The Body You Walk In
The first time a stranger called him miss, Ethan didn’t correct them.
It happened at a convenience store near his office, in the small bright aisle where bottled water and snack bars lived under fluorescent light. He had stepped in during lunch to buy another bottle–because water had become his only safe ritual–and he was standing at the counter with his card ready when the cashier glanced up.
“Miss, do you want a bag?” the cashier asked.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He had his hair tied back. The new cut made it look intentional, controlled, but it still framed his face in a way that softened his features. The compression undershirt held his chest down enough that his silhouette read as familiar again under a loose shirt, but not perfectly. Not in this lighting. Not after weeks of quiet changes that didn’t stop because he wanted them to.
Miss.
Ethan opened his mouth.
His voice, unchanged and unmistakably his, sat behind his teeth like a weapon he didn’t want to use.
If he spoke, the cashier would apologise. Or stutter. Or stare.
If he spoke, the moment would become a scene.
Ethan looked at the thin plastic bag behind the counter and said nothing.
He shook his head once.
No bag.
The cashier nodded, rang him up, slid the bottle across, and moved on.
Ethan walked out into the humid afternoon with the water cold in his hand and a heat in his chest that had nothing to do with tenderness.
It wasn’t humiliation exactly.
It was grief.
Because being misread by a stranger was not the worst part.
The worst part was the way his own silence felt practical.
Not surrender.
Not confession.
Just… a choice to avoid pain.
Control the camera.
The phrase sat in his mind like a rule.
He walked back toward his office, swallowing hard, and realised something with quiet clarity.
In the weeks since the false bottom, he had been fighting two battles.
One was against Clara.
The other was against the world’s need to name him.
And underneath both battles was the smallest, hardest truth.
He still had to live inside the body he walked in.
Two hours later, Maya met him outside the law office.
She had a folder again.
Of course she did.
Paper had become their armour.
The law office sat above a row of shops, the stairwell smelling faintly of dust and fried food. The air-conditioning inside was cold enough to make Ethan’s chest tighten under his shirt. He kept his shoulders relaxed anyway.
Maya glanced at him as they entered.
“You good?” she asked.
Ethan’s mouth tightened. “Define good.”
Maya’s eyes softened, then hardened again. “Alive. That counts.”
They were led into the same meeting room. Mr. Koh sat with his laptop open, expression neutral in the way lawyers trained themselves to be.
He greeted them, then slid a document across the table.
“This is the Protection Order application,” he said. “Based on the harassment, the repeated contact, the threats, and the attempts to interfere with your workplace.”
Ethan stared at the paper.
Protection Order.
The phrase now lived in his life like a door he couldn’t unsee.
Mr. Koh continued, “We’ll need your affidavit. It should be factual. Dates. Incidents. Screenshots. The medical letter supports your position.”
Factual.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He had been factual so long it felt like he had shaved emotion off his language, the way he used to shave his jaw.
Except he didn’t shave anymore.
Maya opened the folder and laid out printouts like they were cards in a game.
Clara’s threats.
Her emails to HR.
Her messages to friends.
The unknown number texts.
The lawyer’s reply implying Ethan lacked capacity.
Ethan stared.
Capacity.
Unstable.
Confused.
Words designed to turn his body into a confession.
Mr. Koh spoke calmly. “We will also send a notice to her counsel instructing their client to cease public commentary and third-party contact. This doesn’t stop her from posting, but it strengthens our case if she continues.”
Ethan nodded.
Strengthen.
More paperwork.
More proof.
And still, his chest would throb at night.
Still, strangers would look.
Mr. Koh slid another page forward. “This is the affidavit draft. Read carefully. If anything is inaccurate, we correct it.”
Ethan picked it up.
The paper was heavy in his hands.
Not physically.
Morally.
It contained the story in legal language.
The respondent administered a substance without consent.
The applicant experienced physical changes and distress.
The respondent has made threats and defamatory statements.
Ethan’s eyes snagged on a line about his symptoms.
