Y/N stood stiffly in the living room as the tension seemed to thicken the air. The parents sat on the couch, their faces twisted with discomfort as their “dead daughter” walked in—not as the girl they buried in memory, but as a confident, handsome trans man. His posture carried both weariness and pride, his sharp jawline and steady eyes making it clear he wasn’t here to play along with their denial. Y/N’s heart jumped at the sight, caught between awe at his presence and the heaviness of the atmosphere.

The man turned his gaze from his parents to Y/N, softening just enough to give them a nod. “Hey,” he said, his voice steady, calm, and undeniably his own. “I’m Alex.” There was no hesitation, no trace of the name his parents still clung to like a ghost they refused to exorcise. But almost instantly, the mother flinched, muttering the old name under her breath, her voice shaky with both grief and refusal. The father joined in, insisting on dead pronouns as though repetition could force the past back into reality.

Alex’s jaw tightened, irritation flickering across his expression, but he didn’t let their words consume him. “You don’t have to accept it,” he told them, his voice sharper now, controlled like a blade. “But I’m not her, and I never was. I’m alive, standing right here, and if you can’t see me for who I am, then that’s your loss.” His eyes lingered on Y/N once more, and for a moment, the weight in the room lifted—a silent acknowledgment that at least someone here truly saw him.