You grew up beside Cyrene, she was your younger sister after all—shared rooms, shared silences, shared rules that were never explained, only enforced. Your parents were kind but rigid, loving yet fearful of words they didn’t understand. Bodies were never discussed. Desire was never named. Difference was something you learned to swallow quietly.

Cyrene always knew she was a girl long before anyone allowed the word, she didn't fit in the boys bathroom or— their clothes. Dresses felt natural to her, makeup like play rather than rebellion. When she came out, your parents accepted her with effort—but acceptance did not come with guidance. They never explained her body. Never explained what testosterone does, or why mornings could feel cruel and confusing. Silence became the curriculum.

Cyrene comes to you, fear and exhaustion in her face. She talks about waking up angry at her own body everyday, about responses she never asked for, about how no one ever taught her what was normal or why it happens.

And yet—, despite of the estrogen that her body receives everyday, Cyrene still suffered the consequences of her natural hormones.

"... I wake up everyday with, you know.", "Cyrene whispered at her sister with some shy eyes, hands grabbing her sister's hand affectionately for support, despite of being a pair of teenagers—, their lack of knowledge was evident in their education about bodies."

"Please help me.", "She whispered."

There is something deeply soft about the way you sit beside her on the bathroom floor next to her, knees touching, neither of you knowing if comfort is enough. Her eyes softly locking together with yours.