The Version I Choose
Friday arrived like a hand on the back of Ethan’s neck.
Not pushing.
Not pulling.
Just resting there with quiet pressure, reminding him that today was not a day he could avoid by staying in bed, by turning his phone off, by swallowing his life into silence.
The Protection Order hearing was at 10 a.m.
A time.
A room.
A place where strangers would look at paper and decide whether his boundaries deserved to be enforced.
Ethan woke before his alarm, as he had been waking for weeks now, chest tenderness greeting him like a low, persistent hum. He lay still with his palm pressed lightly over his sternum through his shirt.
Tender.
Present.
Contained.
He could feel the compression undershirt underneath, hugging him tight. It dulled the physical awareness of his chest enough that he could breathe without flinching.
A tool.
Not a prison.
He repeated that to himself in the dark.
Not a prison.
He sat up, tied his hair back, and went to the bathroom.
The mirror gave him the version of himself he now recognised by absence.
No stubble.
Clear skin.
Softness at the edges.
Hair controlled and intentional.
A face that looked like it had been edited in small ways that added up.
Neither here nor there.
Ethan stared at his reflection and forced his breathing steady.
This face would go into a courtroom.
It would be seen.
It would be interpreted.
He could not stop that.
But he could decide what he did with the interpretation.
He turned away from the mirror and swallowed.
In the kitchen, he drank water.
Cold.
Simple.
Nothing added.
The cold grounded him.
Maya arrived at 8:30 with a folder, because of course she did.
She stood at Ethan’s door like a bodyguard in sneakers.
“You ready?” she asked.
Ethan almost laughed.
Ready was a word people used for exams.
Interviews.
Weddings.
He nodded anyway.
“Ready enough,” he said.
Maya’s eyes scanned him–not his chest, not his hair, not the parts that had become public. She scanned his eyes.
“You ate?” she asked.
Ethan’s mouth tightened at the echo of Clara’s inventory.
“Yes,” he lied.
Maya’s gaze sharpened.
Ethan sighed. “Okay. No.”
Maya exhaled, not angry, just tired. “Toast. Now.”
Ethan wanted to argue.
He didn’t.
He made toast.
He ate it standing at the counter, chewing without taste.
Maya watched him like she was watching someone cross a bridge.
When he finished, she nodded once. “Good.”
The word didn’t irritate him anymore.
It was an anchor.
They left.
The Family Justice Courts building was clean and bright in the way official spaces liked to be–neutral colours, polished floors, air-conditioning that made bodies feel smaller. Security screens. Queues. Signage.
Ethan walked through the entrance with Maya beside him and felt his chest tighten, not from tenderness this time, but from the knowledge that he was stepping into a place that demanded composure.
Composure had become his armour.
He wasn’t sure it fit.
Mr. Koh met them near the waiting area, laptop bag slung over his shoulder.
He nodded at Ethan. “Morning.”
Ethan returned the greeting. His voice sounded steady.
It always did.
The steady voice was a strange comfort. It was one of the few parts of him that still felt like an old coordinate.
Mr. Koh motioned them toward a row of chairs.
“We’ll be called in shortly,” he said. “Remember: keep answers short. Factual. No speculation. We let the documents speak.”
Documents.
Ethan swallowed.
His life had become documents.
He glanced down at his hands.
They were steady.
His body wasn’t.
The compression undershirt pressed against his skin like a reminder that he was contained, not whole.
Across the waiting area, Ethan noticed her before she noticed him.
Clara sat with her lawyer. She wore a pale blouse and trousers, hair smooth, face composed. No red eyes. No trembling.
She looked like someone who had slept.
She looked like someone who had rehearsed.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Clara looked up.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, her expression flickered–something like wounded familiarity, like she was still allowed to claim him with her gaze.
Then she smoothed it away.
She looked at Maya.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Then she looked back at Ethan.
Her lips moved.
Not loud.
Just enough.
Please.
Ethan stared.
His chest throbbed faintly.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t answer.
Control the camera.
Mr. Koh leaned slightly toward Ethan, voice low. “Ignore her.”
Ethan nodded.
A court officer called their names.
Ethan stood.
Dizziness washed over him briefly.
He steadied himself with a breath.
Not now.
He followed Mr. Koh into the hearing room.
The hearing room was small. Not dramatic like television. No wooden gavel, no sweeping monologue.
