Chapter 20 Chapter 19: Lost
The professor’s car had barely pulled away from the curb before the crushing weight of it all descended upon me. The clinical, problem-solving atmosphere of the living room had seeped into my bones, and now the practical, humiliating consequences began to crystallize. My old clothes, the ones from yesterday, were a lie. They hung wrong, cut for a shape that no longer existed, a ghost of a self I had apparently shed overnight. A hot wave of self-consciousness washed over me. I need to buy new clothes, the thought screamed in my head, a frantic and expensive to-do list forming. A new bra at the very least my breast were at least two sizes bigger than they have ever been. The necessity of it felt like a violation, a public admission of this private, bewildering change.
The list grew, each item a heavier link in a chain. I also have to ring my work to take Monday off… What would I even say? ‘Sorry, can’t make it, my entire biological identity has shifted, and I have a doctor’s appointment to discuss the fact that my body is a medical anomaly?’ Shit. The word was a bitter taste in my mouth. And that wasn't all… The dinner. The memory of it was a fresh wave of dread. I need clothes for the dinner date with Dr. Norton and Lord Vincent. The thought of navigating their sharp, discerning eyes in some ill-fitting, borrowed outfit was unbearable. I needed armour. I needed a disguise.
Most of all, I needed to get out of this house. The walls themselves seemed to be pressing in, saturated with my parents’ anxious, suffocating energy, their whispers, their confused stares, their desperate need to fix me. I couldn’t breathe.
Moving on pure instinct, I fled to my room. I yanked open drawers and my wardrobe, pushing past fabrics that now felt like costumes from another person’s life. I found the best-fitting clothes I could, a stretchy top and a pair of old running shorts that were forgiving, neutral territory. They wouldn’t do for long, but they would do for now.
Without a word to anyone, I laced up my trainers and headed out for a run. I didn’t need a destination. I just needed the burn in my lungs and the hammering of my heart to drown out the noise in my head. I needed air that wasn’t thick with the smell of bro-she and disappointment. I needed time, and space, and the rhythm of my own feet on the pavement to somehow, somehow, help me think.
I concentrated on the raw mechanics of my body, trying to find a rhythm that would silence the chaos in my head. Inhale. Exhale. The sound of my own heart was a drumbeat in my ears, a primal sound I tried to sync with, trying to clear my mind of everything else, the professor’s clinical gaze, my parents’ frantic whispers, the bewildering reality of my own skin.
My strides became longer, more powerful. It felt less like running and more like flying, my feet barely touching the pavement. The world became a blur of colour and sound rushing past me, a streak of green hedges and grey asphalt. Before I knew it, I had blown past the end of our block and kept going. This new body: my more evolved Polli form, possessed a terrifying, innate grace. It had all the raw speed and power of my Nate counterpart, if not more, but it was smoother, more efficient. I was a machine, eating the miles away, devouring distance in a desperate attempt to outrun my own reality. I ran and ran until my lungs screamed and my legs turned to lead, until I could run no more.
I finally stopped, doubling over with my hands on my knees, gulping in great ragged breaths. I was a long way from home. The houses were unfamiliar here. Turning around, I started the slow, weary work of heading back, stretching my aching muscles when I could. The movement sent a sharp, raw pain across my chest. My breasts felt chafed and sore, abraded by the rough fabric of my T-shirt with no bra to contain or protect them. The physical discomfort was a constant, humiliating reminder.
And then, Silver’s smiling laugh came back to me, a ghostly echo from a simpler time just yesterday. “I don’t think I have a bra that can bag those puppies.” The memory was a double-edged sword, a moment of intimacy that now felt like a cruel joke. I thought about the deal we’d made to meet at her work tonight. The thought was a tangle of longing and dread. I didn’t know if seeing her familiar face would be a lifeline or just another layer of confusion in this impossible, tangled mess.
With my breath finally back, but a desperate need to forget everything in my head again, I pushed off, falling back into a jog. The motion was a distraction, a punishment, a prayer. Before long, the jog escalated. The turmoil inside me needed an outlet, and my body answered, burning through the fatigue. I was running again, fast and hard, like a bullet fired from a gun, trying to shatter the air around me.
A porty, loud and garish, rumbled past me. Its open cabin filled with young Nates. Their voices cut through my focus, sharp and lewd. “Hey babe…Nice rack!” The words hit me like a physical blow. The T-shirt I was wearing, once loose, now did nothing to hide the new, swollen curve of my breasts. I tried to ignore them, to keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, to not show that I had heard them, to not give them the satisfaction. I forced my face into a mask of blank indifference until their porty drove out of sight.
But the moment they were gone, the dam broke. The feelings I’d been outrunning finally engulfed me. A sob wrenched itself from my chest, so sudden and violent it stole my breath. Tears I never knew I had, came washing down my face, hot and relentless. I was a shivering wreck, standing alone on the sidewalk as the world moved indifferently around me. I stood there, utterly broken, just wanting it all to go away, the changes, the stares, the confusion, the shame. I could take no more.
I ducked into the first haven I saw, a little Leaf café bar, not knowing what else to do but escape the exposed vulnerability of the street. The door sighed shut behind me, muting the city's noise and wrapping me in a cocoon of warm, fragrant air that smelled of steeped herbs, steamed milk, and old paper.
