The Wrong Reflection

I lock the bathroom door,

twist it tight so no one can come in.

Steam covers the mirror,

and for a second,

I don’t see myself.

For a second,

I can pretend.

But then my hand wipes it clear,

and there it is again—

that face.

Sharp jaw, wide nose,

eyes that look like mine

but sit on a stranger’s face.

Shoulders too big.

A chest that’s still flat,

but soon, it won’t be.

I can feel it already,

waiting to change,

to pull me further away

from the person I am.

The shower water stings my skin.

I stand under it,

press my arms tight to my sides,

like I can hold myself together—

like I can stop it,

turn it back.

The water runs down my skin,

but it doesn’t wash anything away.

I close my eyes

and picture her:

the girl inside.

She’s smiling,

her hair brushing her shoulders,

her voice soft like a song.

At school,

I keep my head down.

The boys laugh loud,

shoving each other in the hall,

their voices cracking,

their faces changing.

I know mine will too.

I don’t want it to.

I don’t want to be them.

The girls sit together,

braiding each other’s hair,

their laughter like music.

I want to sit with them.

I want to belong with them.

But I stay in the middle,

floating between,

not one,

not the other.

Not anything.

In class,

the teacher calls my name.

I answer,

and my voice sounds wrong.

Too low.

Too sharp.

The other kids glance back,

their eyes like spotlights,

and I feel like I’m shrinking

right there in my chair.

At home,

I try to tell my mom.

I sit next to her on the couch,

my hands shaking in my lap.

I almost say it—

“I’m not your son. I’m your daughter.”

But the words stay trapped,

like a stone in my throat.

What if she doesn’t understand?

What if she cries?

What if she looks at me

and doesn’t see me anymore?

I want her to hug me,

to say it’s okay,

but what if she doesn’t?

What if she says no?

Dad is watching TV.

His voice carries through the house,

sharp and laughing.

He talks about how boys

should be strong,

shouldn’t cry,

should “toughen up.”

I turn away before he sees my face.

Sometimes I hear things on the news,

read things online.

People fighting,

arguing over kids like me.

Saying we’re confused,

that we’re wrong,

that we shouldn’t exist.

They don’t know me,

but they act like they do.

And their voices

are louder than mine.

At night,

when it’s quiet,

I picture her.

The girl in my dreams.

She has my eyes,

but they’re brighter.

She has my smile,

but it’s freer.

She’s wearing a dress

that sways when she spins,

and she laughs like the world

can’t hurt her anymore.

She whispers to me,

“Keep going.

I’m here.

We’ll find each other someday.”

Sometimes,

I catch glimmers of hope.

The teacher who gives me a soft smile

when no one else is looking.

The kid in the corner of the cafeteria,

quiet like me,

with a pride pin on their backpack.

The video I saw of a girl like me,

finally happy,

finally free.

And I think,

maybe I’m not alone.

The mirror still lies.

The world still feels heavy.

But one day,

the water will clear.

One day,

the mirror will tell the truth.

One day,

kids like me

won’t have to fight

just to exist.

We’ll walk into the world

as ourselves—

not afraid,

not alone.

And until then,

I’ll hold on to her voice.

The girl I am inside.

She’s waiting for me.

And no matter how long it takes,

I’ll find her.

I’ll find me.