The boy knew it was going to be an alright day when he woke up, and found that his shelter had been untouched. He put his hair up in a bun—it had grown unhindered over the years, not that he had minded much—and shaved his face as best he could without access to a mirror (he’d tried using a stolen camcorder once, but those also didn’t work on him). A good thing about not needing to pay for things was that at least he had access to excellent razors and shaving cream. And infinite hair ties, which was useful since he lost at least three or four a week.

Libraries were one of the only places of solace the boy had. They were naturally quiet, always the perfect temperature, and gave him a chance to live vicariously through someone else. He always stole a small breakfast on his way, and made sure to finish it before entering the building (even if nobody could see him, he wasn’t going to ruin those books with gross, greasy hands). Once he was in, he greeted the woman manning the front desk (to no response), and headed to his favorite section of the library.

There was a corner of the library filled to the brim with fiction books for teenagers and young adults, created to try getting visitors around that age to read more. It had worked on him (though that was probably more due to the fact that reading was one of the least depressing activities he could still do), and he spent as much time as he could browsing the shelves for book after book. He never sullied the sacred place by staying overnight, or taking a book with him, but did spend every minute he could there, escaping through the eyes of the books’ protagonists.

This time, though, the corner had a strange new addition: LGBTQ+ themed fiction. It was a spot all on its own, and the boy recognized almost none of the books that were being displayed. He didn’t hesitate to examine the books on display; more stories to lose himself in were always a treat. 

He started with one about a boy in high school who had a crush on a football player. He was a boy, and when people still thought he existed he had, once, had a crush on another boy. That should have been the most relatable story presented for him.

Except it wasn’t. He couldn’t bring himself into the mindset of the main character, no matter how hard he tried. He’d had trouble losing himself in stories about other guys before, and unfortunately it seemed this one was no different. After about forty pages, the boy put the book down, and moved on to the next one.

It was… slightly easier to read his next choice, about a lesbian couple fighting their schools so that they could take each other to their school’s proms However, the heavy focus on relationship drama took him out of it, and that wasn’t helped by the fact that it seemed almost like the universe was constantly punishing the main couple for being gay. He managed to finish it, at least, and the ending was nice enough. The couple managed to attend one of their schools’ proms, and they seemed happy. 

The last book the boy decided to read, before completely giving up on the section, was confusing. The main character, according to the synopsis, was a girl everyone thought was a boy, despite her constant declarations that she was actually a girl. It, like the lesbian book, also felt like the universe was punishing the main character. Except, this time, the boy wasn’t taken out of the story as a result. If anything, he only found himself more absorbed by the story, more pulled into the main character’s experiences.

When she talked about how much it hurt to cut her hair, or how growing into a man made her wish she could just disappear, the boy dropped the book on the ground in terror. He looked around frantically, trying to find where the person behind the prank was, to no avail. That book had no right to so closely define his experiences, and it didn’t make sense that it did.

The only difference was that the main character was a girl, and knew it, and he was stuck as a boy. Nothing would change that, could change that, even if he wanted it to. 

After taking a series of deep breaths, he picked the book back up, thankful that his outburst hadn’t seemed to do any damage to it. The book had done nothing wrong, even if it was terrifyingly relatable. 

When the main character finally got through to her family, and they began helping her transition (which, as the book helpfully explained, was the process of changing aspects of her life to match the gender she was, rather than the one everyone thought she was), the boy was overcome with envy. He wanted that. He wished he could be like her, be able to just tell the world that she was a girl and finally be happy as herself.

Himself. Happy as himself. The girl boy felt himself hyperventilating as a sense of utter rightness had filled him only to immediately be ripped away, replaced by the same feelings of despair he had always felt. 

But she knew why.

She knew why, but she didn’t understand because it didn’t make sense because she was (supposed to be) a boy. Referring to herself as herself wasn’t supposed to make her heart flutter, it wasn’t supposed to make her shoulders feel lighter, and it wasn’t supposed to be so hard to stop. She needed to stop, and soon, before it was too late. Before something in her heart irreversibly changed, and she could never go back to the safety of ignorance.

The girl ignored the feeling of something wet and unfamiliar on her face as more intrusive thoughts flooded her mind. She had opened a Pandora’s Box of untold joy, and she couldn’t seal it. She wanted to be a girl, like the main characters of all of her favorite stories. She wished to be seen by everyone as herself, as a girl. 