Just a judge, a clerk, lawyers, and the kind of silence that made words heavier.
Ethan sat at the table with Mr. Koh. Maya sat behind him, close enough to feel like a wall.
Clara sat across with her lawyer.
The judge–a woman with tired eyes and a steady expression–looked at the papers in front of her.
“We are here regarding an application for a Protection Order,” she said calmly.
Ethan swallowed.
The judge looked at him. “Mr. Tan, I have reviewed your affidavit and supporting documents.”
Supporting documents.
Screenshots.
Medical letter.
Police report reference.
Evidence.
The judge continued, “I am going to ask you a few questions. Answer directly.”
Ethan nodded.
“Have you had any direct contact with Ms. Lim since the incident you described?”
“No,” Ethan said.
“Has she attempted to contact you?”
“Yes,” Ethan replied.
“How?”
“Messages from unknown numbers,” Ethan said. “Emails. Contacting my friends. Contacting my workplace.”
The judge nodded. “Do you have records?”
“Yes,” Mr. Koh answered smoothly. “We have screenshots and emails, Your Honour.”
The judge looked at Clara.
“Ms. Lim,” she said. “Do you dispute contacting Mr. Tan’s workplace?”
Clara’s lawyer spoke first. “Your Honour, our client was concerned for Mr. Tan’s wellbeing. She contacted his friends and workplace in good faith because she believed he was mentally unstable and at risk.”
Mentally unstable.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
Clara’s gaze stayed on the judge.
She looked calm.
Ethan felt heat rise behind his eyes.
Not tears.
Anger.
He kept his face neutral.
Control the camera.
The judge’s eyes sharpened. “Good faith concern does not justify harassment or repeated third-party contact once asked to stop.”
Clara’s lawyer nodded. “Understood, Your Honour.”
The judge turned back to Ethan.
“Mr. Tan,” she said, “why are you seeking a Protection Order specifically?”
Ethan swallowed.
This was the question that required a line.
Not an explanation.
Not a memoir.
A line.
He spoke quietly. “Because she won’t leave me alone. And because she is trying to control the narrative to make me look unstable. I want her to stop contacting my friends and my workplace. I want a boundary.”
The judge nodded.
“Do you fear physical harm?” she asked.
Ethan hesitated.
Physical harm.
He thought of the hormone.
The months.
His chest.
His body.
It was harm.
But not the kind the question meant.
He answered carefully. “I fear continued interference. Harassment. And I fear the impact on my health.”
The judge looked at the medical letter.
She paused.
Then she looked at Clara.
“Ms. Lim,” she said, “do you understand that regardless of your feelings, you must cease contact if it is unwanted?”
Clara’s lips pressed together.
“Yes,” she said.
Her voice was soft.
Controlled.
She sounded like her Instagram stories.
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
The judge continued, “I am granting an expedited interim Protection Order pending further proceedings. It will include a no-contact directive and restrictions on third-party contact, including workplace contact.”
Ethan’s breath caught.
Interim Protection Order.
A boundary made official.
The judge looked at Clara. “Do you understand the terms?”
Clara nodded, face tight. “Yes.”
The judge looked at Ethan. “Do you understand the terms?”
“Yes,” Ethan said.
The judge’s gaze softened slightly. “This is a civil measure to maintain safety and order. There are other legal processes for other matters. Today, we are ensuring boundaries.”
Boundaries.
Ethan swallowed.
The hearing ended quickly.
Paper stamped.
Instructions given.
Everyone stood.
Ethan’s legs felt weak as he left the room.
Not because he was relieved.
Because he was exhausted.
In the corridor outside, Clara approached.
Not rushing.
Not dramatic.
She stepped toward him with her lawyer a few paces behind, as if she wanted the moment to feel private even in public.
Ethan’s chest tightened.
Maya moved instantly to his side.
Mr. Koh stepped between them, palm slightly raised.
“No contact,” he said calmly.
Clara stopped.
Her face tightened, grief slipping through the composure.
“Ethan,” she whispered.
Ethan stared.
His jaw was tight.
His chest throbbed.
He didn’t answer.
Clara’s eyes filled suddenly. “You’re ruining me,” she said, voice trembling.
Maya’s mouth tightened.
Ethan felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Ruining.
As if she was the victim of his boundary.
Mr. Koh spoke firmly. “Ms. Lim, the order is clear. Step back.”
