GFW - Wellness Center - Part 9

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By the time I got home, I felt like I'd been holding my breath all day. Work had been okay, I guess. After Jake's little scene in the break room, most people either left me alone or acted normal. Camille gave me a supportive look a couple of times, but I avoided her. I just didn't want to talk about it again.

I dropped my bag by the couch and went to my room. The first thing I wanted—needed—was to take off that silk blouse. It felt like a clingy memory I hadn't asked for. I slowly unbuttoned it, my chest tight as I saw myself in the mirror. My bra straps looked soft and subtle over skin that no longer seemed completely masculine.

I was reaching for a comfy T-shirt when my phone buzzed on the bed. It was Brad. I almost didn't look, but I did.

Hey. I know things have been kind of confusing.

But I wasn't pretending last time.

I meant it when I said I liked being around you.

You looked... happy.

I stood there in just my bra and trousers, phone in one hand, shirt hanging uselessly in the other.

If you don't feel the same, I get it.

But I'd still like to see you again.

I slowly sat on the edge of my bed, the blouse sliding off my lap as I let out a breath. He was interested. In me. And he'd seen through everything I'd been trying to hide.

For a long time, I didn't type anything back. I just stared at my reflection—half undressed, with so many emotions I couldn't name. 

I looked at it, read it, and then put the phone down without replying. I wasn't ready. Not when I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror without asking questions I had no answers for.

I was still pretty annoyed with Reva. Even though she'd been nice, she had basically tricked me into a date with a guy without knowing if I'd even like him. That seemed careless. I really do support Reva and her dating life, but shouldn't she also think about my feelings? I went to the mall thinking she was my date. Instead, she brought a tall, handsome guy who liked her, and I was stuck with another tall, handsome guy—a totally unwelcome surprise. And what did she do? 

Kiss him. 

After dinner, my sister and I sat at the table a little longer than usual, sipping tea in a quiet way that felt... neutral. She didn't bring up work, or Brad, or anything else that had started to change between us in the past few weeks. Maybe she was waiting for me to speak first. I didn't.

When I finally got up to clear the plates, my phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't Brad. It was Reva.

"Look, what I did was unfair. And I need you to believe me that I didn't mean to hurt you, but I totally get that I should have been clearer about the date. You've been a better friend to me than I deserve, and I promise I'll make it up to you. I'm so sorry." I sighed. Even though I couldn't see her puppy-dog eyes over the phone, I could imagine them. It's hard to stay mad at her. "I accept your apology. Just... be more honest in the future, okay?"

"I promise," Reva said, making a kissing sound into the phone. "I hope this doesn't stop you from coming to class. I have all sorts of fun workouts, I think you'll love."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm not going anywhere. I'll come by this end of the week for sure."

"I'm glad," she replied. I could feel the warmth of her smile through the phone. "Hey, there's one more piece of good news I can tell you."

"Don't tell me it's more free sports bras. Seriously, I can't handle all these new clothes." She laughed. "No, no, no, nothing like that."

I hung up later that night, mostly glad she apologized for putting me in an awkward situation. It might take a while to get over Reva, but at least I knew we could still be friends.

I didn't tell my sister about the message right away. I finished cleaning up, went to my room, and changed into the soft lounge set she'd bought. I quiet settled around me like a blanket. I stared at the ceiling for a while, arms folded behind my head, until I heard my sister moving around outside. On impulse, I got up and stepped into the hallway.

She was in the kitchen, sipping a glass of water, already in her sleepwear. When she saw me, she raised an eyebrow.

"You okay?"

I hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Just... a lot on my mind."

She waited. Patient as always, when she wanted to be.

I leaned against the counter, idly tracing the rim of her coffee mug. "Reva called me."

That got her attention. "Oh?"

"She apologized," I said. "About the whole setup-with-Brad thing. Said she didn't mean to push."

My sister nodded slowly. "That's good... right?"

"Yeah. I guess."

She looked at me for a moment, then spoke softly. "Do you think it would've felt like a trick if it had been someone else?"

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She took a sip of water, then gave me that annoyingly calm look of hers. "Sleep on it. You don't have to decide, or maybe stop assuming everyone's trying to trap you."

I sighed. "I hate when you sound wise."

She smirked. "It's a gift."

We said goodnight, and I went back to my room. 

The message was still there. Waiting. But I didn't answer.

I slept in later than usual, staying in bed even after sunlight started filling my sheets.

But eventually, boredom won, and I found myself standing in front of my closet, staring at the rows of increasingly feminine clothes that had slowly taken over.

That's when I saw it—a sleeveless top, pale lavender, soft fabric that draped nicely. Probably something my sister had slipped in without telling me. It wasn't new, but I hadn't worn it before. I pulled it off the hanger and held it up. Cute. Light. Kind of perfect for a lazy Sunday at home.

