Chapter 13 Chapter 12: Breakfast
Normally, the Change is a slow, deliberate tide, not a tsunami. It takes roughly eight days, four for the core gender shift, a subtle rewiring of the self, and another four for the body to catch up: muscle and hair growth increasing or decreasing accordingly, the skeleton groaning as it settles into its new alignment. Then, you get about twenty-five days in your new gender, a period of stability before the whole intricate, exhausting process begins its reverse course. Roughly thirty-three days in total, the same as our moon’s cycle. They say in the old days, entire communities would change in sync with the lunar pull, a great, shared rhythm of becoming. But nowadays, it’s all out of phase, everyone on their own solitary schedule, isolated in their transformations.
I had undergone that entire profound, month-long metamorphosis in a few short, violent hours. Less than forty-eight hours ago, I had been Silver’s soft, weeping Polli. This morning, I had woken with a rough stubble shadowing my jaw, a full, painful muscle mass, and a deep, gnawing hunger in the pit of my stomach that felt like it could consume the world. My body was a stranger’s, built overnight, and every cell screamed its raw, newborn need.
I had set my alarm brutally early, the shrill sound tearing me from a sleep thick with confused dreams. The purpose was twofold: a morning run would serve as tangible proof to my watching parents that I was not the slacker they accused me of being, a display of discipline aimed at their disapproving faces. But more privately, I craved the exercise. I needed to move, to test these new, unfamiliar limbs, to feel the power in them, to outrun the phantom memory of the person I was just two days ago. Maybe in the burn of my lungs and the pound of my feet on the pavement, I could find a sense of ownership over this body, this machine that I loved.
I went down to the kitchen, and the scene that greeted me was a masterpiece of controlled chaos, a familiar tableau of our family preparing for the day. The room was full of them, each a planet in their own orbit, readying for school and work. My younger siblings were a noisy asteroid belt, zipping around the table, their voices a high-pitched cacophony of forgotten homework and misplaced shoes. My father was a solid, immovable planet at the head of the table, eating his breakfast with a methodical precision over the rustling pages of his newspaper, a fortress of quiet authority amidst the storm.
And my mother was the sun, the radiant conductor of this entire domestic orchestra. She moved between the stove, the counter, and the table with a fluid, practiced grace, buttering toast with one hand while simultaneously tying a little one’s shoelace with the other, her voice a steady stream of reminders and gentle admonishments that kept the solar system from flying apart.
She smiled as I entered, a bright, deliberate expression that didn't quite reach the faint worry in her eyes. So, I guessed we were going to play happy families this morning and pretend last night’s tense intervention had never happened. The air was thick with the unspoken, but the performance was underway.
“You’re up early, darling,” she chirped, her tone a little too light.
I forced a smile back, feeling it strains. My new, unfamiliar facial muscles. “Yes, Mum. I thought I’d get a run in before work.” I leaned against the doorframe, the gesture feeling awkward in my broader-shouldered body. “Is there any breakfast going?”
Her smile became more genuine, pleased by this show of initiative. “Of course, love.” She turned back to the stove and piled a plate high with a full cooked breakfast, sizzling rashers of cured poyon, golden eggs, and a generous helping of fried bread. The rich, greasy smell made my stomach growl audibly. She set the heaping plate on the table with a soft thud.
“Leaf?” she asked, already reaching for my favourite mug.
I nodded, sliding into my usual chair, its wooden frame groaning under my new weight. “Please, Mum.” The words were a peace offering, a script line in the play of normalcy we were all determined to act out. I picked up my fork, the metal feeling solid and right in my larger hand, and prepared to eat under the watchful, hopeful eyes of my family.
With a full stomach, a leaden, greasy weight that was decidedly not the best preparation for a run and my new laces tied tight, I started a slow, heavy jog down the quiet street. The early morning air was cool and sharp in my lungs, a welcome contrast to the cloying warmth of the kitchen. At first, my body protested, the rich breakfast and the unfamiliar bulk of my new muscle mass making each step feel like an effort. But I pushed through, my feet finding a rhythm on the damp pavement.
Gradually, I picked up speed, the initial clumsiness melting away. I began to listen to the deep, powerful drum of my heartbeat, a new, stronger percussion in my chest, and tried to measure my lengthening strides by its rhythm. With every block, I increased the pace, my breath coming in great, steady clouds. The world began to blur at the edges, houses and gardens melting into a smear of colour. And then, a miracle happened. The heaviness vanished. I felt light, powerful, as if I were almost floating on a cushion of air, propelled by a newfound strength that pumped through me like a steam train, relentless and sure.
With my body operating on this thrilling, automatic pilot, my mind was free to wander. Silver’s face appeared in my mind’s eye, not angry or betrayed, but curious, maybe even hopeful. How would it be, seeing her again in the clear light of day? What food should I take? Something bold, something that spoke of intention. Would she truly forgive me? Could we… would she sleep with me, with this new body? The thought was a thrilling, terrifying current.
But the fantasy was shattered as suddenly as it began. My mother’s worried face crashed into the thought, her voice a ghost in my ear: “Now, Nanda, I have spoken to a good friend. She’s told me about someone who can really help you. A specialist.” It was followed instantly by my father’s stern, unyielding glare, his decree echoing in the pound of my feet: “you will listen to her.”
The conflict spurred me on. I poured the confusion, the frustration, the fear of Friday’s appointment into my run. My legs churned faster, eating up the pavement. Before I knew it, I had blasted around the entire block, my lungs burning not with exhaustion, but with a purifying fire. I was moving faster than I had ever run before, even at the peak of my dieball fitness.
As I finally slowed to a walk, my chest heaving, I looked down at my arms, at the cords of muscle standing out in stark relief, veins tracing new roads under skin that felt stretched and alive. I could swear my muscles have never been this defined, this powerful, in any previous Nate cycle. A wild, hopeful thought exploded in my mind, so bright it was almost blinding: Maybe my Trembling has finally come, and I was just too distraught to notice. Maybe this is it. This is me. The hope was so potent it was dizzying, a temporary balm for every wound.