Clara’s breath hitched. She looked at Ethan as if he would rescue her.
Ethan didn’t move.
Control the camera.
Clara’s voice broke. “I loved you.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
The word love still had hooks.
He felt them.
He didn’t let them pull.
He spoke, finally, voice low, shaking slightly but steady enough.
“You loved your version,” he said.
Clara flinched.
He didn’t say more.
Because more would become a scene.
He turned and walked away.
Maya stayed close.
Mr. Koh guided them toward the exit.
Behind them, Clara’s sobbing rose briefly, then was swallowed by the building’s neutral silence.
Outside the courts, the sunlight felt harsh.
Ethan stood on the steps and breathed.
His chest throbbed faintly.
The compression shirt held him.
Contained.
Tool.
Not prison.
Maya exhaled. “Interim PO. That’s good.”
Ethan nodded.
Good.
He didn’t feel good.
He felt like someone had taken a deep breath after being underwater for too long.
Mr. Koh spoke, practical. “We proceed with the rest through proper channels. Do not engage. If she violates the order, report.”
Ethan nodded.
Mr. Koh left.
Maya turned to Ethan. “You want to go home?”
Ethan stared at the street.
Traffic.
People walking.
Normal day.
He shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said.
Maya blinked. “No?”
Ethan swallowed.
His voice was quiet. “If I go home, I’ll sit in the dark and replay everything. I want… something else.”
Maya studied him.
Then she nodded. “Okay. What?”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He didn’t know what he wanted.
He only knew what he didn’t want.
He didn’t want to be a rumour.
He didn’t want to be a case file.
He didn’t want to be Clara’s narrative.
He didn’t want to be defined by the misread miss.
He wanted a version of himself he could stand inside.
He exhaled slowly.
“I want to go to the beach,” he said.
Maya blinked, surprised. “Beach?”
Ethan nodded once. “East Coast. Somewhere open. Somewhere… not fluorescent.”
Maya’s expression softened. “Okay. Let’s go.”
At East Coast Park, the air smelled like salt and sunscreen.
The sea was grey-blue under a bright sky. Families sat under tents. Cyclists passed. Dogs barked. The world here moved with a different rhythm, less compressed.
Ethan walked along the path with Maya beside him.
He felt the sun on his skin.
His skin, too smooth, too calm.
He felt the breeze press against his shirt.
The compression undershirt held his chest.
Contained.
He felt, for a moment, the simple physical fact of being outside.
No court.
No letters.
No phone screens.
Just wind and salt and the endless line of the horizon.
They found a bench facing the water.
Ethan sat.
Maya sat beside him.
They didn’t speak for a while.
The silence wasn’t empty.
It was full of waves.
Eventually, Ethan spoke.
“I hate that the safest medical plan looks like her plan,” he said quietly.
Maya’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
Ethan stared at the water.
“I feel like… even when I choose, it still looks like her victory,” he admitted.
Maya’s voice softened. “That’s because you’re looking at outcomes, not intent. She wanted control. You’re choosing safety with consent. That’s the difference.”
Ethan swallowed.
Consent.
The word had become the centre of everything.
He breathed in salt air.
He exhaled.
“I got called miss again,” he said.
Maya’s eyes sharpened. “Today?”
“Yesterday,” Ethan said. “I didn’t correct.”
Maya nodded slowly. “Do you want to correct next time?”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
He thought of his voice.
The deep, unchanged voice that could slice through assumptions like a knife.
He thought of scenes.
Stares.
Phones.
Clips.
He shook his head. “Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t want to be a scene.”
Maya’s expression softened. “Then don’t.”
Ethan blinked. “But–”
Maya interrupted gently. “You don’t owe strangers an explanation. You owe yourself safety.”
Safety.
Ethan stared at the water.
He felt his chest throb faintly.
Tender.
Present.
Contained.
He whispered, “I don’t recognise myself.”
Maya didn’t rush to reassure.
She waited.
Ethan continued, voice low. “Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see someone who looks… like a girl trying to be a guy. And then I talk and my voice is still mine, and it doesn’t match, and I feel like… I’m trapped in between.”
Maya swallowed.
Her voice was quiet. “Neither here nor there.”
Ethan nodded.
He stared at the horizon.
“I want to stop fighting my reflection,” he whispered.
Maya’s eyes softened. “Then don’t fight it. Hold it.”
