Recap of part-2
The events of yesterday still clung to me like the faint fragrance of shampoo in my hair.
The kurta, the camisole I never imagined I’d wear.
Breakfast under Mom’s quiet, watchful eyes—the silence that felt heavier than words.
The chores, the way my damp hair kept falling into my eyes until she called me to sit.
And then… the braid.
I could still feel its weight even now, even though it had come loose by nightfall. That single braid changed everything. It wasn’t just neatness—it was something deeper. A quiet declaration I didn’t speak but Mom seemed to understand.
And her words still echoed in my mind: “This is the regular style for a girl your age.”
A girl your age.
I had tried to correct her, but the truth was, I hadn’t felt like a boy all day. Not when I stood in front of the mirror in that kurta, Not when I moved around the house with my braid swaying softly against my back.
By night, as I lay in my bed, I thought change had already happened. That maybe this was the furthest I could go.
But I was wrong.
Because, Mom’s real plan began to unfold.
Part -3
Daily life settled into a quiet rhythm for me. The routine barely changed—morning baths, household chores, cooking with Mom, evenings spent watching her favorite TV serials. But there was one difference, subtle yet impossible to ignore.
My clothes.
Mom had slowly phased out anything that could be called “unisex.” The kurtas she laid out for me now were delicate, feminine—graceful patterns, soft fabrics, tiny embroidered details that shimmered when I moved. They weren’t loud or flashy, but they were undeniably designed for a girl. And each day, I slipped into them without a word, because saying no felt harder than giving in.
Every morning, after my breakfast, Mom would call me to sit in front of her. She’d massage warm oil into my scalp with slow, practiced fingers, then comb my hair and weave it into a neat braid that rested just above my mid-back. That braid became a part of me, swaying gently as I moved around the house, a constant reminder of who I was becoming.
And maybe it was the endless hours of housework—the bending, scrubbing, lifting—or maybe something else entirely, but day by day, I started to notice changes in my body. Subtle at first: the soft swell of my chest becoming more pronounced, a tender ache whenever I wore a tighter kurta. Sometimes, when I caught myself in the mirror, the outline of those curves felt almost… feminine.
I wanted to tell Mom. To ask her if she noticed, if this was normal, if maybe—just maybe—she had something to do with it.
But every time I opened my mouth, the words got stuck in my throat.
So I stayed silent.
And pretended nothing was changing— even as everything was.
Meanwhile, Riya and I still spoke every day. Our late-night calls had become a habit, a thread tying me to the world outside this quiet transformation.
Every time she’d ask the same question: “What are you wearing today?”
And every time, I’d lie. “Just a unisex top and pants,” I’d say, keeping my voice steady, casual.
But Riya wasn’t a fool. She’d laugh softly, a teasing edge in her tone.
“Raj… don’t lie to me. Turn on the video.”
My heart would race every time she asked. And every time, I found an excuse—bad lighting, low battery, anything to avoid her seeing the truth.
One night, she finally caught me off guard. “No excuses today. Video on—now.”
My heart pounded as I reluctantly turned the camera toward myself. Her eyes widened for a second—and then softened with a slow, knowing smile.
“You braided your hair,” she whispered.
I froze, instinctively reaching back to touch the plait resting against my shoulder. “Mom… she said it’s better for hair growth,” I stammered.
Riya didn’t tease. She just smiled—calm, approving.
“It suits you.”
From that day, things changed.
Every evening, during our calls, she started giving me little tips—casual at first, then deliberate. “Hold your hands like this when you sit.” “Don’t hunch—straighten your back.” “When you talk, soften your tone a little.”
And somehow, I listened. I copied. I practiced.
When I complained about my hair getting wet during baths, she made me promise to ask Mom for a big clip to hold it up. The next day, I did. And slowly, day by day, the changes piled up—not loud, not obvious, but enough to make me feel like I was moving further and further away from the boy I once was.
One evening, as I looked at myself on her screen—wearing another delicate kurta, my braid neat, my mannerisms softer than I remembered—I realized something:
I wasn’t just being shaped by Mom anymore.
Riya was shaping me too.
And I was caught between them both—two women, one on each side, turning my dream into reality.
The only question was—
was it still my dream… or had it become theirs?
That evening, like always, Riya called me. Her face lit up the screen, brighter than usual, her voice bubbling with excitement.
