Softer, Not Better
The conditioner smelled like a garden that had never seen dirt.
Ethan stood under the showerhead with the bottle tilted in his hand, watching the pale cream slide onto his palm in a slow, glossy ribbon. The scent rose immediately–floral, sweet, too clean–wrapping itself around the steam as if it belonged there more than he did.
He had meant to ignore it.
He’d set it on his bathroom shelf like a polite lie: Thank you, Clara, a gift accepted and forgotten. But the bottle sat there in the mornings and evenings, elegant among his clutter, and lately everything in his life seemed to demand a response. Even inanimate objects.
So he had caved.
He worked the conditioner through his hair the way the instructions said, fingers raking from scalp to ends. The sensation was unexpectedly soothing. His hair felt heavier than usual, dense with water, and his fingertips met less resistance than they normally did. It was as if the strands had begun cooperating, slipping between his fingers with a kind of practiced obedience.
He rinsed.
The water ran clear.
When he turned off the tap and reached for his towel, his scalp felt… different. Not sore. Not sensitive. Just aware, as if he’d become conscious of every strand resting against his skin.
Ethan dried his hair quickly and caught his reflection in the mirror.
His face looked the same at first glance.
Then he looked again.
The skin across his cheekbones seemed smoother, less textured, as if the pores had shrunk out of shame. His eyes looked tired, yes, but the tiredness sat on a face that appeared oddly… calm. Less oily. Less harsh.
It was not an improvement he had asked for.
He leaned closer, squinting, searching for whatever angle would restore the familiar roughness. He turned his chin.
Still barely any stubble.
The razor in the holder beside the sink might as well have been decorative.
Ethan straightened and let out a laugh that sounded wrong in the quiet.
“Okay,” he told his reflection, voice low. “This is getting stupid.”
He pulled on a shirt and left the bathroom, as if getting away from the mirror would stop it from telling the truth.
The gym was supposed to fix things.
That had always been Ethan’s logic. When life felt too intangible–too emotional, too messy–he could at least rely on the honest math of physical exertion. Lift weight, feel burn, go home tired in a way that made sense.
Lately, though, even that math had begun to misbehave.
He arrived at the gym after work on Wednesday, earbuds in, bag slung over his shoulder. The air smelled like disinfectant and sweat, and the familiar thump of bass from someone else’s playlist travelled through the floor.
Ethan changed quickly, pulling on a sleeveless top and shorts. He caught his reflection in the locker room mirror and paused.
The shirt clung to his torso in a way it never had.
Not tighter. Not looser.
Just… different.
His shoulders still looked broad. His arms still looked like his arms. But the definition was softer, as if the sharp lines had blurred by a fraction. It was subtle enough that he could have blamed lighting, fatigue, the angle of his stance.
He did.
He told himself it was the fluorescent bulbs. Those things made everyone look strange.
He walked out to the weights.
The bar felt familiar in his hands, cold and solid, a kind of reassurance. He loaded plates and began his warm-up.
First set: fine.
Second set: heavier than it should have been.
By the third, his muscles trembled with a fatigue that arrived too early, like a friend who showed up uninvited and refused to leave.
Ethan swallowed irritation.
He wiped sweat from his forehead and tried to ignore the slight ache in his chest.
He had done chest day on Monday.
Maybe he hadn’t recovered.
Maybe he was just tired.
He moved to the bench press and lay back.
The weight came down.
His arms pushed.
It went up, but not with the clean strength he expected. There was a wobble in the movement that made his jaw clench.
Ethan racked the bar and sat up, breathing hard.
A man at the next bench glanced over.
“Need a spot?” the man asked.
Ethan shook his head automatically. “No, I’m good.”
The man shrugged and returned to his set.
Ethan stared down at his hands.
They were steady.
He was not shaking.
So why did his body feel like it was trying to become something else?
He stood and went to the cables, trying to work through the frustration. He lifted, pulled, repeated, his mind narrowing to the rhythm.
But even in the rhythm, the discomfort returned.
