Chapter Gap

“God, I hate it here.”

Yeah, I got to wear pants.

Or, according to my mom, I was “tolerated” enough to pull off such shameful actions.

But school says otherwise.

I’m the first transgender student in the whole campus.

Four thousand students.

First one now.

First one in history.

Honestly, I find it hard to believe.

My new class feels huge… and somehow small at the same time.

They’re older.

Some my age.

All of them childish.

Even though I look like a toddler among them, it’s clear — I’m the weirdo.

One of those.

I don’t care.

We’re not even in the same layer of existence.

They’re the normal ones.

And I’m… something else.

So far, I’ve carved out my own space — a single tea table everyone calls the “special needs ahh seat.”

Because, yeah, it’s that table.

The one shoved beside the teacher’s desk.

I volunteered.

Anything to be left alone.

Anything to get as far away as possible.

Chapter Three

“Seven? It was that clear?”

“Hi, is this the child guidance clinic? I’m calling to let you know the patient Wang Bo’en won’t be coming with a parent.”

“Oh—okay. Let me check. And… yeah, why couldn’t the child make it?”

“I am the child.”

“…Oh. Well, I’m afraid we can’t—”

“You didn’t even realize I was a child. Come on. Let’s not pretend now.”

And that’s how I ended up seeing the psychologist. Alone.

I sat on a freezing metal chair, surrounded by other kids, each flanked by a parent or two.

Me? I had a file so thick it could crush a pigeon. Filled with reports “the child” wasn’t supposed to see. Too bad I’m also the parent.

I wore a hoodie over a dress shirt. I don’t usually do that. Just felt like trying something called “comfort.”

Didn’t work.

The psychologist was an old guy. Wise-looking, slow-speaking — so slow and breath-lacking it sounded like he was about to pass away any second.

We exchanged exactly seven sentences. I counted. I always count.

Result? Gender dysphoria. Persistent depression.

He probably could’ve diagnosed me with a few more, but hey, the man had a schedule.

There wasn’t much to say. He knew I wasn’t the type he could convince to “hang in there.”

And I knew he wasn’t the type to try very hard — he’s much too old to care.

It’s not really his fault. It’s mine.

It’s my war. My terms. No crying. No stalling. None of the child play.

Be a man — while legally having the rights of a child.

I didn’t even feel disappointed. It was expected.

Just like I predicted everything else, but still too powerless to do a thing about it.

They gave me a referral to an endocrinologist. Appointment in a month.

Which, let’s be honest, is generous.

If I were just a bit weaker, I wouldn’t be here to receive it.