“Raj… I got it!” she said, eyes sparkling. “TCS hired me as a developer!”
For a moment, I just stared, processing her words. Then a smile spread across my face, genuine and wide.
“Riya, that’s amazing! Congratulations!” I said, my heart swelling with pride for her.
“It’s not a huge package,” she added with a playful shrug. “Just a medium salary… but it’s a start.”
“A start?” I repeated. “It’s a big step. I’m so proud of you.”
Her laughter rang like a melody through the phone, and for a second, everything felt light, easy—like the old days.
Then, her tone shifted, soft but deliberate. “Raj… let’s celebrate tomorrow. Just the two of us. Okay?”
I nodded quickly, trying to hide the nervous flutter in my stomach. “Okay.”
But then she said something unexpected. “I’ll call Aunty and tell her too. She should know.”
Before I could react, Riya had already ended our call and dialed Mom.
I stood silently in the hallway as their voices floated from the other room. First came the cheerful greetings, the warm congratulations. And then… a pause.
For a few minutes, they spoke in hushed tones—too soft for me to catch the words. I strained to listen, my pulse quickening, but it was no use. Their conversation was private.
Finally, the call ended.
Mom returned to the kitchen with a faint smile, her voice calm as always.
“Riya said you two will celebrate tomorrow,” she said.
I nodded, forcing a smile of my own. “Yeah…”
She didn’t add anything else. Neither did I.
That night, I lay in bed, pride for Riya burning bright inside me—she deserved every bit of her success. But tangled with that pride was something darker: shame. Not for her, but for myself.
A boy like me should have been working, building a career. Instead, I was here—slipping into feminine kurtas every morning, braiding my hair, scrubbing dishes, learning recipes.
I told myself it was my choice—that this was what I wanted. But even as I repeated the words in my head, doubt crept in.
After many restless thoughts, sleep finally pulled me under, heavy and uneasy.
And yet, just before darkness swallowed me, one last thought lingered—
Tomorrow was going to be a big day with Riya.
And I wasn’t sure what scared me more—What Mom would make me wear for our date…or what Riya would make me do.
Next morning, I woke up to the gentle touch of Mom’s hand on my shoulder.
“Good morning,” she said softly, her voice calm yet firm.
“Morning…” I murmured, rubbing my eyes.
“Get ready quickly,” she added, straightening the bedsheet with her usual precision. “You’re already late for your date with Riya.”
I blinked at her, confused. “Late? But… it’s two hours away.”
“Two hours isn’t much,” she replied without looking at me. “Now go freshen up. And do a head bath today—your hair needs it.”
Her tone left no room for argument.
I hesitated, but then nodded and shuffled toward the bathroom.
As warm water cascaded down my back, I tried to make sense of her words. Why did it feel like she had a plan? Why was she acting like I needed so much time to get ready… just to meet Riya?
When I stepped out, towel tied around my waist, steam still curling from my damp skin, I froze.
Mom was sitting on the edge of my bed.
For a second, silence hung between us—until I noticed her eyes. They weren’t just looking at me—they were fixed on my chest.
Her expression flickered in shock, though she quickly masked it with her usual calm. I felt the heat rush to my cheeks, instinctively folding my arms over the soft swell that had been quietly growing over the past weeks.
“Where’s… my dress?” I asked, awkwardly.
She simply pointed toward the bed.
I followed her gaze—and my stomach dropped. Laid out neatly was a white churidar set. Tiny pink roses bloomed across the fabric, delicate and unmistakably feminine. A light-pink dupatta and matching churidar leggings lay beside it… along with folded inners.
“That’s… what I’m wearing?” I managed to whisper.
Mom gave a small nod. Something unspoken passed between us, heavy and undeniable.
This wasn’t just about looking nice for Riya. This was about something much deeper.
She stood up, her movements calm and deliberate, and picked up something from the neatly arranged clothes. When she turned back to me, my breath caught.
It was… panties. Soft pink, matching the delicate prints of the outfit.
My face burned instantly. “Mom… I—”
“Go,” she said simply, her tone firm but not unkind. “Wear this first.”
I hesitated, my hands trembling as I took them from her. Then, without a word, I slipped back into the bathroom.
When I returned, the towel still draped loosely around my waist, her gaze swept over me briefly before she said, “Good. Now close your eyes.”
I blinked at her, startled. “Why?”