His skin felt… sensitive.
Not itchy.
Not irritated.
Sensitive in the way you feel when you’ve had too much sun, or when someone has been staring at you for too long and you can’t prove it.
He caught himself scratching lightly at his forearm.
The skin there looked smooth.
His body hair wasn’t gone–he could see it, dark against his skin–but it seemed finer than he remembered, less coarse.
Ethan stared at it like it might explain itself.
It didn’t.
He finished his workout early and left, his frustration simmering under his skin as if he’d carried the gym’s heat home with him.
Outside, the air was cool with evening. He walked toward the MRT, shoulders tense, his hair falling forward when he looked down.
He shoved it back.
The strands slipped through his fingers too easily.
He hated how soft it felt.
Clara called him as he stepped off the train.
Ethan hesitated before answering, then pressed the phone to his ear.
“Hey,” he said.
“You sound tired,” Clara replied immediately.
Ethan almost laughed. “Everyone sounds tired after work.”
“No,” Clara said. “You sound like you’re trying to pretend you’re not tired.”
Ethan tightened his grip on the phone. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Clara’s laugh was soft. “It’s supposed to be me paying attention.”
He reached his block, swiped into the lift lobby. The fluorescent lights reflected off the polished floor, turning everything into a clean, colourless version of itself.
“I went to the gym,” Ethan said.
“And?” Clara asked.
“And it felt… off.”
There was a pause. Ethan could picture Clara’s face: the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way she would tilt her head as if aligning something in her mind.
“Off how?” she asked.
Ethan swallowed. “I don’t know. Like I got tired too fast. Like my body’s not responding the way it usually does.”
“Maybe you’re overtraining,” Clara suggested.
“Maybe,” Ethan conceded, though he didn’t believe it.
The lift arrived. He stepped inside and pressed his floor.
Clara’s voice came through the speaker, gentle. “You’ve been pushing yourself a lot. Maybe you should do something calmer.”
“Like what?”
“Like…” Clara hesitated, as if choosing the right word. “Like taking care of yourself. Properly.”
Ethan frowned. “I do take care of myself.”
Clara hummed, amused. “You call that taking care of yourself?”
“What does that mean?” Ethan asked, irritation rising.
“It means,” Clara said, tone still warm, “that you think taking care of yourself is only about being strong. And you’re allowed to be… softer sometimes.”
There it was again.
Soft.
Ethan’s throat tightened. “Why does everyone keep using that word?”
Clara laughed lightly. “Because it’s true. And because you’re cute when you get defensive.”
“I’m not defensive.”
“You are,” Clara said, unbothered. “Come over tomorrow.”
Ethan blinked. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes. I want to do something with you.”
“What kind of something?”
Clara paused. “You’ll hate it if I tell you.”
Ethan frowned harder. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not scary,” Clara promised. “It’s just… nice.”
The lift doors opened. Ethan stepped out into the corridor.
“I have work tomorrow,” he said.
“You always have work,” Clara replied. “Come over after. I’ll cook.”
Ethan’s brain tried to argue, to regain control, to refuse the sense of being guided.
But the truth was, he wanted the comfort of her apartment. Her routines. The way she made the world feel organised.
“Okay,” he said.
Clara’s voice softened. “Good. And Ethan?”
“Yes?”
“You should use the conditioner. I can tell when you don’t.”
Ethan stopped in the corridor, keys in hand.
He stared at his door.
“How can you tell?” he asked.
Clara laughed. “Because I touch your hair. It’s different. Just humour me.”
Ethan’s pulse thudded once.
It wasn’t that the line was sinister.
It was just… intimate in a way that made him feel observed.
“Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “I used it.”
“Good,” Clara said, satisfied. “See you tomorrow.”
The call ended.
Ethan stood outside his apartment for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he went in.
Thursday evening arrived like a concession.
Ethan finished work, fought his way through the crowd on the train, and walked to Clara’s apartment with his shoulders tight. He told himself he was going because he wanted to. Because relationships were about effort.
Not because something in him craved the way Clara made decisions feel simpler.
