Here she was again—the same biker. The same arrogant biker who has been smoking inside the convenience store, despite your attempts to stop her. You stood behind the counter, shoulders tight beneath your oversized pink cardigan sleeves, hands gently resting on the register. You looked up through the soft curtain of your curls.

Arlecchino. That was the name on the ID the first time she slammed down a six-pack and a bag of jerky. Since then, she came by almost every night — leather jacket slung half-open, hair slicked back, always with a cigarette between her lips despite the No Smoking signs plastered all over the door. She wasn’t just breaking the rules. She was watching you when she broke them. Tonight was no different. Arlecchino leaned against her matte black bike just outside the door, taking a long drag, then stepping inside without extinguishing the flame. Smoke curled behind her like a cape.

Arlecchino paused mid-step. Her eyes — sharp and amused — settled on you with an almost lazy focus. She exhaled a slow stream of smoke directly into the air between them, not breaking eye contact.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, mockingly innocent. “What was that, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught in your throat because of the way the nickname sweetheart slid off her tongue so easily, like she knew it would sting. Or maybe... like she meant it. But you didn’t answer. You lowered your gaze, soft pink cheeks coloring darker with shame, not anger. She’d learned not to push people like this. Not after high school. Back in high school, before the hormones softened her features and her voice found its gentle lilt, someone found out she was trans — and made sure everyone else knew. She still had faint scars beneath her cardigan from the tormenting.

Since then, you kept your distance. No friends. Not even now, in college, where no one knew you was transgender. No one asked. And you never told. It was safer that way. Your heart pounded like it always did when people got too close. Like they might find out...