Autumn is coming. The wind outside is growing colder, it’s raining more. The leaves on the trees are slowly turning orange and yellow and red.

My nipples are starting to hurt. It’s the first thing about me that I actually know is changing. All the other changes have been subtle, they could be explained away, nobody who sees me every day has noticed so far. But this?

It feels surreal. Being reminded every time I accidentally brush my hand against my chest or turn over in bed.

Leon kept his mouth shut in class. Nobody’s looking at me differently, making fun of me, nothing. My self-consciousness still hasn’t gotten better. Feels like it’s only getting worse. Like I’m just waiting for everybody to notice.

I’ve started toying with the thought of just telling them. Maybe then I’ll be able to relax a little. Probably not. Because then they’d look at me. And I’d notice. Constant reminders everywhere.

With a low sigh, I lean my head against the bus window and feel the vibration in my skull as we snake along the coastal street.

Sadie asked me whether I wanted to go with her to the bookshop we found on our first shopping spree to read and spend the day there. I told her I had an appointment. I told Henry the same when he asked to go running or work out and then invite Sadie for movies.

I lied to them both. They can’t know where I’m going. Not when I don’t even know why I’m going there myself.

Don’t let others tell you who to be, the headline had said. And then, in smaller letters below, Learn to love yourself.

I’d stumbled upon it browsing the internet and I’d clicked without even knowing what exactly to expect.

It turned out to be the website of a community for people who’d undergone the changes caused by the virus. In a bigger town only two hours by bus away from me. Meeting times are Saturday 14-16 o’clock with the opportunity for everybody to bring snacks and finger food for mingling afterwards.

And now I’m sitting on the bus headed there. I haven’t brought any snacks. I don’t plan on staying long. Just want to have a look.

Why?

Because I want to see what I’m going to look like by the time the operation comes around?

But that’s a lie. I could just google it. There’s extensive timelines with pictures, describing all of the changes in great detail. I’ve read through several.

Maybe it’s because I want to meet a few people who actually understand what I’m going through. There are chat groups for that, of course, but I guess it’s different in person.

At least I have the date for the OP now. It’s gonna be in the middle of next summer. I’ll have almost completely changed by then, in spite of the medication. I’ll have grown a chest, my face will look completely and definitely feminine, my hips will be wider. My dick’s going to be all shrivelled up and tiny. Only my inner organs will not have changed at that point. Those take a lot longer when you’re still taking the medication, but what does it matter by then? Nobody’s going to look at clearly female me and say, ‘oh, you don’t have a uterus yet, you’re definitely a man’. It doesn’t work that way, not as long as I want to be a man, anyway. If I ever were to change completely and take on that new body, they’d be there instantaneously – well, if they ever found out – telling me how I’m unnatural or some equally moronic bullshit.

Apparently, there are a lot of trans women out there wishing they could get the virus. A lot of them do, eventually. A study has been done on it, people assigned to the male sex at birth, identifying as female, have a chance of the virus going off on them that’s almost double that of everybody else.

And here I am, half the chance and still I have it.

The bus arrives and I get out. There’s a strong wind blowing in my face. The sky is grey, it might rain later. Instinctively, I lower my head and push my shoulders forward a little. Really should’ve brought a jacket.

Or a scarf. My throat is growing cold. Feels like the wind is blowing right through the fabric of my sweater.

It’s not supposed to be that cold yet. There are probably going to be a few warmer days before autumn manages to get a full hold of the world. Summer is still there somewhere. Just not here.

Luckily for me, the building where the meeting’s taking place isn’t far from the bus station. I already sort of memorised the route on the way here, just staring at Google Maps, but I still keep the tab open as I walk there.

It’s a large public building made of red bricks. It looks a little sad from the outside.

The inside is pretty modern, though.

There’s a lobby with a woman sitting behind a counter.

There’s nobody else, though. I’m a few minutes late.

I walk up to the counter. It said on the web page what room the meeting would be taking place in, but I’ve never been in this building. I don’t know where to find a room with a certain number.

“Excu-” my voice cracks. The woman looks up. I blush furiously. “Excuse me, I’m looking for room 1.32. Could you tell me where it is?”

She gives me a friendly smile, turns and points up a set of stairs. “Just up the stairs and to the left, you can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

My face still hot, I make my way up the stairs. I don’t walk quickly, even though I’m already late. I don’t want to arrive with a red face. Coming into a room full of people is going to be awkward enough as is. No need to make it worse.

But by the time I’m at the top of the stairs, a hot face is the least of my problems. My hands are sweaty, my stomach fluttery. There’s an insistent voice in the back of my head, telling me to just turn around and leave. While I still can. Because why would I expose myself to this?

And then I’m in front of the closed double doors. It’s probably one of the larger activity rooms. I’ve seen the pictures. Floor and chairs, paintings on the walls, large windows along the east side.

I ball my hands into fists and try to control my breathing.

Why am I doing this again?

Curiosity. Simple curiosity.

To inform myself.

Another deep breath. One, two, three. In a single, continuos stream, I let the air leave through my mouth, then I open the door.

Voices silence even before I see them.

I steel myself, set my shoulders. Force my fingers into a relaxed position.

And there they are. A whole circle of them. Maybe fifteen people. Not one of them looks like a man.

They’re all looking at me.

I want to run.

But now it’s too late.

“Come in,” one of the… women? says. She has her hair cut rather short and she’s sitting straight but still relaxed. “There are chairs over there.” She points at a stack in a corner.

Gingerly, I close the door behind me and lift one of the chairs off the stack.