Breast tenderness, development of glandular tissue, mood instability.
The words were clinical.
They still made his skin crawl.
Mr. Koh watched him. “If you need a break, take it.”
Ethan swallowed. “No. I’m fine.”
The lie tasted old.
Maya nudged a pen toward him.
Ethan stared at the pen.
Signing felt like closing a door.
Not to the relationship–that door had closed the moment he saw his name beside progress.
A door to normal life.
Once the courts were involved, there was no clean return.
Ethan signed.
His hand was steady.
He hated that steadiness.
It made him look calm.
It made him look like he was in control.
He wasn’t.
He was surviving.
Mr. Koh collected the papers. “We’ll file today. Hearing can be scheduled within days to weeks.”
Weeks.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
Time again.
After the meeting, Maya walked him out into the sunlight.
The heat hit him like a wall.
He exhaled.
Maya glanced at him. “You okay?”
Ethan looked away. “I got called ‘miss’ today.”
Maya’s face tightened. “Where?”
“Store,” Ethan said. “I didn’t correct.”
Maya’s eyes softened, anger redirected. “You didn’t have to.”
Ethan swallowed. “I didn’t want a scene.”
Maya nodded slowly. “That’s not you giving up. That’s you choosing where you spend your energy.”
Ethan stared at the pavement.
Energy.
He felt like his life was a budget now.
Pain cost.
Visibility cost.
Correcting strangers cost.
Maya’s phone buzzed.
She checked it and exhaled sharply.
“What?” Ethan asked.
Maya’s jaw tightened. “Ivan says Clara’s live again.”
Ethan’s stomach dropped.
“Same story?” he asked.
“Worse,” Maya said. “She’s implying you’re ‘exploring’ and you’re ashamed. She says she’s being ‘punished’ for supporting you.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Punished.
Again.
Maya’s voice went hard. “She wants you to react. Don’t.”
Ethan nodded.
Control the camera.
He didn’t speak.
He went back to work.
By Friday, his body made itself impossible to ignore.
It wasn’t one dramatic change.
It was accumulation.
His shirts fell differently now. Even with compression, the shape of his chest had a softness that didn’t belong to him before. Not a theatrical curve, but a fullness that pulled fabric forward in a way that made him constantly aware of himself.
His arms looked slightly leaner, as if muscle had quietly packed up and left without asking. His shoulders, once the stable frame of his body, felt less sharp at the edges. His skin remained clear and calm, which would have been a blessing if it didn’t make him look like he was thriving.
And his hair kept growing.
It grew as if it had somewhere to be.
He tied it back every day now.
He wore looser shirts.
He layered.
He chose neutral colours.
He tried, in small controlled ways, to become harder to read.
But the world read him anyway.
On the train, a man offered him a seat with a polite, “Miss.”
Ethan shook his head.
He did not speak.
He stared at the train doors until his stop arrived.
At work, someone asked him if he had “changed his skincare routine.”
Ethan forced a laugh and said, “No.”
His voice betrayed him, deep and unchanged.
The person blinked, startled, then smiled too widely.
“Oh–sorry,” they said, scrambling.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
He wanted to disappear.
He also wanted to scream.
Neither felt like a choice.
At lunch, he went to the restroom and locked himself into a stall.
He leaned his forehead against the door and breathed.
His chest throbbed.
The compression undershirt hugged him tightly.
Contained.
Tool.
Not prison.
But the containment couldn’t erase the fact that his body had become a question people asked with their eyes.
He thought of Clara’s posts.
He’s always been softer.
He wanted it.
Ethan pressed his forearm to his mouth.
His throat tightened.
He did not cry.
Not here.
Not at work.
Control the camera.
He left the restroom and returned to his desk.
At 4:50, he received an email from Dr. Rani’s clinic.
Appointment confirmed - Monday 9:00 a.m.
Ethan stared at it.
Monday.
Another round.
More numbers.
More plans.
He closed the email and finished his day.
