meant choosing what was left to choose.
Dr. Rani stood. “We’ll do blood draw now. I will also write a letter confirming your medical findings, the nature of exogenous exposure based on evidence, and your need for privacy and reduced stress. That may help with work arrangements if necessary.”
Ethan nodded.
A letter.
A shield.
He followed the nurse to the lab.
Needle.
Vials.
Blood turning into data.
Ethan watched the dark red flow into the tubes and felt the strange disconnect of it–how calm his body could be in that moment while his life felt like fire.
Afterward, Dr. Rani met him briefly again.
“We’ll review results as soon as they’re back,” she said. “And Ethan–do not attempt to self-manage changes. Do not take anything without guidance. Your safety matters.”
Ethan nodded.
Maya touched his shoulder gently as they left.
Outside, the sun was bright and indifferent.
Ethan squinted against it.
He felt as if he had walked out of the clinic carrying a new weight.
Not just proof.
Not just betrayal.
A medical reality he could not argue with.
His body had changed.
And while the world argued about stories, his skin kept telling the truth.
They stopped at a law office afterward.
Not because Ethan wanted to.
Because Maya insisted, and Ethan no longer trusted himself to decide what was necessary.
The office was small, tucked above a row of shops. The waiting area smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink. A receptionist led them into a meeting room where a lawyer sat with a laptop open, expression calm and unreadable.
The lawyer introduced himself as Mr. Koh.
He listened as Ethan spoke.
Ethan kept it factual.
The relationship length.
The symptoms.
The discovery.
The evidence.
The police report reference number.
Clara’s messages.
Her threats.
Her contact with his friends and workplace.
Mr. Koh nodded, typing notes.
When Ethan finished, the lawyer said, “First, I’m sorry this happened.”
Ethan’s throat tightened at the simplicity of it.
Then Mr. Koh continued, “Second, you are doing the right thing by documenting and reporting. We can consider sending a formal letter instructing her to cease contact and cease making defamatory statements. Depending on her behaviour, we can also explore protective orders.”
Protective orders.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
Mr. Koh spoke calmly, explaining options without theatrical certainty. Ethan listened, absorbing the structure of it the way he would absorb a work plan.
A letter.
A boundary.
A paper trail.
Maya asked questions.
Ethan nodded when prompted.
He signed a form authorising representation.
The pen felt heavy in his hand.
When they left the law office, Ethan felt both lighter and more exhausted.
A letter wouldn’t undo months.
But it would stop her from using silence as an opening.
At seven, Ethan met Ivan at a hawker centre near his block.
The air smelled like grilled meat and chilli and the warm dampness of Singapore evenings. Fans turned overhead, pushing air that never quite cooled. Plastic tables filled the space, crowded with families, couples, groups of friends laughing too loudly over beer.
Ethan sat across from Ivan with a cup of bottled water.
Ivan arrived with two trays–one with food, one with more food–because that was the kind of person he was.
“Eat,” Ivan said, setting a plate in front of Ethan.
Ethan’s stomach tightened at the word.
Then he forced himself to breathe.
This wasn’t Clara.
This was Ivan.
This was normal friendship.
Ethan picked up his fork.
Ivan sat down and stared at him for a moment.
Not at his chest.
Not at his hair.
At his eyes.
“You look like you haven’t slept in a year,” Ivan said.
Ethan laughed once, weak. “Feels like it.”
Ivan’s jaw tightened. “I saw the photo you sent. The progress page.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Ivan leaned forward slightly. His voice dropped. “I’m sorry.”
The apology landed in Ethan’s chest like something warm that hurt.
Ethan stared at his food.
He forced himself to eat.
The rice tasted like rice.
The meat tasted like spice.
Normal.
Ivan watched him chew.
Then Ivan said quietly, “People are idiots.”
Ethan blinked. “What?”
Ivan nodded toward the crowd, toward the invisible group chat that still existed like a second world. “They’re speculating about your body. They’re saying nonsense. I shut it down as much as I could, but you know how it is. People panic, then they fill the silence with jokes.”
Ethan’s chest tightened.
Ivan continued, voice steady. “I told them to stop. I told them it’s a legal matter and they need to shut up. Some listened. Some didn’t.”
Ethan swallowed.
He stared at his bottled water.
His hands trembled faintly.
Ivan reached across the table and tapped the bottle lightly. “Water is good,” he said, half-joking, trying to lighten the moment.
Ethan managed a small smile.
Ivan’s expression turned serious again. “What do you want me to do?”
Ethan swallowed.
He didn’t know what he wanted anyone to do.
He wanted the world to stop looking.
He wanted his body to stop changing.
He wanted Clara to admit what she did without turning it into a sob story.
He wanted to wake up with stubble again.
He said none of that.
Instead, he said, “I want you to stop them from contacting her for ‘updates.’ And if she messages you, don’t respond. Screenshot. Send to me or Maya.”
Ivan nodded immediately. “Done.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Ivan added, softer, “And Ethan–if you need a place to stay, my place is open. If you need someone to sit with you so your brain doesn’t eat you alive, call me.”
Ethan stared.