But then I paused. The mirror caught the corner of my hairy arms and underarms, a shadow peeking out where the top would leave me exposed. I winced. It looked wrong. Like I was halfway into something I didn't want to admit I'd started.

Instead, I folded the top neatly and placed it on the bed. And then I quietly went to the bathroom... and reached for the pink razor.

I turned on the bathroom light and stared at myself in the mirror. The razor sat in its tray like it was daring me to pick it up. My arm hair wasn't that bad, I told myself. But with that lavender top, it would be the first thing anyone noticed. Not that anyone would see me today. Still, I grabbed the razor and turned on the water. Lathered up. And slowly, carefully, I started shaving.

The sound of the blade lightly scraping across my skin echoed in the bathroom. The foam turned a little grayish as it mixed with the fine hair, and with each careful stroke, the reflection in the mirror started to change—just a little. My underarms took longer. I hesitated for a second, unsure why the act felt so strangely personal. But I did it anyway.

When I rinsed off and patted my arms dry, I couldn't deny the difference. Smooth. Clean. Soft. I walked back to the bedroom and picked up the sleeveless top again. The fabric felt lighter than I remembered. I pulled it over my head, letting it settle over my freshly shaved arms. I caught my reflection in the mirror.

I sat on the bed, running my hands down my arms. Smooth skin beneath my fingertips. A faint shiver went down my spine.

I ended up lying on my bed with my phone in hand. I don't know why I opened my photo gallery. Maybe I was trying to prove something to myself. That nothing had really changed. That I still looked like me. So I scrolled.

A picture from four months ago at work—stiff-collared shirt, shorter hair, jaw clenched with that old tension I used to wear like armor. My posture was different. Heavier somehow. Then a selfie from the first week at the gym. Baggy shorts. Tank top hanging off my shoulders. Still a bit rough, but I remember thinking I looked strange even then. And then the most recent one—Camille had snapped it two days ago as a joke, when I spilled my coffee. I was laughing. Blouse tucked in, hair pinned back, lashes longer than I remembered.

My hand hovered over the screen. I set the phone down on my chest and stared at the ceiling. I could feel it without looking: the small bump beneath the fabric, soft and clear. And my hips, too—sitting down now, I could feel the roundness, the curve that hadn't existed a few months ago. My butt filled out my trousers in a way it never used to, and I'd caught myself pulling my shirt down over it more than once lately.

And the weirdest part? I hadn't grown much body hair lately. Even before shaving my arms earlier, I'd noticed it had barely come back since the last time. Was it the gym? The diet? The pills the doctor gave me? Or was it something else I hadn't allowed myself to think about? My throat tightened.

I'd been ignoring it for weeks—the mood swings, the way music hit me harder, the strange tenderness I sometimes felt in my chest when someone complimented me, or when Brad smiled in that quiet, soft way. I rubbed my eyes and let out a long, shaky breath.

Sunday was quiet. The kind of day where time feels slow and soft. I stayed in my lounge clothes, curled up on the couch, watching whatever was on TV—rom-coms, cooking shows, reruns of sitcoms I didn't care about.

At some point in the afternoon, my sister walked in with a small basket of nail polish bottles in one hand and two mugs of coffee in the other. She handed me one, then sat at the edge of the couch.

"You should let me paint your toenails," she said casually, like she was asking me to pass the remote.

I looked at her, eyebrows raised. "Seriously?"

She smirked. "Come on, just for fun. You've already crossed halfway, and purple would actually look nice on you."

It was girly, no doubt about that. But then I sighed and shrugged. "Fine."

She grinned, already uncapping the bottle. The polish was a deep, glossy purple, more elegant than flashy. As she painted, I kept my eyes on the screen, pretending not to notice how careful and steady her hand was—or how surprisingly relaxing it felt. When she finished, she leaned back to admire her work. "Cute," she said.

I wiggled my toes, watching them catch the light. "Yeah... I guess it is."

Monday morning came too quickly. I didn't go to the gym. I needed space—just a little time to be alone with my thoughts, to breathe without mirrors or expectations or Reva's watchful gaze. Instead, I moved through the morning slowly. My routine felt familiar but distant, like I was going through the motions of someone else's life.

I stood in front of the wardrobe, looking at the options. The clothes hanging there weren't mine—or at least, they didn't feel like they used to. Soft blouses and slim trousers that hugged the waist a little more than I liked. I pulled out a muted beige blouse and paired it with dark navy pants. Professional, simple, feminine in a way that no one at the office could point out directly. Underneath, the sports bra fit snugly—just another part of the daily routine now. My hair was longer than I wanted to admit. I tied it loosely at the back, trying not to notice how much it framed my face now.