She opened the door before he could knock.
“You’re late,” she said, smiling as if the accusation was affectionate.
“I’m not late,” Ethan replied, stepping inside.
“You’re late to my expectations,” Clara said, and took his bag from his shoulder without asking.
Ethan exhaled. “That’s not a real thing.”
“It is in my mind,” Clara replied, still smiling.
Her apartment smelled like dinner–something savoury simmering on the stove, garlic and soy, a smell that made Ethan’s stomach loosen despite his mood.
Clara moved through the living room and kitchen with her usual ease. Her hair was tied back again, and she wore an apron that looked almost too clean for cooking.
“You said you wanted to do something,” Ethan reminded her.
Clara glanced over her shoulder. “Yes. After dinner.”
Ethan frowned. “What is it?”
Clara lifted a brow. “Do you want me to tell you so you can complain in advance?”
Ethan stared at her. “I’m not a child.”
Clara’s expression softened. “No. You’re not.”
She stepped closer and reached up, fingers sliding into his hair.
Ethan’s scalp tingled.
Her touch was gentle, almost absentminded, like a habit.
“Your hair is really soft,” she murmured.
Ethan swallowed. “It’s just conditioner.”
Clara’s lips curved. “It’s also you.”
The words landed in Ethan’s chest with an odd weight. He didn’t know how to respond, so he made a sound that might have been a laugh and walked away toward the sink.
He washed his hands, stared at the counter.
His mug sat there already.
Cream-coloured. Crackle pattern.
Waiting.
Ethan’s gaze slid past it to the pantry.
The tins were in their neat rows, labelled. The tea tin sat in its usual place, unremarkable and familiar.
He told himself the way his eyes kept going there meant nothing.
Dinner was good, as it always was at Clara’s. She cooked with confidence, the kind that made even simple dishes feel deliberate. Ethan ate, listened to her talk about her day, nodded, asked questions.
He tried to inhabit the normalness.
But even as he laughed at something she said, he could feel his body humming under his skin.
Not pain.
Not illness.
Just a kind of… awareness.
When Clara’s knee bumped his under the table, Ethan flinched slightly at the intensity of sensation.
Clara noticed.
Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction. “Are you okay?”
Ethan forced a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Clara’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then she nodded.
After dinner, she cleared the table and made tea.
Of course she did.
Ethan watched her move. The tea tin lifted, opened, scooped. The spoon clinked against the mug.
Her motions were precise.
Efficient.
A part of Ethan wanted to look away.
Another part couldn’t.
She set the mug in front of him.
“Drink,” she said.
Ethan stared at the steam.
“I’m not stressed,” he said again.
Clara leaned against the counter, arms folded lightly. “It’s not only for stress. You always feel better after.”
Ethan’s mouth tightened. “You keep saying that.”
Clara’s eyes softened. “Because it’s true.”
Ethan picked up the mug.
He took a sip.
The tea tasted like it always did–mild sweetness, a faint herbal note, warmth sliding down.
He hated how quickly his shoulders loosened.
Clara watched him drink, then turned away.
“Okay,” she said, clapping her hands once softly, as if closing a meeting. “Come.”
Ethan frowned. “Come where?”
Clara walked toward the bathroom. “Bathroom.”
Ethan’s stomach tightened. “Why?”
Clara looked back at him, amused. “Relax. I’m not going to drown you.”
Ethan followed reluctantly.
Clara’s bathroom was the same one he’d stood in yesterday, razor in hand. The same clean tile, the same citrus scent. But now, Clara had set things out on the counter: a small face wash, a toner bottle, a moisturiser, and a sheet mask packet.
Ethan stared at the arrangement.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A skincare routine,” Clara said, as if announcing something obvious.
Ethan’s face heated. “Clara–”
She cut him off gently. “Before you complain, listen.”
Ethan crossed his arms. “I’m listening.”
Clara leaned back against the sink, looking at him with that calm certainty he had begun to recognise.
