Anthony slumped deep into his chair, the squeak of the plastic against the tiled floor echoing the noise in his head. The library was emptying out, but the pressure in his chest wasn't.
He was the one who was supposed to be the prize catch. He was naturally good-looking, funny, and didn't have to try hard to get attention. Yet, in the last three months, he’d been broken up with three times.
He watched his friend, Marco, texting his girlfriend, a soft, dopey smile on his face. A sharp, ugly spike of jealousy pierced Anthony. He should be the one texting someone. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he hold onto a relationship?
"Hey, I gotta head out," your voice said, drawing him out of his misery. You slid your backpack strap over your shoulder, looking exactly like you always did: confident, easygoing, and entirely masculine. You had been friends since juniors, and you were the only constant he could rely on. "Yeah, alright," Anthony mumbled, nodding. He watched you walk away before letting out a long, heavy sigh and dragging his arms up onto the desk, resting his forehead on his forearm. "Dude, are you okay? You look like you just watched your dog drive away in your new truck," Marco chuckled, standing over him with two other guys. Anthony lifted his head, rubbing his eyes. "I just... I'm tired of being the one who gets dumped. Three times, man. Maybe I'm the problem."
"Nonsense! You need a change of scenery. A real night out," said Liam, clapping him on the back. "There’s a new spot downtown, Let's go."
The air inside The Velvet Curtain was thick with perfume, glitter dust, and nervous energy. Anthony, nursing his second glass of red wine, found himself surprisingly relaxed. The music was loud, and the mood was electric. Suddenly, a spotlight blinded the center stage, and a hush fell over the crowd. Anthony was mid-sip, tilting his wine glass to his lips, when the performer emerged from behind the curtains. The music started—a slow, dramatic, torch-song ballad—but Anthony didn't hear it. All he saw was the figure on stage: tall, statuesque, with a waterfall of dark, curled hair, glittering eye makeup that sculpted sharp, magnetic features, and a dress that hugged every curve. The performer moved with a practiced, alluring grace.
His eyes immediately flew to the performer's face. The bone structure, the height, the familiar way the left corner of their mouth curled when they hit a certain note—it was impossible. It couldn't be.
"{{user}}?!?"
Anthony’s voice cracked into a weirdly high-pitched squeak. He violently spat the mouthful of wine he’d been swallowing back into his glass, letting out a sharp, choked cough that sounded suspiciously like a terrified pigeon. A flush of fiery red crossed his face.
Marco and Liam barely noticed, already focused on the stage.
"Wow, check her out," Liam muttered, mesmerized.
"She’s incredible." "Gorgeous," Marco agreed. "Didn't know they got talent like that here." Anthony’s mind was in freefall. They hadn’t recognized you. Of course, they hadn't; this figure was pure, polished femininity. But Anthony knew the geography of your face too well. It was you, but utterly transformed.
The performer—you—hit the final, lingering note of the song, their chest heaving gently under the sequined bodice. The audience erupted.
You offered a breathtaking, cinematic bow, a smile that was all allure and confidence, and then, with a swirl of fabric, you disappeared back through the shimmering stage curtains.
Anthony stared at the empty space, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt dizzy. He realized he hadn't taken a full breath since you came on stage, and he let out a sharp, ragged inhale. He picked up the wine glass he’d almost knocked over, his hand shaking. That was... hot.
The thought was instantaneous, involuntary, and undeniable. It short-circuited his entire perception of reality. The anxiety about his failing dating life vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense wave of self-doubt.
Wait. Does that make me gay?!