Letterhead
By Tuesday, Ethan could tell the day’s temperature by his chest.
It was a ridiculous measurement, the kind of metaphor you would have laughed at if someone else used it. But his body had begun speaking in small, stubborn signals, and the tenderness behind his sternum responded to everything–cold air-conditioning, a strap from his bag, an awkward bump in a crowded train, even a laugh that rose too sharply from his lungs.
He stepped out of his apartment in the morning and the corridor’s cool air brushed through his shirt like a warning.
Tender.
Present.
He exhaled and adjusted the hair tie at the back of his head, fingers checking its pressure the way you checked a bandage. The tie didn’t solve anything, but it gave him one point of certainty: the strands wouldn’t fall into his eyes, wouldn’t make him look softer than he already did.
That had become a goal now. Not to look like a lie.
On the lift down, his reflection stared back at him from the metal panel. It always did. It never asked permission.
Smooth jaw.
Clear skin.
A face that looked like it had been edited gently–nothing exaggerated, just softened around the edges.
He forced himself to hold the gaze.
He wasn’t going to look away forever.
At work, he kept his world small.
Emails. Tickets. Calls. The safe mechanics of tasks that didn’t require him to feel his body or his history. He could be Ethan the colleague for an hour at a time. Ethan the guy who delivered. Ethan the one who replied fast.
It was only when he stood to refill his water bottle that he felt how close the noise was.
Whispers weren’t loud. They didn’t have to be.
They lived in the quick glances when he walked past. In the way someone’s conversation paused a fraction too long. In the polite, exaggerated normalness of people who were trying not to stare.
He kept his shoulders relaxed and walked anyway.
In the pantry, he filled his bottle from the dispenser, watching the clear stream pour down.
Water.
Simple.
Nothing added.
The sound of it should have been neutral.
He heard, instead, the faint memory of a kettle.
The click of boiling.
A mug set down like an answer.
Ethan tightened his grip on the bottle until his knuckles paled.
He turned away from the dispenser and nearly collided with a colleague.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, stepping aside.
“It’s fine,” Ethan replied.
Her eyes flicked up to his hair tie, then down–too quickly–to his chest.
Ethan felt heat rise in his neck.
She looked away immediately, embarrassed. “Uh–are you… doing okay?”
There was the question again. The version everyone used now.
He forced a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She nodded too fast. “Right. Okay. Take care.”
Ethan watched her leave.
Take care.
The phrase used to feel like kindness.
Now it sounded like a verdict.
He returned to his desk and opened his calendar. The day had one red block that mattered:
2:00 p.m. - Dr. Rani (call).
He stared at it until the letters blurred.
Two hours.
Two hours of pretending he was stable.
His phone buzzed at 12:07.
A new email.
From Mr. Koh’s office.
Subject: Cease and Desist Draft - Review Required
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
Letterhead.
He clicked.
The draft opened with his name, clean and formal, like he belonged to an adult world where the law was a language you could speak without stuttering.
It listed Clara’s full name.
It outlined facts.
It instructed her to cease contact, to stop making statements about him to third parties, to refrain from approaching his residence or workplace.
It referenced “unlawful administration of substances” and “defamation.”
The phrases were clinical.
They didn’t mention tea.
They didn’t mention the cream crackle mug.
They didn’t mention his chest.
But Ethan could feel the entire truth vibrating behind the words.
His chest twinged.
He swallowed hard and scrolled.
At the bottom, there was a line:
Failure to comply may result in further legal action, including application for a Protection Order.
Protection Order.
He had seen the words in movies, in news articles, in stories that belonged to other people.
Now they belonged to him.
Ethan read the draft twice.
The second time, he noticed his fingers were shaking.
He stared at his hands.
Steady, he told them.
Steady.
He copied Maya on the email and typed a short reply to Mr. Koh.
Looks accurate. Please proceed.
He hesitated, then added:
She has contacted my workplace indirectly and continues messaging friends. I can forward screenshots if needed.
He hit send.
His stomach churned as if he’d swallowed metal.
Across the aisle, someone laughed.
Ethan kept typing.
At 1:58, he left his desk and walked to a quiet corner near an unused meeting room.
He didn’t want to take Dr. Rani’s call at his desk. He didn’t want anyone hearing medical words and letting them become gossip.
He leaned against the wall, bottle of water in his hand, hair tie pressing lightly against his scalp.
His chest throbbed faintly.
His phone buzzed at exactly 2:00.
Dr. Rani.
Ethan answered.
“Hello,” he said.
“Ethan,” Dr. Rani replied. Her voice was calm, steady, professional. “Do you have a moment?”