He blinked hard.
His eyes burned.
He swallowed. “Thanks.”
Ivan shrugged as if it was nothing. “ABIX rules.”
Ethan laughed softly, and for a moment, the laugh felt like something alive.
Then the tenderness in his chest pulsed again, reminding him that even laughter now came with a body he didn’t fully trust.
Ivan noticed the subtle wince Ethan tried to hide.
“What did the doctor say?” Ivan asked quietly.
Ethan hesitated.
He didn’t want to say the words out loud.
But Ivan’s face was steady.
So Ethan told him.
High-level.
Controlled.
“Doctor said we need to stabilise,” Ethan said. “Can’t just… snap back. Some changes might persist. Tissue might persist.”
Ivan’s brows knitted.
Ethan continued, voice lower. “She said my body is in a transitional state. That’s her word. Transitional.”
Ivan’s jaw tightened.
He said quietly, “That’s… messed up.”
Ethan nodded.
He stared at his hands.
He thought of Dr. Rani’s careful phrasing.
Presentation changes for comfort and privacy.
Not identity.
Agency.
Ethan swallowed.
“I don’t want people to think I wanted it,” he said, voice rough.
Ivan’s eyes sharpened. “Then don’t let them.”
Ethan blinked.
Ivan leaned forward. “You know what they do when they don’t understand something? They make it a joke. They make it a rumour. You can’t stop them from talking. But you can decide what you do with yourself.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Ivan’s voice softened. “Not for them. For you.”
Ethan stared at his food.
He realised his appetite had faded.
He set the fork down.
Ivan watched him.
“You know,” Ivan said quietly, “if you decide you want to cut your hair, you cut it. If you decide you want to keep it, you keep it. If you decide you want to wear whatever makes you comfortable, you do it. That’s not giving her what she wanted. That’s you refusing to let her define every move you make.”
Ethan swallowed.
The words landed like a hand on his shoulder.
He breathed.
His chest still ached.
His jaw was still smooth.
His hair was still too long.
But the idea that he could choose without it being a reaction to Clara felt like a small opening.
Ethan nodded.
He drank water.
Cold.
Simple.
Nothing added.
The hawker centre noise continued around them.
Life continued.
Ethan sat in it and tried to let himself be a person again.
That night, when he got home, he stood in front of his mirror and looked at himself with a different kind of attention.
Not the panicked scanning for stubble.
Not the shameful checking of his chest.
Not the desperate search for proof that this was reversible.
A quieter attention.
The way you looked at something you had to live in.
He pulled his shirt off.
His chest looked… different.
Not wildly.
Not enough to make him unrecognisable.
But enough to make him feel caught between categories.
He touched the tender area lightly.
Pain responded.
He hissed softly.
He dropped his hand.
He stared at his face.
The skin looked clear.
Calm.
He hated that his skin looked good.
He hated that anyone could look at him and think he was thriving.
He leaned closer.
His eyes looked tired.
Not anxious.
Not unstable.
Tired in the way grief made you tired.
His phone buzzed.
A new message.
From an unknown number.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
He opened it.
A forwarded screenshot.
Clara again.
He’s acting like a victim. But he knows what he was like with me. He knows he liked being taken care of. He liked being soft. He just can’t admit it.
Ethan stared at the words.
His mouth went dry.
The words were designed to infect.
To make people doubt his consent.
To make his body feel like proof against him.
Ethan’s hands trembled.
He didn’t reply.
He screenshot it.
He sent it to Maya.
Then he turned his phone face-down.
He breathed.
Do not react.
Do not give her footage.
He looked back at his reflection.
He lifted his hair tie from his wrist.
He tied his hair back again.
The motion was deliberate.
Calm.
A small act of control.
He stared at himself.
Neither here nor there.
He could feel the truth of it in his body.
And then, in the quiet of his bathroom, he whispered something he hadn’t been able to say without feeling like he was giving up.
“I didn’t choose this,” he said.
His voice sounded steady.
He continued, quieter, “But I will choose what happens next.”
He stood still.
His chest throbbed faintly.
His skin felt calm.
His jaw remained smooth.
His hair was tied back.
A boundary he could feel.
Ethan turned off the light.
In the dark, the mirror vanished.
But the pressure of the hair tie remained, gentle and real.
When he lay down in bed, his body felt tired.
Not just emotionally.
Physically.
As if his cells were carrying a slow, relentless change.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, Dr. Rani’s bloodwork would come back.
Numbers.
Ranges.
Flags.
And somewhere, Clara would continue writing.
Ethan could feel it.
He couldn’t stop her from typing.
But he could stop her from owning his body.
He could stop her from naming him.
He could, at least, keep choosing.
As sleep finally approached, slow and reluctant, Ethan’s last thought was not rage.
It was a quieter grief.
A grief for the version of himself that had once believed a warm drink meant safety.
And beneath that grief, a thin, stubborn thread of resolve.
Not to become what Clara wanted.
Not to become what the group chat speculated.
To become what he chose–whatever that meant now, in a body that no longer fit neatly into anyone’s story.
Neither here nor there.
But still his.