“I have a surprise,” she replied smoothly, already moving closer.
“Just show me—”
“Close them,” she repeated, her voice quiet but carrying that familiar authority I couldn’t argue with.
With no choice, I obeyed.
“Lift your arms,” she added softly.
My heart pounded as I raised them. I felt her step close, her fingers brushing lightly against my skin as something slid up my arms—smooth, firm fabric wrapping around my chest. Then came the gentle tug as she adjusted it and… a click behind me.
A knot.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Open your eyes.”
I opened them slowly—and the sight staring back at me in the mirror made my breath hitch.
It wasn’t a camisole this time.
It was a bra.
A delicate, perfectly fitted bra hugging my chest like it had always belonged there.
“Mom… no—” My voice broke as I reached back, struggling to undo the clasp, my fingers fumbling in panic. “I can’t—”
“Stop,” she said firmly, catching my hands mid-air. Her voice was calm but carried an unshakable certainty. “I knew you’d try that. But listen to me—if you’re going out today, you have to wear this.”
I stared at her, stunned, words locked in my throat.
“You’ve noticed it too,” she continued, her tone softer now but no less certain. “Without support, it will show. People will notice. You’ll feel awkward when it bounces as you walk. This is… necessary.”
Her words hit me like a truth I didn’t want to accept but couldn’t deny. My arms dropped helplessly to my sides, and I lowered my head in silent defeat.
The bra fit like it was made for me. Perfectly snug, shaping what I could no longer hide.
Then, as if nothing unusual had happened, Mom handed me a camisole, her voice steady. “Wear this over it.”
I obeyed silently. The soft fabric slipped over me like second skin, hiding the bra but not the way it made me feel inside.
Next she unfolded the kurta set —a long, flowing kurta, white with pink rose prints that shimmered softly under the light. It wasn’t unisex. It wasn’t even close. It was delicate, graceful, undeniably feminine.
“Mom, this…” My voice trembled as I met her eyes. “This isn’t a kurta anymore. It’s a full churidar set.”
That’s when she looked at me—really looked at me. Her calm expression softened into something deeper, more knowing.
And then, the words that shattered every last pretense fell from her lips:
“Raj,” she said gently, “stop acting. I’ve always known your desire.”
I continued to act, clinging to the last shreds of denial. But then she spoke again—soft, calm, yet certain.
“Raj… do you want to know how I found out?”
My heart thudded as her eyes locked onto mine.
“One night,” she continued gently, “you were fast asleep… and you whispered it. You said you wished you could dress like me. That you wanted to be… my daughter.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath me. Shame burned through me, and I lowered my head, unable to meet her gaze. My fingers twisted nervously against the edge of my towel.
“Raj,” she said, stepping closer, her voice warm and soothing, “don’t feel embarrassed. Don’t feel scared. I will always be on your side. I just want one thing as a mother—your happiness. If this makes you happy, I won’t object. You can wear anything you like.”
Something broke inside me. All the fear, the tension, the secret I had carried for so long—melted away in that single moment. My happiness had no bounds.
I threw my arms around her and hugged her tight, tears stinging my eyes. “I love you, Mom. You’re the best mom in the world.”
She smiled, kissing my forehead softly. “I love you too, my beautiful child.”
Then she pulled back slightly, cupping my face in her hands. “Now come… let’s get you ready. We’re getting late.”
I nodded eagerly. For the first time, without hesitation, I took the white churidar set from her hands and slipped into the it.
Mom’s eyes lit up as she guided me to the dressing table. “Sit,” she said gently.
I sat, heart racing, as she plugged in the hair dryer. Warm air caressed my damp hair, and soon her skilled fingers were weaving them into a stylish braid—sleek, neat, and feminine.
Then came the makeup. Her hands moved with practiced ease: first a smooth layer of foundation, then a soft blush that brought color to my cheeks. She lined my eyes with kajal, brushed shimmering eyeshadow across my lids, traced bold eyeliner, and finally… a deep pink lipstick that made my lips look fuller, softer.
When she pressed a tiny round bindi between my brows, I stared at my reflection, stunned.
Mom wasn’t done. She removed my small earrings and replaced them with delicate jhumkas that swayed with the slightest movement. Around my neck, she fastened a dainty chain with a pendant that matched the earrings perfectly.
Then came a set of pink bangles.
