Riri
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Victoria was four when she first had the thought of wanting to be a girl. It was an idle thought, she didn't make much of it, and she was a largely nonverbal child. She told nobody. 

 

At the age of six, her parents demanded she do Sports. Not content to play with a variety of balls, she was signed up for martial arts and gymnastics. She very quickly excelled. 

 

At the age of eight, during a sexual health class at school, she had a panic attack. The other kids postured and laughed. She didn't have the vocabulary to explain that she was, for the first time, experiencing dysphoria. Six months later, she told her mother she wanted to be a girl. After a few months of deliberation, her parents took her to a child psychiatrist who diagnosed her with dysphoria, advised  allowing Victoria the option to use new pronouns and a name, and recommended they start puberty blockers after a few years. 

 

Victoria tried different names, and V came out on top at the age of nine, when she won her first junior martial arts tournament. Her parents were so proud they cried. 

 

She was eleven when she started puberty blockers. It was, despite a life filled with warmth and caring, the best day in it so far. She was ecstatic. She wanted to show her classmates but they didn't understand, and she slowly became an outcast at school. She wanted friends but neither the boys nor the girls considered her one of them. She tried to focus on her academic career and her fitness - and continued to shine at both - but the isolation was extremely difficult for her, since she'd never had many friends before. 

 

She was thirteen when she was diagnosed with depression and started seeing a slew of therapists. Some gave up because she had a swift tongue and talked circles around their attempted methods. Some were frustrated because they felt she didn't want help, which was both true and not. She simply didn't see how talking could help. One day, she met a therapist, a beautiful woman with a shattered spine and the warmest smile, who would be her therapist for the next fifteen years. They mostly sat in her greenhouse and drank tea, sometimes in complete silence. Victoria felt listened to and understood. It would be three years before she understood why. 

 

She was fifteen when she dated a boy from another school. He was cute and rowdy and belligerent. It lasted for three weeks and she broke his nose when he touched her leg. She realised she might not like boys, starting identity crisis 2.0: electric boogaloo. 

 

When she was sixteen her therapist explained to her not just that her own gender but sexuality, too, was on a spectrum, and that there was no wrong place to be on that spectrum so long as you didn't hurt yourself and were happy. She did this while introducing her wife. Victoria cried. Nobody had told her she was allowed to be a girl who likes girls and it was the most important thing she'd ever heard. 

 

When she was seventeen, she dated a girl she met on a field trip. It was nice, but the girl was uncomfortable with Victoria’s body and ended things. Victoria spiralled back into a depression. Her therapist increased their number of appointments. Unbeknownst to V, the sessions were offered to her parents free of charge. More tea in the greenhouse. A lot of crying. 

 

She was nineteen and on HRT. They were kicking her ass in the best way, feeling better about herself than she had in years. Het therapist helped her navigate the medical landscape and an appointment for GRS was made three years down the line. She still didn't have many friends, finding it difficult not to annoy people with what they referred to as incessant questions. 

 

She was nineteen and a half and a sophomore when she first came into contact with something she couldn't explain. She had been dating a girl, Dee, from applied engineering. Things had been going well. Dee, had felt isolated at school and V had felt a kinship. They had been happy together, but Dee had been miserable on her own, and often worked late in the university lab  on her thesis. When Victoria came to surprise her one day, it was late. It was dark, and V would never forget the smell of crisp evening air, the Chinese food in her hands, both mixing with the unmistakable pungent aroma of chemical fire. 

 

When she got to the building, she saw Dee stumble out. She was on fire, no, glowing. Her skin emitting light itself. She turned to V as the light dimmed until she was no longer glowing and then dimmer, standing out darkly from her environment as she seemed to absorb light. After a few seconds she wasn't even darkened, lght bent around her, the only proof she was there two footprints in the snow, a distortion in the air, and two silhouetted eyes. “I'm sorry, Riri,” Dee said before she vanished. Victoria never heard from her again. 

 

More therapy. She dove back into martial arts, top five in her weight class. She gave up gymnastics. Still no real friendships. She found things funny others didn't. Others found things funny that simply seemed offensive to her. She was a Junior when she tried dating again. She and Lizzie had been together for five months when it turned out Liz was a wanted fugitive. She found out because SWAT broke into her dorm looking for her. She never saw her after that night. 

 

More therapy. More martial arts to help her focus. All things considered she was pretty content. 

 

She was a senior when she had surgery. It was the second best day of her life followed by some truly miserable weeks every one of which, pain and fear included, were worth it. She met other trans people online who she could share her experiences with, but found digital connections difficult to maintain. 

 

She was a few weeks from earning her bachelor's degree when she met a wonderful girl on campus she'd never seen before. They  tentatively started dating. Somewhat apprehensive, Victoria took things very slow, which turned out to have been reasonable when the girl came clean, confessing to have died on campus twenty years ago and coming to her because she'd looked exactly like her girlfriend at the time. 

 

While hypothetically okay with the concept of dating a dead person, she drew the line at being someone’s rebound. 

 

She swore off dating for a while and achieved her master's degree with flying colours, putting to pursue a doctorate on a scholarship. Her parents were still proud but curious why she never talked about her relationships. 

 

She was twenty-five when she met Mercy. Mercy was kind and sweet and smart. Mercy made her feel powerful and beautiful. Her self-esteem was through the roof. They dated for two blissful years. When Mercy lost her parents, she left to go back home with her siblings, needing space. Space became a rift. They grew apart but kept in touch. They would occasionally call each other on bad days. 

 

At twenty-eight she spent most of her time on her doctorate, occasionally going clubbing to let off steam. She had a few flings and one night stands, but she was too focused on personal growth and her studies to find much time for others. 

 

At twenty-nine she received a phone call from Mercy. The voice on the other end of the line wasn't Mercy. It was low and husky, but playful and a little dangerous. Victoria was defenceless . 

 

My name is Max. What are you doing tonight?”

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