“You’ve been tired,” she said. “Your skin has been… changing. And you hate it because you don’t like anything you can’t control.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “My skin is fine.”
Clara’s expression remained soft. “Ethan.”
She said his name like a hand on his shoulder.
Ethan swallowed, irritation fighting with embarrassment.
“This is not feminine,” Clara continued, voice even. “This is not about you becoming anything. It’s just… taking care of yourself properly. Your face is literally the thing the world sees first. Why wouldn’t you want it to feel good?”
Ethan stared at her.
The reasonable phrasing disarmed him, as it always did.
He tried to hold onto his annoyance. “I don’t need to do this.”
Clara shrugged. “Then don’t. But you’re here. And you’ve been complaining. So let me do one thing that helps.”
Ethan opened his mouth to argue.
Then he closed it.
Because what could he say that didn’t sound childish?
Fine, he thought. Let her do it. Let it be normal. Let it be one of those couple things people posted about online–girlfriend teaches boyfriend skincare, boyfriend pretends to hate it, boyfriend secretly enjoys it.
Clara smiled slightly, victory disguised as affection.
“Sit,” she said.
Ethan sat on the closed toilet lid, feeling absurd.
Clara washed her hands and squeezed face wash into her palm.
“Close your eyes,” she instructed.
Ethan hesitated, then obeyed.
The cleanser touched his skin, cool and slick. Clara’s fingers moved in gentle circles, massaging along his cheeks, his forehead, his jaw.
Ethan’s breath caught.
Not because the sensation was unpleasant.
Because it felt… intimate.
More intimate than kissing, in some way. Kissing was shared. This was Clara handling him as if he were something delicate.
“You’re tense,” Clara murmured.
“I’m not,” Ethan lied.
Clara’s laugh was quiet. “You are. You always are.”
She rinsed a cloth and wiped his face clean.
The cloth was warm. The sensation made Ethan’s chest loosen in reluctant surrender.
Clara moved on to toner, then moisturiser.
Ethan sat still, eyes closed, listening to her breathing, to the faint squeak of plastic bottles.
When she reached for the sheet mask, Ethan opened his eyes.
“No,” he said immediately.
Clara paused, packet in hand. “Why not?”
“Because it’s ridiculous,” Ethan said.
Clara tilted her head. “It’s hydrating.”
Ethan looked at the glossy packet with a woman’s face printed on it. His cheeks burned. “I’m not putting that on.”
Clara’s expression softened further, as if she had been expecting this resistance.
“Okay,” she said gently. “Then we won’t.”
Ethan blinked.
No argument.
No teasing.
Just acceptance.
The lack of pushback made Ethan feel unsteady, as if he had prepared for a fight and found an open door instead.
Clara set the mask aside.
“There,” she said, smoothing moisturiser along his jaw one last time. “Done.”
Ethan stared at himself in the mirror.
His skin looked brighter. Less textured. His face looked… clean.
He hated how good it felt.
Clara leaned beside him and studied his reflection too.
“You look better,” she said.
Ethan’s throat tightened. “Better how?”
Clara’s eyes flicked to his jaw, then back to his eyes. “Softer,” she said simply. “Calmer.”
Ethan’s fingers curled against his thighs.
Soft again.
He swallowed. “I don’t want to be soft.”
Clara turned to him, her expression still gentle but now edged with something firm.
“You don’t get to decide what softness means,” she said. “Soft doesn’t mean weak.”
Ethan stared at her.
A part of him wanted to argue.
Another part wanted to accept her definition, because it was kinder than his.
Clara reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead.
Ethan’s scalp tingled.
She smiled. “See? This is nice. You’re allowed to feel nice.”
Ethan looked away.
He didn’t trust himself to answer.
Later, on Clara’s couch, the world quieted.
They watched an episode of a show Ethan barely followed. Clara leaned into him, head on his shoulder. Her fingers idly traced circles on his forearm.
Ethan’s skin reacted to the touch with a strange sensitivity that made him breathe more shallowly.
He kept his arm still, afraid that moving would make the sensation disappear–or worse, make him look like he needed it.