As I sat to pull on my shoes, I caught a glimpse of my toes—still painted that deep, glossy purple. Then I slipped on my socks and boots. No one had to know.

Monday had started quietly, but by late morning, the office was buzzing. James burst into the break room like he'd just won the lottery. "Yo, did you hear?" he said, practically bouncing. "We hit the quarterly target. Like, way over. The CEO's throwing us a beach trip—one day and night, all expenses paid."

I blinked. "Wait... what?"

"Yup," Camille added, sliding in behind him with her coffee. "Tuesday and Wednesday. Leave tomorrow morning, back the next evening. Beach resort. Private buses. They already sent the email."

I pulled out my phone and checked my inbox. Sure enough: "Celebration Retreat—You're Invited!" One-night stay. Coastal view resort. Team bonding. Casual beachwear. My stomach twisted a little.

James slapped me on the back. "Man, you better not bail. You need a break. And you've already got the hair and nails for beach mode," he teased, laughing before walking away.

I forced a smile. Camille, more observant than most, lingered for a moment. "You going?"

"I don't know," I said honestly. "Kind of last minute."

She tilted her head. "Come on. It's just one night. Besides," she smiled, "I think the sun might suit you."

I didn't answer right away. Because the truth was—the thought of being on a beach, in a swimsuit, in front of everyone—was terrifying.

That night, after dinner, I stood in front of my closet with the door wide open and no idea what I was looking for. Beachwear. It should've been simple. But nothing about my wardrobe was simple anymore. There were no plain swim trunks. I'd tossed my old ones weeks ago—they didn't fit right anymore. Everything I owned now had changed along with my body: slimmer cuts, softer fabrics, and higher waistbands.

Somewhere along the way, my sister suggested a wrap-style sarong, a few lightweight cover-ups, and two swim tops—tight, sporty things that could pass for bikini tops or supportive crop bras. I'd pretended not to notice. And now here I was, staring at all of it like it had been waiting for me.

I pulled out one of the tops—a navy blue piece with thin straps and a subtle ruched front. It wasn't flashy. But it definitely wasn't a guy's swim top. I held it up to my chest and glanced at the mirror. My heart thumped hard. There was a bump there now. Not large, but enough that going without coverage would invite stares. Questions. Maybe worse.

"Do you have any regular swim shorts? I can't find mine."

I sat on the edge of my bed, holding the swim top in my hands, the tag still attached. I stared at it for a long time before whispering the truth out loud: "I can't go shirtless."

It wasn't just about modesty. Or the stares. Or what people would think. It was about me. About the way my body had changed—quietly, steadily, undeniably. There were small breasts on my chest now. Not enough to fully fill a bra cup, maybe, but enough to bounce slightly when I jogged, to press against fabric, and to catch the light when I glanced at myself sideways in the mirror.

But shirtless? At the beach? No way. It wasn't possible. Not unless I wanted to explain to everyone around me why my chest curved the way it did. Why my body didn't quite match my voice.

Tuesday morning came too fast. I was up before my alarm, lying awake in bed with my heart pounding and nerves already crawling under my skin. My packed overnight bag sat quietly by the door—small, discreet, holding more than just clothes. It held decisions. The quiet truth I hadn't spoken aloud to anyone.

I'd folded the swim top and matching shorts neatly inside, along with a soft towel, a change of loose beachwear, and the navy sarong my sister had set aside for me without a word. She hadn't asked questions, but her silence said everything.

Getting dressed for the trip felt like a delicate negotiation. I chose a simple oversized T-shirt, soft and neutral, paired with high-waisted jeans that hugged my hips just a bit more than I liked to admit. Underneath, the sports bra was non-negotiable now—it wasn't just about comfort anymore. It was necessary. My hair, now shoulder-length, was tied back loosely, but I left a few strands out on purpose. I didn't know why. It just felt better that way.

At the bus stop outside the office, people were already gathering—backpacks slung over shoulders, sunglasses perched on heads, light chatter filling the early morning air. James spotted me first. "D! You made it." He gave me a casual fist bump, his eyes flicking briefly to my outfit. "Stylish. Beach ready, huh?"

I gave a weak laugh. "Something like that."

I boarded the bus, choosing a window seat near the middle. Camille slid in beside me a moment later, giving me a soft smile and no questions. I appreciated that. As the bus pulled away, the city fading behind us, I rested my head against the cool glass and let my thoughts swirl. The beach was only a few hours away. And with it, the moment I couldn't avoid. Whether I liked it or not, I'd have to take off the layers eventually. And reveal the version of myself I still wasn't sure I understood.