“Yes.” He swallowed. “Yes.”
“Okay,” she said. “Your bloodwork is back.”
Ethan closed his eyes.
A small, irrational prayer formed in his mind.
Let it be improving.
Let it be normal.
Let it be something I can undo.
Dr. Rani continued, “Your estradiol levels remain elevated. Testosterone remains suppressed. Your pituitary markers suggest your axis is still responding as if it has been under sustained external influence.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Sustained.
External.
Influence.
All the words were clean.
They made his skin feel dirty.
“How elevated?” he managed.
Dr. Rani paused for a fraction, then answered honestly.
“Significantly above expected male reference ranges,” she said. “And consistent with ongoing physiologic effect. This may persist for a while even if exposure has stopped, depending on what was administered and for how long.”
Ethan gripped his water bottle.
“Stopped,” he repeated, voice thin.
Dr. Rani’s tone softened slightly. “Ethan, I know your mind is going to go there. Whether the exposure is fully stopped. We can’t verify that without a controlled environment. But your current results are consistent with what we already suspected and what your evidence suggests.”
Controlled environment.
His stomach tightened.
“You mean… I shouldn’t eat anything she makes,” Ethan said.
Dr. Rani didn’t answer it like judgement. She answered it like medicine.
“I mean,” she said carefully, “you should minimise risk. Avoid any shared food or drink. Avoid contact. Follow the legal advice. Keep yourself stable and safe.”
Safe.
The word landed differently now.
It used to mean warmth.
Now it meant boundaries.
Ethan’s voice came out tight. “Can we reverse it?”
There was a pause.
Not because she didn’t hear.
Because she was choosing truth over comfort.
“We can support recovery,” Dr. Rani said. “But we cannot promise a simple reversal. Your body has adapted. We must be cautious, especially with your mood symptoms. Abrupt fluctuations can worsen anxiety and depression. They can destabilise sleep, appetite, emotional regulation.”
Ethan swallowed.
His fingers drifted toward his chest instinctively, then stopped.
He didn’t want to touch himself in the hallway.
He didn’t want to look like a man collapsing.
Dr. Rani continued, “I want you to come in this week. Not next. We’ll review in person, discuss options. We will also refer you to a psychiatrist or therapist who has experience with hormone-related mood changes and trauma.”
Trauma.
The word made Ethan’s eyes sting.
He forced his voice steady. “Options?”
“Yes,” she said. “There are options to manage symptoms and reduce risk. For instance, medications that can help address breast tissue sensitivity and slow further development. Support for mood stability. Monitoring.”
Further development.
Ethan’s stomach turned.
“So it can still… keep going,” he whispered.
Dr. Rani’s answer was gentle but unflinching.
“It may,” she said. “Not dramatically, not overnight. But your body has been exposed for months. Tissue changes take time. Hormonal effects taper, but your endocrine system may take time to re-establish equilibrium.”
Equilibrium.
Ethan’s jaw clenched.
He wanted to ask the question that lived like a blade in his throat.
How long?
How far?
He asked something safer.
“Is it dangerous to… push it back?” he said.
Dr. Rani’s tone sharpened slightly, not with fear but with caution.
“It can be,” she said. “Which is why we don’t self-medicate. Which is why we avoid dramatic swings. Your cardiovascular system, your liver function, your mood–everything is interconnected. We correct under supervision.”
Ethan exhaled slowly.
Under supervision.
The phrase made him feel like a patient in a system.
He hated that.
He also needed it.
Dr. Rani added, “Ethan, I want you to hear me clearly: your safety and agency matter. We will make a plan that prioritises your health. Presentation changes you choose for comfort are not a statement of identity unless you want them to be. You have time to decide who you are. But your body needs stability.”
Stability.
The word should have been poison.
In Dr. Rani’s voice, it sounded like a lifeline.
Ethan swallowed.
“Okay,” he said.
Dr. Rani paused. “Do you have support at home?”
Ethan thought of Maya.
Of Ivan.
Of his own apartment feeling like a bunker.
“Yes,” he said. “I have friends.”
“Good,” Dr. Rani replied. “If you feel unsafe, or if your mood becomes unstable, you contact us or emergency services. And Ethan–do not meet her alone.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
“I won’t,” he said.
The call ended.
Ethan stood still in the corridor, phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the dead line as if it might offer a different answer.
His water bottle was cold in his hand.
His chest throbbed.
His hair tie pressed gently against his scalp.
A boundary.
A small control.
He took a long drink of water.
Nothing added.
He tasted only cold and plastic.
He returned to his desk and worked until he could leave.
After work, he didn’t go home.
He walked.
Not to clear his head–that was a lie people told when they didn’t know what else to do.