I hesitated. “Mom… I can’t,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I like their sound, but… my male ego…”
She didn’t argue. She simply smiled and set them aside. “What about a payal then?”
“That’s okay,” I said softly. “But… no beads.”
She nodded and chose a simple pair but have three beads near clasp. When the cool metal kissed my ankles, a strange shiver ran through me.
Finally, I stood and looked at myself in the mirror—and my breath caught.
There was no trace of the boy I had been. Not in the flowing churidar, not in the braid resting over my shoulder, not in the delicate jewelry, and definitely not in the soft curves peeking through the fabric. My smooth, round face looked… beautiful. Feminine.
Mom stepped up behind me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders in a gentle hug. “My beautiful daughter,” she whispered, kissing my cheek.
I blushed, a shy smile tugging at my lips. “Thank you, Mom… for understanding me.”
She reached for her kajal stick, rubbed a little on her fingertip, and placed a tiny dot behind my left ear. “No evil eyes should fall on my daughter,” she said with a playful smile.
We both laughed softly at that, sharing a moment that felt sacred.
Then, she picked up the final piece—the part I had secretly longed for.
The DUPATTA.
She draped it gracefully over my shoulders, making neat pleats on the left and pinning it carefully. The right end, she let flow freely, brushing against my arm like a whisper.
“Mom… please pin this side too,” I pleaded nervously.
“You look stunning like this,” she said, her eyes shining with pride. “Keep it free.”
After a lot of pleading, she finally pinned one end loosely, giving it a stylish drape, and taught me how to handle it when I walked.
When everything was done, I couldn’t stop staring at myself. This wasn’t just dressing up. This was transformation.
We had just finished breakfast when my phone buzzed. Riya’s name lit up the screen.
That is when i came to senses that i have to go out with Riya. My stomach tightened. I glanced at Mom, who smiled knowingly and nodded toward the phone.
I picked it up, my voice barely steady. “Hello…”
“Raj,” Riya’s voice was warm, teasing, but with an edge of excitement. “Are you ready?”
My throat went dry. Ready? How could I ever be ready for her to see me like this?
“Almost…” I murmured, glancing at the mirror. My reflection stared back—a girl in a white-and-pink churidar, hair in a braid, jewelry glinting softly. I looked… nothing like the boy she once knew.
There was a pause on the line, and then her voice softened, deliberate.
“Raj, I’m just a few kilometer away… so can you come out?”
The phone was on speaker, and Mom immediately shook her head, signaling me with a firm glance. Then she mouthed, Call her in.
I swallowed and forced the words out. “No… come inside. I—I’ll be waiting.”
“Hmm,” Riya replied, her tone laced with curiosity and something I couldn’t quite name. “Okay then. I’ll be there soon.”
The call ended.
I stood there, heart pounding so hard it echoed in my ears. Mom stepped closer, smoothing the pleats of my dupatta as if nothing in the world was unusual.
“Go open the door when she rings the bell,” Mom said calmly, her voice carrying that strange authority I had learned not to question. “And don’t just open it—surprise her with your look.”
My eyes widened. “Mom… I—”
“No hesitation, Raj,” she interrupted softly. “Today is the day you stop hiding.”
I nodded slowly, my palms clammy, every nerve alive with a mix of fear and something I dared not name.
Two minutes later, the doorbell rang.
My breath caught.
Mom gave me one last reassuring smile. “Go.”
And with trembling hands and a heart that felt like it might burst out of my chest, I turned and walked toward the door.
My breath caught as the bell rang again, a sharp chime cutting through the silence of the house.
I took a step forward—and froze.
The anklets around my feet chimed softly, the delicate sound curling through the quiet like a secret. I had worn them for barely an hour, yet every tiny jingle felt like an announcement, a whisper that said you’re not Raj anymore.
I lowered my eyes and began to walk. Slow, hesitant steps across the cool floor. The dupatta, light and airy, swayed against my arm and brushed over my fingers. I clutched it instinctively, trying to keep it in place like Mom had taught me, the pleats pinned neatly on one shoulder while the other end floated free.
My braid shifted against my back with every movement, grazing my spine, tickling my skin. The weight of the jhumkas brushed against my neck when I turned my head toward the door.
Every sense felt heightened—the faint floral scent of my churidar, the softness of the pink-rose fabric rustling as I moved, the cool metal of the anklets hugging my ankles.