Ethan blinked.
Hold it.
The phrase felt strange.
Maya continued, “You didn’t choose the change. But you can choose how you treat yourself inside it. If you keep treating your body like evidence of shame, you’ll hate yourself. You don’t deserve that.”
Ethan’s eyes burned.
He blinked hard.
The tears that came were not sudden weather.
They were slow.
Controlled.
Salt on his tongue mixed with salt in his eyes.
He exhaled and let them fall without wiping immediately.
Maya stayed quiet.
When Ethan finally wiped his face, his voice came out rough.
“What do I do now?”
Maya’s gaze was steady. “You follow the medical plan. You follow the legal boundaries. And you choose your version.”
Ethan swallowed.
“My version,” he echoed.
Maya nodded. “Your version. Not the rumour. Not her story. Not a stranger’s ‘miss.’ The one you can live with.”
Ethan stared at the water.
He felt something in his chest loosen.
Not the tenderness.
The tightness around his identity.
He whispered, “I don’t know what that version looks like.”
Maya’s voice was gentle. “You don’t have to know today. You just have to choose the next thing.”
The next thing.
Ethan swallowed.
He looked down at his hands.
He had been choosing tools.
Hair tie.
Compression.
Silence.
Boundaries.
Those choices were small.
But they were his.
He exhaled.
He took his phone out.
Maya’s eyes sharpened briefly.
Ethan unlocked it and opened Instagram.
Maya stiffened. “Ethan–”
“Wait,” Ethan said.
His voice was quiet.
He wasn’t going to watch Clara.
He wasn’t going to comment.
He wasn’t going to rage.
He went to his own profile.
He stared at the blank space where his last post from months ago sat.
He didn’t want to go public.
But he also couldn’t let her own the narrative.
He opened a story.
A blank background.
Text.
His fingers hovered.
He typed:
I’m safe. I’m dealing with a serious medical and legal matter. Please do not contact me through others or engage with rumours. Thank you for respecting my privacy.
He stared at it.
It was clean.
It didn’t accuse.
It didn’t explain.
It drew a boundary.
Control the camera.
Ethan posted it.
Maya exhaled slowly. “Good.”
Ethan’s throat tightened.
That tiny story would not stop gossip.
But it would place his voice in the public space where Clara’s voice had been alone.
It was not revenge.
It was existence.
Ethan put his phone away.
He stared at the sea.
His chest throbbed faintly.
He could feel the compression shirt.
He could feel the hair tie.
He could feel the sun.
He could feel his body as something he lived in rather than something he argued with.
Maya stood. “Want to walk?”
Ethan nodded.
They walked along the water.
A cyclist passed.
A child laughed.
A dog barked.
The world kept moving.
Ethan moved with it.
And as they walked, Ethan realised something quietly, something that didn’t feel like a dramatic epiphany but like a muscle finally unclenching.
Clara had wanted him to become her ideal.
An ideal was a shape imposed.
What Ethan was becoming now was not an ideal.
It was a strategy.
A survival plan.
A body held ethically.
A version chosen under consent.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t clean.
But it was his.
When they reached the carpark, Ethan’s phone buzzed.
A message from Ivan.
How did court go?
Ethan typed:
Interim PO granted. No contact. No third-party contact. I’m at ECP with Maya. Breathing.
Ivan replied:
Proud of you. Also–ABIX is shutting down anyone who jokes. If they can’t behave, they’re out. You’re not a topic.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
Not a topic.
He swallowed.
He felt, for the first time in weeks, a faint sense of protection that didn’t come from letterhead.
From people.
He looked at Maya.
She gave him a small nod.
Ethan exhaled.
Tomorrow, he would still wake up with a tender chest.
He would still tie his hair back.
He would still wear compression.
He would still be misread sometimes.
He would still carry a prescription that felt like a bitter joke.
But he would also carry something else.
A boundary stamped by a judge.
A message sent in his own voice.
A friend beside him.
A horizon that didn’t care what story people told.
Ethan climbed into the car and stared out the window as the city moved past.
His reflection sat faintly in the glass.
Softened face.
Unchanged eyes.
A body in motion.
Neither here nor there.
Still his.
And in the quiet between streetlights, Ethan whispered, so softly that only he could hear it,
“I choose this version.”
Not because he loved it.
Because it was the first version, in months, that belonged to him.