He walked because moving made the body feel less like a cage.
He walked until he reached a strip of shops he’d passed a hundred times without noticing.
There, among a bubble tea place and a dry cleaner, was a small salon.
The sign was neutral.
Not a barbershop.
Not a women’s salon.
Just hair.
Ethan stopped.
His reflection in the glass door stared back at him: hair tied back, face softened, eyes tired.
Neither here nor there.
He stood for a long moment, hand hovering near the door.
If he went in, it meant he was doing something about his appearance.
If he did nothing, it meant he would keep being looked at.
He exhaled slowly and walked inside.
The salon smelled like shampoo and heat.
A radio played quietly in the background. A stylist laughed softly with a customer. The air-conditioning was cool enough to make his chest twinge again.
Ethan winced and tried to hide it.
A receptionist looked up and smiled. “Hi! Appointment?”
Ethan swallowed. “Walk-in, if possible.”
The receptionist glanced at a schedule, then nodded. “We can do a quick trim. What are you looking for?”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
What am I looking for.
He didn’t know.
He only knew what he wasn’t looking for.
Not Clara’s preference.
Not a statement.
Not a surrender.
He forced his voice steady. “Just… clean. Something that looks intentional. Not too–” He stopped.
Not too feminine.
Not too masculine.
Not too anything.
The words refused to form.
The receptionist’s smile remained gentle, professional. “No worries. Our stylist can discuss with you.”
Ethan sat in the waiting area with his hands clasped, feeling absurdly exposed. He could hear scissors snipping, hairdryers humming, the soft murmur of conversation.
A woman across from him glanced at him, then back to her phone.
Ethan stared at the floor.
He felt the tenderness in his chest like a second set of eyes.
A stylist called his name.
Ethan stood.
The stylist was a man in his thirties with careful hands and a calm voice.
“Hi, I’m Darren,” he said. “Come.”
Ethan followed him to the chair.
The cape went around Ethan’s neck.
The mirror swallowed him.
Under the salon lights, his skin looked even clearer.
His face looked softer.
His hair, tied back, looked longer than he realised.
Ethan stared at himself and felt a flicker of something he couldn’t name.
Not disgust.
Not acceptance.
A kind of grief.
Darren combed through Ethan’s hair and hummed thoughtfully. “You want to keep it long?”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
Long.
The word had been a battleground.
“I want it… controlled,” Ethan said.
Darren nodded, as if that made sense. “Okay. We can shape it. Clean the sides. Give you something that frames your face, but not too soft.”
Not too soft.
Ethan’s chest tightened.
He forced himself to breathe.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That.”
Darren worked with quiet focus.
The first snip made Ethan’s shoulders loosen unexpectedly, as if a strand of fear had been cut with the hair.
Locks fell.
Small, dark fragments drifting onto the cape.
Ethan watched them drop and felt something in his chest ease–not the tenderness, but the sensation of being claimed.
He was choosing this.
Not Clara.
Not the group chat.
Not the strangers who stared.
Him.
Darren’s hands moved with confidence, trimming and shaping, cleaning the edges near Ethan’s ears, leaving length but removing the uncontrolled growth that had made him feel like his own hair was an invasion.
As Darren worked, Ethan’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
He ignored it.
The scissors continued.
When Darren finished, he brushed stray hairs off Ethan’s neck and turned the chair slightly.
“Okay,” Darren said. “Look.”
Ethan stared at his reflection.
The haircut didn’t make him look like his old self.
Nothing could.
But it made him look… intentional.
Neat.
The hair was still long enough to frame his face, but it sat with structure now, a shape he could recognise when he looked.
His jaw was still smooth.
His skin was still calm.
But the hair no longer looked like it was growing without consent.
Ethan swallowed.
“It’s good,” he said.
Darren smiled. “You have nice hair. Just needs direction.”
Direction.
Ethan exhaled.
He paid, thanked Darren, and stepped out into the evening air.
For the first time in days, the city felt slightly less hostile.
Not because the truth had changed.
Because he had.
He had chosen something.
At home, his phone was full of missed calls.
Not many.
Just enough.
Clara.
Unknown numbers.
Ivan.
Maya.
His stomach tightened.
He opened Maya’s messages first.
Lawyer sent draft. I reviewed. Sent. he typed.
Maya’s reply came quickly.
Good. Also–Clara is escalating. She emailed your workplace HR directly offering to “provide context” about your “mental health.” I told HR to route all communications through your lawyer. They agreed.
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He stared at the screen.
Provide context.
Mental health.
She was building a cage out of concern.
He swallowed.
