"No, I'm not."
It came out before I could even think about it. Not loud, not angry. Just instinct. Like my mouth moved faster than my brain and I couldn't stop it in time.
Dr. Serrano blinked, slow and calm. "I understand this is overwhelming…"
"No. You don't." I shook my head. "I'm not—I mean, I'm a guy. I'm just a high school guy. This... there's no way. You've got something wrong."
My chest felt tight. My hands had curled up without me noticing, fingers digging into my palms like I was getting ready to swing even though no one had raised their voice.
My mom sat beside me and shifted a little, but she didn't say anything. Not yet.
Dr. Serrano kept her voice even, like she had practiced saying this kind of thing without making it sound like anything at all. "In rare cases, puberty can start later than expected. Especially when early development doesn't match what was assumed at birth. What we're seeing in your hormone levels… it fits what we'd expect in a late-onset female puberty."
I blinked hard. "That's not possible."
"It is," she said. "It's not common, but it happens. You've developed certain internal traits we didn't know about, and your body is starting to respond to them."
She picked up her tablet again, glanced at it, but didn't turn it around.
That's when my mom finally spoke. Her voice was quiet and flat. "They told me when he was born that it wouldn't matter. That it might never show up. Not unless something changed."
She still said he. I don't know why that was the part that hurt the most, but it was.
"You didn't think I should know?" I looked over at her. "You just figured I'd deal with it when it exploded in my face?"
She didn't look back. Her eyes stayed fixed on her hands, and I could see the tension in her knuckles like she was trying to hold something in.
The room felt smaller after that.
Dr. Serrano cleared her throat gently and opened a drawer in her desk. She pulled out a plastic folder with a cheap clip holding a few sheets together. The kind of folder you use for homework packets or end-of-semester reports.
She set it down in front of us and opened it to two pages.
"There are options," she said.
"If you want to maintain your current testosterone levels and keep your physical structure where it is, we can start treatment. It'll take regular appointments, some blood tests, minor adjustments along the way, but it's manageable."
I didn't move. Didn't touch the paper.
"And if I don't?" I asked.
She didn't hesitate. "Then your body will continue along the path it's already begun. The changes you've been feeling will likely continue, and over time, they'll become more pronounced. It's not something you'd have to choose. It's already happening."
My throat felt tight. I tried to breathe, but it didn't come easy.
"There would be additional steps we'd talk about later," she added, softer now. "If you chose to align with that direction."
She didn't explain what that meant, and I didn't ask. I already knew it was more than just pills.
"We're not asking you to decide anything today," she said. "We just want you to understand what's going on."
My mom reached out and pulled the folder toward her. She slid the papers back inside without saying anything. Her eyes still hadn't met mine.
"There's a prescription," Dr. Serrano said. "It won't change anything, but it'll help with the pain. Might make it easier to sleep."
I didn't say a word. I just sat there.
The ride home felt longer than it should've. The car was warm in the wrong way, and outside, the sky was stuck in that lifeless gray that never decided if it wanted to rain or not. My mom didn't turn on the radio. Didn't even glance over.
The folder stayed in my lap. I never opened it.
When we got home, I went straight upstairs. Shut the door. Locked it. I still had my shoes on. I didn't care.
I heard her through the floor not long after. Her voice was muffled, but I could still catch enough of it to know who she was talking to.
"Yes… he's home. No, it's not a mistake. The doctor said it could go either way. I don't know. He hasn't said anything."
He. He. He.
She kept saying it like it was some kind of spell. Like if she repeated it enough, it would still be true.
I didn't believe it either. Not yet.
I sat on my bed and stared at the wall. I don't know how long I sat there. My mind wouldn't settle. Nothing felt real.
About an hour later, she knocked once, then came in without waiting. She was holding a pill bottle and a glass of water.
"Take one now," she said. "Just in case it gets worse again."
I took it. Didn't thank her. Didn't say anything.
She lingered in the doorway like she was thinking about saying something, but her mouth never opened. A second later, she turned to leave.
"You'll be out of school for a few days," she said, almost like an afterthought. "We'll figure the rest out later."
The door clicked shut behind her.
I was still holding the glass. After a while, I set it down on my desk and picked up my phone.
Kyra's name was still at the top of my messages. Nothing new. Nothing unread.
I tapped her name and started to type.
Can we talk?
Deleted it.
Hey.
Deleted that too.
I stared at the blinking cursor until it stopped blinking.
Then I locked the screen and dropped the phone beside me.
The folder was still sitting nearby. I picked it up.
It felt stupid in my hands. Like a report card or something you were supposed to take home and sign.
I opened it anyway.
Two pages. One labeled "Testosterone Therapy." The other didn't have a title. Just charts, medication lists, dosages.
The testosterone sheet went over muscle mass, facial hair, voice, and the possibility of keeping those things. It talked about stabilization, lab work, the length of time to expect changes. But it didn't say anything about what it would actually feel like.
The second page was colder. It had a list of estrogen options. Blockers. Physical changes. Timeline estimates. Notes about skin texture and fat distribution. Somewhere near the bottom, in light gray text:
Additional procedures may be considered in later stages depending on developmental circumstances.
I didn't need her to say it. I already knew what that line was talking about.
I let the folder rest open across my lap and leaned back against the wall.
My whole body still ached. Not sharply. Just this slow, dragging pull like everything inside me was shifting and I wasn't allowed to stop it.
I pulled the blanket over myself and turned toward the wall.
I'm not built for this. I'm not ready. I don't even know what I am anymore.
I didn't cry right away.
But eventually, the pressure behind my eyes wouldn't let go. My chest felt too tight. My face was wet before I even realized the tears had started.
No sobbing. No sounds. Just slow, quiet crying that soaked into the pillow while I stared into nothing and hoped it would all stop on its own.
The folder slid off my lap and hit the floor.
I didn't reach for it.