And beneath it all, the pounding of my heart. Loud. Heavy. Faster with every step.
I could hear Mom’s voice behind me, calm and steady:
“Smile when you open the door.”
Smile? My lips trembled just at the thought. My hands were slick with sweat, clutching the dupatta like a lifeline.
Another step. And another. The anklets chimed again, mocking me, reminding me how far I’d come—and how impossible it was to turn back now.
I reached the door. My fingers hovered over the handle, trembling.
On the other side was Riya—the girl who once held my hand as her boyfriend… about to see me like this.
I drew a shaky breath, trying to steady myself, feeling my chest rise under the snug churidar.
One twist of the handle. One pull.
Everything was about to change.
With great difficulty, I turned the handle and pulled the door open, forcing a smile like Mom had instructed.
But the moment the door swung wide, my breath caught in my throat.
It was Riya—yet not the Riya I remembered.
She stood there in a crisp shirt tucked into slim-fit pants, her hair cut short in a bold, Dhoni-style crop that framed her face with effortless confidence. Minimal makeup, just a hint of kajal, and no heavy jewelry—only a simple chain at her neck. She looked sharp, modern, almost androgynous.
And in that moment, I realized—we had both changed.
Her eyes swept over me slowly, taking in the delicate churidar, the braid falling over my shoulder, the jewelry that glittered softly against my skin. For a split second, her lips parted in what looked like surprise… but then she smiled. A warm, steady smile that made my chest tighten.
“You look amazing in this dress,” she said gently.
I froze, my throat dry, words tangled inside me. All I could manage was a whisper:
“Thanks…”
I stepped aside, clutching my dupatta nervously, and gestured for her to come in.
“Please… come inside,” I said, my voice softer than I intended.
As she walked past me into the living room, the anklets at my feet gave a soft chime, and I wondered if she heard them—if she noticed every detail, every choice that had led me here.
And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of her judgment… or of what her acceptance might truly mean for me.
When Riya stepped into the living room, her eyes softened as she saw Mom waiting for her on the sofa, a small plate of sweets in hand.
“Congratulations once again, beta,” Mom said warmly, her voice brimming with pride. She picked up a sweet and held it to Riya’s lips, insisting gently, “Here—make your mouth sweet.”
Riya smiled and accepted, taking a small bite before saying, “Thank you, Aunty.” Then, almost instinctively, she bent down and touched Mom’s feet.
Mom’s face lit up with affection. “Always stay blessed,” she said, her fingers brushing lightly over Riya’s head in blessing.
“Sit here,” Mom added, patting the space beside her on the sofa. Riya obeyed with a smile, sitting gracefully, still stealing occasional glances at me.
Then Mom’s gaze shifted toward me. Her voice turned soft but firm—an instruction, not a request.
“Raj, go and prepare tea for us. Bring it quickly.”
I hesitated for a second, clutching my dupatta as their eyes settled on me. A strange mix of embarrassment and pride surged through me. Then I nodded silently and turned toward the kitchen, my anklets chiming softly with each step.
Behind me, I could feel both their eyes following my movements—Mom’s calm, approving… and Riya’s, curious, unreadable.
I walked into the kitchen, the soft chime of my anklets echoing against the tiles, each delicate sound a reminder of what I had become in this moment. My dupatta kept slipping from my shoulder, teasing me with its weightless rebellion. With a quick motion, I adjusted it back into place, fingers trembling slightly, before turning toward the stove where the empty saucepan waited.
I poured milk into a saucepan, watching the white liquid swirl and bubble slowly. The faint aroma of coffee powder filled the air as I added a spoonful, stirring in silence. My hands moved automatically, but my mind was far from calm.
From the living room, I could hear faint murmurs—Mom and Riya talking in hushed tones. I strained my ears, desperate to catch even a word, but their voices were too soft, like secrets carried by the wind. Were they talking about me? About… this?
The thought made my cheeks burn.
I poured the hot coffee into three cups, the steam rising like a veil. Placing them carefully on a tray, I inhaled deeply, trying to steady the tremor in my hands.
I balanced the tray carefully, every step measured. The anklets sang with each movement, and the soft sway of my dupatta brushed against my arm as if reminding me, Don’t forget who you are right now.