He typed:
Dr. Rani said estradiol still high, testosterone suppressed. Wants me in this week. Said taper could take time. Tissue could keep developing.
A pause.
Then Maya replied:
Okay. We focus on you. Medical first. Legal containment. Ignore the noise.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
He set his phone down.
He went to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror.
Hair shaped.
Intentional.
The face still softened.
The jaw still smooth.
He lifted his shirt slightly and looked at his chest.
The faint fullness sat there, not dramatic but undeniable.
His nipples were still slightly raised.
He pressed two fingers lightly against the tender area and hissed.
Pain.
Proof.
He dropped his hand.
He stared at his face again.
Neither here nor there.
He wanted to be one thing.
He didn’t know which.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
A new email notification.
From Mr. Koh.
Subject: Letter Issued - Acknowledgement Requested
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
He opened it.
Mr. Koh wrote briefly:
Letter issued to Clara Lim at 18:32. Delivery confirmation pending. Expect response or escalation. Save all communications. Do not engage directly.
Expect escalation.
Ethan swallowed.
He set the phone down and leaned against the sink.
His chest throbbed.
His skin felt too thin.
He closed his eyes.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw the tea tin.
The false bottom.
The plastic sleeve.
His name.
Progress.
He opened his eyes.
A soft chime sounded from his phone.
A new message.
Unknown number.
Ethan’s pulse jumped.
He opened it.
A single line.
You think you can ruin me? I still have proof you wanted it.
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He stared.
The message felt like a hand closing around his throat.
Proof you wanted it.
He thought of Clara’s earlier words.
If you tell people, they will think you wanted it.
He thought of her threats.
I’ll tell them everything you were like with me.
His stomach turned.
Maya’s warning echoed.
Do not give her footage.
He did the only thing he could do.
He screenshot the message.
He forwarded it to Mr. Koh.
Then he blocked the number.
His hands shook as he did it.
Blocking wasn’t escalation.
Blocking was survival.
He sat on the edge of his bed, breathing.
His chest throbbed.
His hair felt lighter after the cut.
He touched the shaped strands at his temple and felt, for a moment, something close to relief.
Then his phone buzzed again.
A notification.
Email.
From Clara’s address.
Ethan’s stomach dropped.
He stared at it.
He should not open it.
He knew that.
It could contain anything.
A confession.
A threat.
A lie.
A trap.
His finger hovered.
Then he did something he hadn’t done in days.
He opened the notebook and wrote.
Rule: I do not open messages alone.
He stared at the line.
He breathed.
He messaged Maya.
Clara emailed. I haven’t opened. Can you come over? Or I can forward to you unread.
Maya’s reply came quickly.
Forward it unopened. Don’t read.
Ethan swallowed.
He forwarded the email to Maya.
Then he deleted it from his inbox.
His hands trembled.
He sat still, breathing through the tremor.
He looked at his reflection in the dark window.
Hair shaped.
Face softened.
Neither here nor there.
And then, as if his body wanted to remind him that no amount of legal letterhead could change biology, a wave of dizziness swept through him.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t enough to make him fall.
It was enough to make his stomach drop and his heart thud.
He pressed his hand to the bed.
Steady.
He waited for it to pass.
When it did, he sat back and swallowed hard.
Dr. Rani had said the endocrine system would take time.
His body was still under influence.
He was still living inside the tail of someone else’s decision.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
He lay down.
He stared at the ceiling.
The city hummed outside.
His chest throbbed faintly.
His mind replayed Dr. Rani’s words.
Your body needs stability.
He hated the word stability.
He also needed it.
His phone buzzed once more.
Maya.
Forwarded email received. It’s a threat. We’ll handle tomorrow. Sleep if you can. You did well today. Hair looks good btw.
Ethan stared at the last line.
Hair looks good.
He swallowed.
His eyes stung unexpectedly.
Not from fear.
From the strange, exhausted relief of being seen as a person, not a rumour.
He typed back:
Thanks.
Then, because he couldn’t stop himself, he added:
I feel like I’m disappearing.
The dots appeared.
Maya replied:
You’re not disappearing. You’re being dragged. We’ll pull you back. One step at a time.
Ethan stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
One step at a time.
He turned onto his side.
His hair lay against the pillow in a shape he had chosen.
His chest throbbed faintly.
His jaw remained smooth.
Neither here nor there.
Still his.
As sleep finally approached, Ethan’s last thought was not Clara.
Not the tin.
Not the letter.
It was Dr. Rani’s calm voice in his ear, and the way the word time had sounded like both mercy and punishment.
Time.
How much he had already lost.
How much more his body might demand.
And whether stability would eventually feel like healing–or like a new kind of surrender.