On Monday morning, he sat in Dr. Rani’s clinic again.
This time, he didn’t bring a clipboard.
He brought the body.
Maya sat beside him, quieter than usual, as if she sensed that whatever happened today would change the shape of the story.
When Dr. Rani called them in, Ethan stood and felt a brief wave of dizziness.
It passed.
He followed her.
The consultation room looked the same.
The same posters.
The same monitor.
The same calm.
Dr. Rani looked at Ethan’s face and her gaze flicked, very briefly, to his chest.
Not judgement.
Assessment.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
They sat.
Dr. Rani spoke first. “How have you been?”
Ethan laughed once, small and bitter. “Existing.”
Dr. Rani nodded as if that was an honest answer.
“And symptoms?” she asked.
Ethan swallowed. “Chest tenderness is worse. Mood… fluctuates. I get dizzy sometimes. And people… notice.”
He didn’t elaborate.
Dr. Rani didn’t make him.
She nodded, then turned the monitor toward him.
“Your latest bloodwork is back,” she said. “Estradiol remains elevated. Testosterone remains suppressed. We are seeing a pattern that suggests your endocrine axis has been significantly downregulated.”
Downregulated.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Dr. Rani continued, voice calm. “In simple terms: your body is behaving as if it is not expected to produce typical male levels of testosterone right now. That’s not identity. That’s physiology.”
Ethan stared at the numbers.
They looked like a foreign language.
Dr. Rani said, “We have two broad paths. One: attempt aggressive restoration of your testosterone. Two: maintain a stable hormone environment while we support gradual recovery and minimise risk.”
Ethan’s pulse jumped.
Aggressive restoration.
That sounded like the lever he wanted.
But Dr. Rani’s tone carried a warning.
Ethan swallowed. “Aggressive sounds like… what I want.”
Dr. Rani’s gaze held his. “Aggressive is not always safe.”
Ethan’s throat tightened. “Why?”
Dr. Rani leaned forward slightly, voice gentler but firm.
“Because your body has been exposed for months,” she said. “Because your mood has been unstable. Because abrupt swings can worsen depression, anxiety, irritability. Because cardiovascular strain is real. Because forcing your endocrine axis to reverse quickly can create a crash state–low hormones, severe mood symptoms, fatigue, dizziness–and that can be dangerous.”
Dangerous.
Ethan swallowed.
He felt heat behind his eyes.
He blinked hard.
Dr. Rani continued, “We can attempt to stimulate your own production with certain medications. But it is unpredictable. It can be psychologically destabilising. And given how far your physical changes have progressed, you may still not return to baseline in a way that feels ‘back.’”
How far.
Ethan’s chest tightened.
He looked down at his shirt, at the way it sat.
He had been pretending the changes were mild.
The doctor wasn’t pretending.
Dr. Rani’s voice remained steady. “The safer course–medically–is to maintain a stable hormone environment while we taper and monitor. That may mean we do not chase reversal aggressively right now.”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
“You mean…” he whispered.
Dr. Rani’s eyes held his. “I mean we prioritise stability over rapid reversal. In practical terms, your body may continue to feminise for a period even without further exposure. Trying to force masculinisation quickly could worsen both your physical and mental state.”
Ethan stared.
His breath came shallow.
He felt the tenderness in his chest like a warning bell.
“So what happens,” he said, voice shaking, “if I don’t reverse? If I just… stabilise?”
Dr. Rani paused.
This pause was different.
Not clinical.
Human.
She looked at Ethan like she understood what the question cost.
“If you stabilise,” she said, carefully, “you will likely remain in a physiology that resembles a feminised hormone profile for some time. Potentially long-term, depending on recovery. That is not a statement of who you are. But it is the reality of what your body is doing.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
His mouth went dry.
He whispered, “So I’m forced.”
Maya shifted beside him, jaw clenched.
Dr. Rani’s gaze stayed on Ethan.
“I would not use the word forced lightly,” she said. “But I understand why you feel that. Your consent was violated. Now you are dealing with consequences. The plan that is safest may feel like it aligns with what was done to you.”