Clara glanced up at him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
Ethan swallowed. “Nothing.”
Clara’s lips curved. “Liar.”
Ethan exhaled. “I just… feel weird lately.”
Clara’s eyes softened, attentive. “Weird how?”
Ethan hesitated.
He could tell her about the gym.
About the drain.
About the way his body felt like it was quietly changing the rules.
But saying it out loud felt like giving the fear a shape.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Like… I’m not myself.”
Clara’s hand paused on his forearm.
The silence between them tightened.
Then Clara nodded once, slow.
“You’ve been under a lot of pressure,” she said. “Your body is probably just asking you to slow down.”
Ethan frowned. “That’s not how bodies work.”
Clara’s smile was faint. “It is, actually. You just don’t listen.”
Ethan looked down at her.
Her face was calm. Her eyes held his with an unwavering steadiness.
He wanted to believe her.
He wanted the explanation to be that simple.
“You should see a doctor,” Clara said lightly, as if mentioning it was just another part of being responsible.
Ethan blinked. “What?”
Clara shrugged. “Just to be sure. If you’re worried.”
Ethan stared at her.
The suggestion should have felt reassuring.
Instead, it made his stomach twist.
Because it meant she saw it too.
“You think something is wrong,” Ethan said.
Clara’s expression remained soft. “I think you’re anxious. And when you’re anxious, you spiral. So we do things properly. We check. We don’t guess.”
Ethan swallowed.
Clara reached up and touched his cheek lightly, as she had in the kitchen last week.
Her fingers slid over smooth skin.
Ethan tensed.
Clara didn’t pull away.
“You’re warm,” she murmured.
Ethan forced a laugh. “It’s the tea.”
Clara smiled, pleased. “See? It helps.”
Ethan stared at the television.
The characters on-screen laughed at something.
Ethan didn’t.
When he finally left Clara’s apartment that night, his skin still felt like it remembered her hands.
Outside, the corridor was quiet. The lift lobby lights made the floor shine.
Ethan caught his reflection again in the lift’s metal panel.
His hair, freshly conditioned, lay smoother than usual.
His face looked… polished.
He lifted a hand and touched his jaw.
Still no stubble.
Ethan’s pulse thudded.
A thought pressed against his mind.
See a doctor.
It was reasonable.
It was adult.
It was the kind of thing people did when something felt off.
He also couldn’t shake the way Clara had said it, calm and certain, as if she had already decided the path.
The lift descended.
At his floor, he stepped out, walked down the corridor, unlocked his door.
Inside his apartment, the air smelled faintly of stale laundry and nothing else.
He turned on the bathroom light.
Stood in front of the mirror.
Looked.
His skin looked smooth.
His hair framed his face neatly.
He looked like someone who took care of himself.
He looked, for a moment, like someone Clara would be proud of.
The thought made his stomach tighten.
Ethan reached for his razor, lifted it.
He held it to his jaw.
Nothing.
He set it down again.
A small anger rose, sharp and sudden.
Not at Clara.
Not yet.
At his own body.
At the way it refused to explain itself.
He turned off the light.
In the dark, the mirror became nothing.
But in his mind, Clara’s voice remained, steady and gentle.
Soft doesn’t mean weak.
Ethan lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, feeling his conditioned hair spread against the pillow like a quiet statement.
Somewhere in his chest, discomfort stirred–not pain, not exactly, just a faint, tender awareness that made him shift restlessly.
He told himself it was the gym.
He told himself it was stress.
He told himself it was nothing.
Still, he opened his phone and searched for a clinic near his office.
He didn’t book an appointment.
Not yet.
But the tab stayed open.
Like a crack in the wall that you pretended was just paint.
Ethan set the phone down.
Closed his eyes.
And tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore the strange, quiet truth his own skin had begun to whisper: that change didn’t always arrive with a bang.
Sometimes it arrived with a gentle hand on your cheek and a voice telling you you were better.
Sometimes it arrived as softness you couldn’t shave away.