I feel their eyes burn my back. Their attention reduces me to a nervous pile of instincts.

They make space for me closest to the door so I don’t have to walk all the way around the circle.

The woman – I decide to just see her as a woman until she tells me otherwise – waits until I’m seated before she starts speaking.

“Hi,” she says then, a smile turning her face friendly. “My name is Zoya, she her. Would you like to tell us your name and preferred pronouns?”

Preferred pronouns. Like they might diverge from what I look like.

I feel uncomfortably hot.

Coming here was a mistake.

But there’s no backing out now.

“Wells,” I say finally, looking briefly around. They’re all so pretty. Different kinds of pretty, sure, but definitely all pretty. I try to swallow the dry lump in my throat. It doesn’t work. “Wells Richter. He him.”

“Hello Wells,” they all say in unison. Like this is actually a self-help group. Some of them say it with a grin that suggests they’re very much aware of this.

“Now, Wells, would you like to tell us why you’re here?”

I feel my face burn under the continued attention of everyone present. I manage a timid shrug. “I have the virus and I just… wanted to see, I guess?” I look around. “Is this community just for people who’ve already transitioned?”

Zoya shakes her head seriously. Professionally. “No, it’s for everybody that has the virus. But most people who don’t like what’s happening to them don’t have much of an interest in this kinda thing.” Seeing my expression, she quickly adds, “And if they’re curious, like you are, they’re probably not courageous enough to come and ask questions.” She shrugs. “Even though that’s at least one of the reasons why we’re here.”

She pauses, briefly looks around before switching gears. “So, I assume you’ll prefer to just watch for now and maybe ask questions later when not everybody’s watching and listening in.”

I nod slightly, my face still hot.

“Alright, then we should proceed with the session now.”

And so they do. They tell stories, anecdotes, talk about their daily struggles living as the people they are. Not one of them still identifies as male.

Their problems are surprisingly mundane. Romance, self-perception, becoming the person they want to be…. Whenever one of them finishes speaking, there are words of encouragement, several more or less elaborate pieces of advice. A lot of them seem to be going through similar struggles.

Only a single person has actually faced discrimination in the last week. They all deal with misogyny but apparently, nobody in their social environment is giving them shit for having transformed because of the virus.

There’s so much positivity. They laugh and touch each other casually, like they’re all friends. They talk about fashion and make-up and give each other advice for styling their hair.

It makes me sick. And the weird part is that I don’t even get why.

I sit there and I listen to them and I know I should be happy for them. Or at least I shouldn’t care.

But instead, it makes me feel hollow. Like their words are steadily carving out a space in my chest and no matter how much I try not to care, it doesn’t close back up.

All I keep thinking is that I had half the chance they had to acquire the virus, even if not all of them knew right from the beginning that they were going to transition.

Half the chance.

I wish I could enjoy it like they so obviously do. I wish I could at least live with it.

I wish it were that easy.

At one point, as the others are having an animated discussion about heels and cobblestone, the girl sitting to my right – Luna, she calls herself – turns abruptly and asks me in a very low voice if I’m feeling alright.

She has gorgeous chestnut hair framing her face in gentle waves. Her face is somewhat narrow and her nose is pointy. Her eyes are of a light hazel. She’s a bit older than me, early twenties, I think.

For a moment I just stare at her before realising that I need to react in some way. Then I nod quickly.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” And I wipe my hands on my jeans to get the sweaty feeling off them.

She doesn’t look like she believes me but doesn’t press the matter.

From that point onwards, I concentrate on maintaining the facade. I watch attentively, look at whoever’s speaking, force a little laugh whenever it seems appropriate.

I want to leave.

Half the chance, my brain repeats again and again until I feel dizzy.

Then the session ends and Zoya turns toward me and asks, “Do you have any questions now, Wells?”

And I hear myself say, “No, thanks.”

She nods. “Then I guess it’s time for snacks now. Mary, could you help me get a table from next door?”

She leaves with another woman.

Everybody else gets up to tidy up the chairs and get out whatever snacks they brought.

I put my chair back on the stack, then stand in the corner for a moment, feeling a little lost. I consider staying a little longer but then think better of it.

Decisively, I turn to leave.

A voice stops me.

“Wells!”

I turn and see Luna hurriedly come over.

She’s not going to make me stay, is she? Make me talk?

She stops before me a little awkwardly.

“I would like to ask you to do something if that’s alright,” she says, blushing a little.

I eye her suspiciously. “And that would be?”

“Please save my number on your phone. So that… you know, if you ever need to talk… about… you know-” The blush deepens.

I shrug, too relieved to feel the awkwardness. “Okay.”

Her face is lit up by a dazzling smile.

My stomach turns.

I hand her my phone and she quickly enters her number before pressing save and showing it to me. Luna Montierrez. And as a little side note: from the community meeting, if you have any questions about the virus, are curious about my experience or just want to talk, please call or text me ^^.

I say thank you and put my phone away.

I don’t think I’ll ever call her.

I know I should appreciate the gesture but it makes me feel nauseous.

I leave the building. The autumn wind hits me the moment I step outside but I don’t hide inside the bus stop.

I don’t even turn away from the wind.

SeptemberMorgan

I had sooo much fun writing the atmosphere for this chapter, I hope you liked it!
In case you haven't noticed yet, I'm currently playing around with the updating schedule a little, mainly to see if the story will get better views on different days, which, at least for TGST, seems to be the case (or should be the case, anyway, I'll see if the numbers stabilise over the next week). As of now, I'm planning to maintain an updating rhythm of Thursday/Sunday.
See you next week!