And who would stop her? She would do whatever it took to get a body of her own, that felt like hers, even if she could never see the end result in a mirror. It would be worth it, it had to be. Sure, she would never hug her family again, and sure she would never hear anyone call her a girl, but it was something.

“Excuse me, miss?” The girl ignored the woman’s voice coming from behind her. Obviously she was talking to another person who the girl must not have seen arrive at her little corner. 

“Miss?” the woman repeated, much more forcefully. Once again, the girl ignored her. There was no point in bothering to react; it never meant anything.

And then, for the first time in three years, the girl felt someone’s touch.

The girl froze at the feeling of someone else’s hand on her shoulder, intentionally. Her breathing, which had never really slowed down in the first place, only picked up speed further. Without turning around, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you… Are you talking to me?” Hope was laced in her voice, which sounded and felt so hoarse from disuse that it burned. 

“Of course I am, dear. Can you turn around for me?” the woman asked calmly, completely oblivious to the true gravity of the situation. Her calm demeanor was almost infectious. 

Reluctantly, the girl turned to face the woman, though everything was too blurry for some reason. No, not some reason, a very good reason, but the girl still didn’t want to think about something uncomfortable like that. Instead, she cursed herself for choosing to wear pajamas to the library. Not that she had many other outfits on hand, but she still felt silly when compared to anyone else.

Before she knew it, the woman was dabbing a tissue on the girl’s face, clearing away the tears that the girl still didn’t want to acknowledge. “There we go. Pretty as a peach, at least once we can get a washcloth for the dirt. What’s your name, dear? What brought you here?” 

Whatever headway the girl had made towards calming down vanished the moment the woman asked those questions. She panicked, frantically looking for anything to come to mind. The obvious choice was off the table; she couldn’t say the name her family had once used for her, so she thought of anything else. 

“Helena,” the girl blurted, more quickly than her own brain could process. Could she seriously not do better than a fantasy character she liked reading about? What an idiot she was.

Except it didn’t exactly sound wrong to the girl. To Helena. If anything, it sounded nice, causing her stomach to feel like a gathering of butterflies. She just had to hope that the woman didn’t correct her, or demand a ‘real’ name that matched the body Helena was cursed to inhabit. 

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” The woman smiled, relieving Helena’s worries and filling her with even more butterflies in one fell swoop. Even if she didn’t mean it, it still meant the world to Helena. “I’m Agatha, I handle the books behind the counter. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Helena.” 

Helena couldn’t hide the growing smile on her face. She had only just figured out she was a girl and already she was met with constant affirmation of who she was, by a complete stranger no less. 

“Thank you. I think. I’m sorry, I don’t talk to people a lot,” Helena explained as the conversation went on, feeling more awkward with each passing second. She wanted this talk to last forever, wanted to be near the first person to recognize her in years, but she also had no idea how to talk to people. She was scared enough of accidentally making Agatha think she wasn’t really a girl; she didn’t exactly have the brain power to have a full conversation.

But Agatha didn’t seem to mind Helena’s awkwardness, and moved on without a second thought. “That’s fine, Helena dear. I’m a librarian, I know a thing or two about struggling to talk to people. Tell you what, let me go get you a washcloth and we’ll clean some of that dirt off of you.”

Helena reluctantly nodded, torn between not wanting the conversation to end and not wanting to push Agatha away by acting too strange. She knew where the bathroom was (it was, luckily, a single gender-neutral room), and quickly made her way to the sink to at least get a head start on the dirt and grime all over her.

But of course there was a mirror. 

Helena slowly approached the mirror, so terrified of seeing a reflection of how much more wrong her face had become over the three years since she’d last seen it. Was it really worth finally having someone recognize her existence? Yes, of course, obviously, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t incredibly difficult at the best of times.

But when she stood in front of the mirror, a different sort of emotion overcame her.

Because standing in her reflection was a girl. A girl with filthy, greasy brown hair, and a face covered in dirt, but a girl nonetheless. There was no hint of facial hair, and as Helena rubbed her chin with her hands it felt more smooth than it had in years. It was no wonder Agatha saw her as a girl; she looked like one. Her face was somehow softer-looking, and upon further inspection the rest of her seemed to match. She even had boobs! Small ones, much smaller than she would have liked, but they were there! 

There was still one major part of her that was unchanged, but that wasn’t important. She could ignore it for the time being, and focus entirely on the nonstop train of euphoria that filled her. She was herself! In the mirror! Just an hour ago she didn’t even know she could be a girl, and already she somehow had managed to make her body begin to match. She didn’t know how, but maybe that wasn’t important. Not yet, at least. As long as it didn’t undo itself like her invisibility curse.

