Miyami

***
CONTENT WARNING: This chapter contains depictions of intense dysphoria and discrimination.
***

Fluorescent lights buzzed, illuminating a cold floor of cubicles.

The air smelled of alcohol and disinfectant, and everything was muted, a dull white and pale blue.

A young woman with a gaunt face sat at his desk, his suit baggy and tie a noose. His medium black hair was disguised beneath a short, tidy wig, and his chest was bound tight beneath the fabric.

He typed on his keyboard, fingers moving in a robotic trance.

It was a Friday night. The boss and most of his coworkers had left hours ago, but he had stayed to finish his work. He had to. If he didn't, he would be called in and berated.

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His eyelids drooped as he worked, burying exhaustion and the static beneath his fingertips. He had to finish the project. It was his job, his responsibility, his burden.

The screen was blurry from his dry eyes, and his head pounded from the lack of sleep.

*bzzt*

*♫ 'You have a message, darling~' ♫*

His phone vibrated on the desk. He sighed, pausing his work, and checked the notification. A message from his father.

────────⊳⋆⊲────────

 >> Michio, are you going to visit your mother's grave with me next week?

 >> It's been too long, and I know she misses you dearly.

 >> Please don't disappoint her by being 'sick.'

────────⊳⋆⊲────────

Michio stared at it for a moment, then closed the message.

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Michio.

That was his name.

The static pulsed in his heart, and his fingers gripped the desk tightly.

*thud*

He stood up suddenly, knocking his chair to the ground. He walked over to the window, placing his hand on the cold glass as he tried to calm himself down.

*sigh*

The city lights shined below, and his reflection gazed back, distorted. He didn't pay any attention to the details, instead watching the cars pass by in the distance. They were small, like fireflies. Little specks of light in the dark night sky. It reminded him of the time he had gone stargazing with his mother when he was little.

Wetness began to form in his eyes, but he snuffed it out, clenching his fist. He had to stay strong, had to stay focused on the task ahead.

"…"

He made his way back to his desk and picked up the chair, almost feeling sorry for it, and gave it a reassuring pat.

"…I'm sorry," he mumbled to no one, taking his seat.

He resumed working.

The text was blurry now, but it wasn't anything new. The computer screen was always that way, and the numbers were constantly shifting, changing, and morphing.

He'd studied for this, practiced, and worked his butt off, but it was never good enough. Not for them. Not for anyone.

His fingers kept typing, the keys clacking and echoing in the empty office. His eyes watered from the bright light, but he kept on, even though his vision was swimming and his head was pounding from the headache he'd had all day.

Minutes blurred into hours.

Then his hands stopped, and he slumped forward in his seat.

He was done.

Finally.

File sent. Lights turned off. Computer powered down. Desk cleaned and organized. Everything in order.

He grabbed his briefcase and stood up from his chair, stretching and letting out a yawn. He made his way to the elevator, stepping in before pressing the button for the lobby.

It was only 10:15. He had some time to get home, take his binder off, and relax. He could have dinner, watch his favorite shows, and maybe even play some games before bed. He could enjoy his life, be normal, and not have to worry about anything—

Footsteps.

A coworker stopped next to him before the doors could close.

"Working late, Michio?" the man said with a sneer.

"Y-yes," he replied flatly, pressing the button to shut the doors. He didn't want to deal with this right now. "You too, I guess?"

"Of course! It's what a real man does." He smirked. "Just surprised a weakling like you could manage it."

"…" He said nothing in response. He knew better than to engage in this conversation.

The man huffed, clearly annoyed that his target wasn't giving him a rise. He crossed his arms and stared at the elevator's digital sign, watching the numbers change as the elevator descended agonizingly slow.

"…You know," the man suddenly said, leaning in closer with a low voice. "I heard a rumor. Said you got a bonus for helping the boss under the desk. Is it true?"

He tensed.

"Ah, that look on your face says it all. You really are a disgusting pig. I bet you moaned like one too, didn't you?"

Michio stared at the floor indicator. He was fine. This was normal. It was just a couple more floors. A couple more floors before he could escape. Just ignore it—

"Damn sissy. What? Not going to speak up for yourself?" the man spat. "Can't even talk right?"

He was fine. It was fine. It wasn't that bad. He could handle it.

He was fine. Fine. Fine—

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*DING*

The doors opened.

"Good night," Michio said, trying not to show his relief as he scampered out.

The man just smirked and watched him go.

"See you Monday."

***

The apartment lights were off when he got back. The familiar place was dark, quiet, and still. He closed the door and locked it, double checking that it was secure. Then he made sure the windows were closed and locked too, just to be safe.

Once he was sure everything was secured, he stripped off his jacket, threw it to the floor, and loosened his tie, not caring where it landed. He'd pick it up in the morning.

He trudged to the couch and flopped down onto it with a thump, his face buried into a pillow.

*breathe*

The static was still there, but it was faint now, a dull ache. It'd been a long day. A bad day. He was exhausted, and he felt sick. All he wanted to do was lie there and forget everything.

After rotting for a while, he pulled out his phone and checked the time.

It was 11:13. Still too early for sleep, but maybe he could make an exception for tonight.

No, he needed to shower at least. Maybe eat.

He rolled off the couch, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

"Ow," he hissed. It didn't hurt, but it was the thought that counted, right?

He stumbled over to the washroom and flicked on the lights, wincing uncomfortably as his eyes adjusted. Then he turned on the shower, cranking the knob as hot as possible, and began undressing, letting his disguise fall to the floor in a heap.

*stare*

His gaze met his reflection's in the mirror.

There he was. Michio. The person everyone saw when they looked at him, the person he'd pretended to be for years.

Or at least, that's what he tried to see.

*sigh*

The longer he looked at his reflection, the less of Michio she saw.

His short black hair became a messy shoulder-length, and his gaunt cheeks were replaced with a rosy blush.

His frame shrank, his hips grew wider, and his chest filled with a hint of softness that was getting difficult to hide.

And finally, his eyes. They lost their tired, dead gaze and became a deep, gentle brown with a bit of sparkle.

She smiled at herself, and her reflection smiled back. It was a beautiful, perfect smile.

"Mi-ya-mi," she chirped to the mirror, practicing her voice, making the syllables her own. "Miyami."

It wasn't passable by any means yet, and the sound of it made the static pulse in her heart, but she was getting closer to the real thing.

Wetness grew at the edges of her eyes again, but she let it flow this time. She was fine.

The woman shakingly stepped into the scalding shower and let the water run over her, washing away the grime and the stress of the day.

*breathe*

She was Miyami.

And Miyami was going to be okay.