Ethan swallowed.
He stared at his hands.
They trembled faintly.
He clenched them.
Dr. Rani continued, “Ethan, I want to frame this in terms of agency. You did not choose the exposure. But you can choose the safest path forward from this point. You can choose how you present. You can choose what supports you accept. And you can choose whether you want to pursue aggressive restoration despite risks.”
Despite risks.
Ethan’s chest tightened.
He looked up.
His voice came out thin. “What are the risks? Like… real risks.”
Dr. Rani nodded. “Mood destabilisation severe enough to require hospitalisation. Cardiovascular strain. Hormonal crash leading to debilitating fatigue, dizziness, depression. Potential for self-harm thoughts in vulnerable patients–not because they want to die, but because the crash is intolerable. I have seen it.”
Ethan’s stomach dropped.
Hospitalisation.
Self-harm thoughts.
He felt cold.
Not from the air-conditioning.
From the image of being trapped in a body crash while Clara posted stories about his instability.
He swallowed.
Dr. Rani’s voice softened. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to be honest. Your mind and body are already under trauma. We do not add a biochemical storm on top of that unless we have no choice.”
Biochemical storm.
Ethan exhaled.
He whispered, “So you’re saying… trying to go back could break me.”
Dr. Rani held his gaze. “It could. And the outcome is uncertain.”
Uncertain.
Ethan’s eyes burned.
He blinked hard.
He thought of the word progress again.
Clara’s neat handwriting.
Ethan – Progress.
He thought of his body now.
Tender.
Soft.
Misread.
Neither here nor there.
He swallowed.
His voice came out low. “Then what’s the plan.”
Dr. Rani nodded, as if she had been waiting for him to ask that exact question.
“The plan,” she said, “is to stop exposure completely, maintain stability, and support gradual recovery. We use symptom management to reduce tissue sensitivity. We monitor bloodwork regularly. We support your mental health. And we give you practical tools to reduce social harm.”
Ethan stared.
He whispered, “And medically?”
Dr. Rani’s voice remained steady. “Medically, we may need to maintain your hormone environment at a stable level–rather than allow a crash. That could mean a structured taper from where your levels currently are, rather than an abrupt cessation. It may also mean, depending on your body’s response, a period where we manage you as if you were transitioning, because your physiology already resembles that.”
Ethan’s stomach dropped.
As if you were transitioning.
The phrase hit him like a door closing.
Maya’s hand gripped his knee gently.
Ethan stared at the monitor.
He couldn’t breathe for a second.
Then he forced air in.
His voice shook. “So I have to… keep taking it.”
Dr. Rani’s gaze held his. “Not ‘keep taking it’ as in continuing the abuse. We control it medically. We reduce harm. We prevent a crash. We taper under supervision. But yes–there may be a period where your treatment resembles a feminising regimen, because it is safer than swinging your system violently.”
Ethan swallowed.
He felt nausea rise.
He pressed his lips together.
He whispered, “My body is no longer mine.”
Dr. Rani’s voice softened. “Your body is yours. That’s why we are asking for your consent now. That’s the difference. We cannot undo what happened. But we can do the next steps ethically.”
Consent now.
Ethan stared.
The irony was so sharp it almost made him laugh.
He had been dosed without consent.
And now he was being asked to consent to something that looked like the same path.
He swallowed hard.
His chest throbbed.
He thought of the street.
The cashier.
Miss.
He thought of his workplace.
HR check-ins.
Whispers.
He thought of Clara’s live.
Tears.
Anxiety.
Confusion.
He thought of the crash Dr. Rani described.
Hospitalisation.
A biochemical storm.
Clara’s narrative feeding off it.
Ethan exhaled.
He whispered, “If I don’t do this, I might… collapse.”
Dr. Rani nodded. “There is risk.”
Ethan swallowed.
“And if I do it,” he whispered, “I become… what she wanted.”