A knock at the door distracted Helena from her self inspection, and she quickly moved to unlock it (she shouldn’t have locked the door, but it was a habit ingrained into her). Agatha made her way inside, and was polite enough not to ask why Helena suddenly looked as though she was barely holding back giddy laughter. 

“Alright, just stand still while I handle this, okay?” Agatha quickly drenched the washcloth in hot water before turning to face Helena. A simple confirmatory nod was all that was needed before Agatha got to work, roughly scrubbing away at each and every millimeter of dirt on Helena’s face.

The girl wouldn’t lie, it hurt. She felt at times like the librarian was actively trying to scrub off her skin. It took several long minutes before Agatha squinted at Helena’s face and nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good. You look good as new.” 

Helena didn’t hide her excitement as she looked back into the mirror, and saw her now-clean face looking back at her. Sure her teeth looked a bit crooked, and her hair was still a mess, but Helena couldn’t help but easily smile at the girl looking back at her in the mirror. It was her! 

“Thank you so much, Agatha,” Helena eventually said, after realizing she might have spent too long staring at her own face. Still, that feeling of awkwardness couldn’t put a damper on the girl’s mood. She felt too good for such a little thing to ruin it.

And then a few sentences managed to screw things up just fine. “Of course, dear. Now, I hate to ask this because I’m sure it won’t be pleasant, but can you tell me why you aren’t in school? Where are your parents?”

A stricken look hit Helena’s face. Her parents. Did they remember her? If they did, would they remember her as Helena or as someone else? Would they believe her if she told them she was their daughter? They seemed positive towards gay people as she recalled, but did that also apply to her? 

“I… I left home. A long time ago,” Helena admitted before she could stop herself. Why didn’t she just lie? What would the truth bring her, really? 

“Ah, good. So did I. Though you must’ve been just a girl. You still are, really. Can you tell me why you left?” The old woman had no judgement in her eyes as she stared down at Helena. The girl almost wanted to spill everything in response.

So she did. With tears in her eyes, Helena told Agatha everything. The story of when her parents stopped noticing her, her years of isolation, wondering when she would just disappear without anyone ever remembering she existed. She told the woman about the book, about realizing who she was, about frantically picking a name as she realized that she was being noticed again. She cried and held onto Agatha and apologized for soaking her dress with tears and cried some more. 

And, despite everything, Agatha nodded in what seemed like understanding. “It’s okay, dear, it’s okay. You were so, so strong to make it this far, and stronger still to trust a stranger. How about we go sit down, and I find a way to get you home. I’m sure your parents miss their daughter.”

“How? They never even knew they had one! I only just—”

“Hush, now. None of that. I promise, Helena, you’ll have a home by the end of the night. Okay? But if those two brought up such a wonderful, strong young woman, I’m sure they’ll be amazing. Do you have a phone number for me to call?”

It took time for Helena to remember the correct number to her mom’s cell phone, if it hadn’t changed. It’d been years since she had last needed it, after all. Agatha didn’t seem to mind the wait, and as soon as Helena provided the phone number the old woman was off, probably to make the call in private just in case it went in a negative direction. 

And so it became a waiting game. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, then twenty, before Agatha finally returned to the room. “Alright, dear. I don’t know how prepared you’d be able to be, but I just got off the phone with your mother. She’s picking up your father from work, then she’ll be here. I didn’t explain too much, but I didn’t need to.”

Helena nodded, and gave the third hug she’d given in three years to the old librarian. “I can’t ever thank you enough. You’re the best woman I’ve ever met.”

“For doing what? Checking in on a crying girl? It’s the least I can do.” Agatha smiled, in a way that reminded Helena of fresh baked cookies, and summer resting, and all of the things good grandmothers were so known for. 

Agatha eventually left Helena to wait all on her own; the old woman did have work to do. When left all to her lonesome, Helena did her best not to worry too much about every possible wrong thing that could happen to cause everything to go wrong. 

She spent so much time worrying, in fact, that it felt like it took no time at all before two agonizingly familiar figures entered the normally quiet building. 

Recognition reached all three of their faces at once, and in under a second Helena was wrapped in an embrace so tight that she could barely let out what she had to say next:

“Mom, Dad, I… I’m your daughter.”

A kiss on the forehead from her mom was the first answer, and Helena couldn’t keep herself from crying when her dad spoke up: 

“And what’s our daughter’s name?”