When I entered the living room, their conversation fell silent. Two pairs of eyes turned toward me—Mom’s calm, knowing smile and Riya’s gaze that lingered a fraction longer than it should have. I knelt slightly, setting the tray down on the table, then placed a cup before each of them, my fingers steady only because I forced them to be.
“Thank you, Raj,” Mom said gently. Her voice was warm, but there was something in her tone—pride, maybe? Or was it satisfaction?
I handed Riya her cup last. For a moment, our fingers brushed, and my breath caught. She smiled—not teasing, not mocking—just… soft. “Your coffee better be as good as you look,” she whispered, so low only I could hear.
My cheeks burned, and I quickly turned away, grabbing my own cup and sinking into the sofa opposite them. The fabric of my churidar pulled snug around my legs as I crossed them carefully, just like Riya had taught me.
She took a sip first. Her eyes widened, and then she smiled. “Mmm… this is perfect,” she said aloud, her voice carrying an ease that made my chest flutter. “You’ve gotten better, Raj.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, staring into my cup as if the swirl of coffee could swallow me whole.
They chatted for a while—mostly Riya and Mom, their voices light, weaving through topics I barely registered. I sat there quietly, nodding when required, trying to ignore the way Riya’s gaze kept drifting toward me. Every time our eyes met, something unspoken passed between us.
Just as I set my cup down and tried to steady my breath, Mom’s voice cut through the air.
“Raj, come with me for a moment,” she said, rising to her feet. Her tone left no room for refusal.
Riya raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment—she just leaned back, sipping the last of her coffee as Mom guided me gently by the wrist into her room.
The door closed softly behind us, shutting out the world. I stood there, fidgeting with the edge of my dupatta, my anklets chiming faintly in the silence.
Mom turned me toward the mirror. “Look at yourself,” she said, her hands already moving with practiced ease. She adjusted a strand of hair that had slipped loose from my braid, then took out a compact and brushed away the slight shine from my forehead. “You mustn’t look nervous—it shows on your face first.”
I swallowed hard, staring at the reflection. My cheeks were flushed, my lips still holding the faint sheen of lipstick she’d applied earlier. I didn’t look like the boy who once feared these things. I looked… like someone else.
Her hands moved to my dupatta. She unpinned one side, pleated it tighter, and secured it again. “Don’t keep touching it,” she whispered. “Let it flow, let it move with you. A girl’s grace is not in fixing but in carrying.”
I nodded quickly, my fingers tightening at my sides.
Then, leaning close to my ear, she whispered, “Keep your voice soft, sit with your knees together, and smile. That’s all. Don’t worry about the rest—Riya will guide you.”
Her words wrapped around me like a shield, equal parts comforting and terrifying.
Finally, she turned me back toward the door, smoothed the front of my churidar with both hands, and gave a little approving nod. Then she opened the door and led me out.
Riya was waiting in the living room, her short hair catching the light, her eyes fixed on me with something between amusement and tenderness.
Mom didn’t hesitate—she took my hand, warm and trembling in hers, and placed it into Riya’s. “Here,” she said softly, her voice filled with affection. “Make your date beautiful.”
For a moment, Riya just held my hand, her fingers curling around mine. I couldn’t look at her—I could only feel the heat rushing to my cheeks, the weight of the dupatta brushing against my arm, and my mother’s words echoing in my head.
“So… shall we go?” Riya asked, her voice light, almost teasing.
My stomach tightened. Go. Out. With her. Like this.
Instinctively, I glanced at Mom. She only gave me that steady, reassuring nod—the kind that carried both command and comfort.
I gripped Riya’s hand a little tighter, my voice barely above a whisper. “Y-Yes… I’m ready.”
But inside, I felt anything but ready.
I tightened my grip on Riya’s hand, my breath quick and uneven. Mom’s nod still lingered in my mind, steadying me, yet my heart thudded like a drum.
Riya smiled at me—calm, playful, almost as if she had been waiting for this very moment. She gave my hand a little squeeze, silently telling me I wasn’t alone.
And with that, we stepped forward together.
What waited outside was unknown—how our date would unfold, what new surprises Riya had planned for me, how she would guide me through the world as the girl I had become.
Would she add something more to my look? Would she tease me, or would she help me feel normal, safe, and… hers?
I didn’t know yet.
But one thing was certain—Part of me was terrified. And another part, deep inside, couldn’t wait.
—To be continued in Part 4.
Comments