The café was small and intimate, curated with a kind of trendy, thoughtful chaos. It was a place of mix-matched, reused furniture, a scarred wooden table here, a patched leather stool there. Poems and quotes were handwritten on elegant cards and framed prints, lining the walls between antic paintings of forgotten landscapes and botanical sketches. It felt like the personal library of a kindly, slightly eccentric scholar.
Thankfully, it was almost empty, the quiet hour between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. The stillness was a haven. I needed to hide, to be unseen. I chose a small table tucked into a corner, shielded by a towering bookshelf. It was paired with a large, worn, soft armchair that seemed to promise absorption. I sank into its embrace, the upholstery giving a soft sigh as it accepted my weight. The position offered a good view over the street through the large window, allowing me to watch the world without being a part of it, a silent observer safely behind glass. I could finally breathe, hidden away in my quiet corner, with only the ghosts of poets on the walls for company.
I took up the dog-eared cardboard menu card, its edges soft and rounded from countless hands, and pretended to browse through its offerings. The words, "Steamed Mylk," "Spiced Chai," "Nec-tar Leaf", swam before my eyes, meaningless. I was just creating a prop, a shield to hide behind, something to do with my hands to stop them from shaking.
Before long, a shadow fell over my table. A young, sweet-looking waitress was stood over me, her expression a careful blend of professional kindness and mild concern. A badge pinned to her simple linen dress read: “Chase.” I could see she was uncomfortable, her gaze flicking from my eyes to the menu and back again, unsure where to land. I guess my tear-stained, blotchy face was obvious, a map of my recent breakdown displayed for any stranger to read.
“Hi,” she said, her voice soft, trying not to startle me. “What can I get you?”
I fumbled with the menu card, my fingers feeling thick and clumsy. “Um, just a Nec-tar leaf, please.” My voice came out hoarse, cracked from crying and running.
She gave a quick, relieved nod, as if glad the interaction was simpler than she’d feared, and rushed away, leaving me with nothing but the view of the window and the roaring silence of my own thoughts. I tried to focus on the world outside, people rushing, portys gliding past, but my gaze kept drifting, pulled to the poems and quotes that lined the wall, a curated gallery of other people’s thoughts.
My eyes snagged on one, written in a fierce, slashing script: "Come to my Polli´s breasts, And take my mylk for gall, you murdering ministers." The raw, violent femininity of it, the invocation of a body part that was currently a source of such acute pain and alienation, struck me like a physical blow. It felt like an accusation.
Right next to it, in a calm, elegant font, another quote read: "Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony."
The irony of the two quotes side-by-side was so perfect, so brutally cosmic, that it broke the fragile dam I’d built inside. A wet, choked sound escaped me. My thoughts were a screaming chaos, my words were a fumbled order for tea, and my actions were to flee and hide in a café. There was no harmony. There was only a devastating, irreconcilable mess like me...
The tears came again, silent this time but no less violent. I bowed my head, shoulders trembling, utterly lost. By the time Chase, my waitress, had returned with the simple cup of steaming Leaf, I was a bumbling mess, unable to even look up, my hands clenched in my lap as I cried silently.
“Are you O.K.?” Her voice was gentle, hesitant. I couldn’t look up, but I could feel her lingering presence. She’d seen my shaking shoulders, heard the ragged catch in my breath. “We all get like that with the change to Polli,” she offered, her tone a mixture of sympathy and awkward reassurance. “It’s just hormones.” I could feel her eyes on my ill-fitting clothes, the Nate-cut T-shirt that strained in all the wrong places, taking in the whole pathetic picture of my transition. Her well-meaning words, meant to normalize my pain, only made me feel more like a statistic, a textbook case. My silent tears turned into proper, shoulder-shaking sobs I could no longer contain.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I managed to choke out, the lie tasting bitter. I swiped roughly at my cheeks, forcing my head up to give her a watery, utterly unconvincing smile. “Like you said, just hormones. I will be fine in a minute.”
She left, looking relieved to be free of the emotional mess at her table. The kindness in her attempt stung almost as much as the cruelty from the Nates in the porty. I was a problem to be managed, a hormonal episode waiting to pass.
I couldn’t just sit here and cry all day. The self-pity was starting to curdle into a restless, desperate energy. I needed to do something, anything. I needed a friend, a real one, but my mind drew a terrifying blank. Who could possibly understand this?
Then, a face sprang into my mind. Joel. Blunt, irreverent, fiercely loyal Joel. He wouldn’t spout platitudes about hormones. He’d probably make some wildly inappropriate joke that would, against all odds, actually make me feel human again.
With trembling fingers, I took out my com, the screen blurry through my tears. I navigated to his name and dialled his number. It rang twice.
“What’s up?” His voice was the same as always instantly familiar even as a Nate, like an anchor in a churning sea.
A fresh wave of emotion hit me at the sound. “I need help,” I whispered, the words cracking. “Can you come? I just… I need a friend.”
“Where are you?” No hesitation, no questions. Just immediate, practical readiness.
“A café bar. ‘The Green Leaf.’ Just round the corner from my place.”
“Give me 15 minutes and I’ll be there.” The line went dead.
Joel. So practical. So annoyingly, reliably helpful. But who else would I have called? And as I clutched my com, the first faint glimmer of something other than despair began to pierce the fog.