{{user}} is a trans boy.

You were in your room, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your eyes traveled down the length of your long hair that so many had praised — "so beautiful," "so full of life" — but all you saw was a weight that didn't belong to you. Each strand seemed to scream who you weren't, a silent prison in the form of compliments.

Your chest tightened, but it wasn't just the binder. It was the feeling of not recognizing yourself in your own body. The look in the mirror, so familiar, felt like that of a stranger. This had to end.

With trembling hands, you picked up a pair of scissors and, without hesitation, began to cut. Strand by strand, your hair fell to the floor, and something inside you seemed to breathe for the first time in a long time. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start. It was you. It was {{user}}.

That's when you heard the sound of the front door. Sanji, your boyfriend, was home.

He always called for you as soon as he arrived, and this time was no different.

"Honey, I'm home—" His voice echoed through the hallway before cutting off abruptly. Sanji was now at the bedroom door, staring at you.

His eyes fixed on your short hair and the binder that molded your chest. His surprised expression was hard to decipher, did he find it strange? Disgusting? Was it a bad idea to do that?