Dr. Rani’s gaze was steady, almost fierce. “No. If you do it, you become someone who chooses safety. That is not what she wanted. She wanted control. This is you taking it back.”
Ethan’s eyes burned.
He stared at his hands.
They trembled.
He forced them still.
He asked, voice small, “How long.”
Dr. Rani exhaled slowly. “Months. Possibly longer. The goal is gradual. We will reassess every few weeks. If your own axis begins to recover, we adjust. If it does not, we discuss longer-term options.”
Longer-term.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
Longer-term sounded like forever.
He closed his eyes.
His chest throbbed.
He breathed.
When he opened his eyes, he looked at Maya.
Maya’s face was tight with anger she was trying not to spill into the room.
She met his gaze and nodded once.
A silent message.
Whatever you choose, we’ll handle it.
Ethan swallowed.
He turned back to Dr. Rani.
“Okay,” he said.
The word sounded like surrender.
It also sounded like survival.
Dr. Rani nodded. “Okay.”
She began explaining the taper plan–dosage, monitoring, follow-up. Her voice was clinical. Ethical. Controlled.
Ethan heard it as if from far away.
He caught fragments.
Stability.
Minimise risk.
Consent.
He signed forms.
His hand was steady.
He hated that steadiness.
He left the clinic with a prescription in his pocket.
A paper that made his stomach churn.
Because it didn’t feel like medicine.
It felt like a verdict.
Outside, the sun was bright.
Ethan stood on the pavement and breathed.
His chest felt tight.
The compression shirt hugged him.
Contained.
Tool.
Not prison.
He looked at his reflection in the glass door of the clinic.
Hair tied back.
Softened face.
Contained chest.
Unchanged voice.
Neither here nor there.
He opened his mouth and said, quietly, to no one,
“I didn’t choose this.”
The words dissolved into the city noise.
Maya touched his shoulder. “You chose the safest next step.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He didn’t answer.
They walked to the MRT.
On the platform, a woman stepped aside and smiled politely at Ethan.
“Go ahead, miss,” she said.
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He felt Maya stiffen beside him.
Ethan shook his head once.
He said nothing.
The woman moved on.
Maya looked at Ethan. “Do you want me to–”
“No,” Ethan whispered.
Not because he wanted to be called miss.
Because he didn’t have the energy to correct the world today.
Because his voice felt like a trap.
If he spoke, he would become a scene.
A clip.
A story.
Ethan stared at the tracks.
The train arrived.
Doors opened.
He stepped inside.
In the glass of the window, his reflection sat beside the moving darkness.
He looked like someone in transition.
He wasn’t.
He was someone being carried by consequences.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Mr. Koh.
Protection Order hearing scheduled. Friday 10 a.m. Attendance required.
Friday.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
Another room.
Another fluorescent light.
Another place where strangers would decide his life.
His phone buzzed again.
Ivan.
How did the appointment go?
Ethan stared.
He typed slowly.
Doctor says reversal is dangerous. Stabilisation plan looks like transition for now. It’s the safest. I hate it. But I’m doing it.
A pause.
Then Ivan replied.
You’re still you. And you’re choosing safety. That’s not her victory. That’s yours.
Ethan’s eyes stung.
He looked away from the screen.
He swallowed.
His chest throbbed.
He could feel the prescription paper in his pocket like a second skin.
A plan that hurt.
A plan that kept him alive.
He stared at his reflection in the window.
Neither here nor there.
Still breathing.
And for the first time, he allowed himself to imagine what Chapter 20 would demand.
Not just proof.
Not just boundaries.
A public line.
A final refusal to let Clara’s story name him.
A choice.
Not about identity.
About ownership.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
The train carried him forward.
The city blurred past.
His body, tender and changing, moved with him.
And in his pocket, the prescription rustled softly with each step–paper proof that the safest way to survive the harm was to walk, for a while, in the direction she had forced.
Not as her ideal.
As his own choice.
Because survival, at the end of everything, was still a form of defiance.