The bus pulled into the resort just before noon. The beach air hit us the moment we stepped down: warm, salty, soft with breeze. A mix of excitement and nerves swirled in my chest as we checked in, received our room keys, and were told to meet back near the lounge deck in thirty minutes for lunch—and beach time after that.

In the room I was sharing with James, I slipped into the bathroom with my bag before he could unpack. I pulled off my T-shirt and jeans slowly, heart pounding. Then I reached for the navy blue swim top—slim straps, subtle coverage, snug across my chest—and pulled it on. My breasts weren't large, but they were clearly there beneath the fabric. Next came the matching swim shorts—not too tight, but definitely high-waisted, with a soft stretch that hugged my hips. I tied the sarong around my waist like my sister had shown me the night before, fingers trembling slightly.

I looked in the mirror again. Was this feminine? Was it passable? Was it enough to hide behind... or was it just another step forward? I didn't have time to decide.

"Yo, Derek, you ready?" James called from outside. "Everyone's heading out."

"Yeah—give me a sec."

I slipped on a loose, open-button shirt over everything and grabbed my sunglasses, then stepped out. James looked me over once, but didn't say anything. Maybe he saw the nerves. Maybe he saw more than that. Either way, he just smiled. We walked down the path toward the beach together.

The sand stretched out like gold beneath the sky, dotted with coworkers setting up towels, umbrellas, coolers. Laughter echoed from the waves. And then I felt it. The eyes. People noticing. Not everyone. Not obviously. But enough.

Camille waved me over with a smile. "You look great! Come sit with us!"

I gave a tight smile and nodded, slipping off my shirt and sandals, the wind brushing across my bare shoulders and legs. First step onto the sand. Bare feet sinking into warmth. Sarong fluttering gently. Swim top hugging me in all the new places I wasn't ready to admit existed. I walked toward the group, every step a silent war between fear and something dangerously close to pride.

I laid out my towel beside Camille and the others, doing my best to look casual, like I wasn't super aware of every inch of my body and how different I looked now—how different I felt. A few coworkers were already splashing in the waves. Someone popped a Bluetooth speaker on and upbeat music started playing, adding a layer of ease I couldn't quite settle into.

Just as I was adjusting my sarong and sitting down, James flopped down beside me, still damp from the ocean and grinning like a kid on summer break.

"Well, well," he said, nudging my shoulder. "Didn't know we had a fashion icon in the office."

I laughed, too tightly. "Shut up."

He gave me a once-over, not in a mean way, just curious. "Seriously though—didn't expect you to go all out with the beach glam. You even matched the wrap thing. What is that—a skirt?"

"It's a sarong," I said flatly.

"Ooh, sorry, Miss Derek," he teased, emphasizing the 'Miss' with a smug grin.

I rolled my eyes, but my face flushed hot. "You're a jerk."

"Relax, dude, I'm just messing with you," he said, holding his hands up. "You look good. Just... different. Not bad-different. Just—new. If I didn't know better, I'd say someone's trying out a whole new style."

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

James gave me a gentler look after a moment. "Hey. I mean it, man. You do you. Just don't forget who your wingman is when the beach guys start lining up."

I let out a laugh, surprised by the warmth in it. "Trust me, they're not."

He shrugged, smirking. "Not yet."

James eventually wandered off to join a beach volleyball game, leaving me sitting on the towel, still feeling the echo of his teasing. Even if he meant well, it left me slightly off balance. I pulled my knees up, hugging them loosely, my sunglasses hiding the fact that I was watching everyone a little too closely. The swim top clung to me, a quiet but constant reminder of how exposed I felt.

A few minutes later, Camille sat down beside me with a gentle thump, holding a chilled bottle of beer in each hand. She passed me one without a word.

"Thanks," I muttered, taking it.

She took a sip from hers, then glanced over. "You okay?"

I nodded, not looking at her. "Yeah. Just... sun's a little much."

"Uh-huh," she said, clearly not believing me.

There was a long pause. The sound of waves in the distance, laughter from the others. I could feel her watching me.

"You've changed," she said softly. "Not just your look. You feel different. Softer, more feminine, maybe."

I tensed instinctively.

"But it's not bad," she added quickly. "It's actually kind of beautiful. And brave."

My eyes flicked toward her, unsure if she was making fun of me. She smiled gently. "I know I tease James a lot, but I notice more than he does. People don't change like this unless something deeper is going on. I don't know what you're figuring out, Derek, but... it's okay if you're still figuring it out."

That caught me off guard. I looked away, blinking behind my sunglasses. "I didn't ask for all this."

"I know," she said simply.

We sat in silence for a while, the warmth between us a quiet kind of comfort.

"I think you're doing the best you can," she said eventually. "And that counts for a lot."

I swallowed hard, unsure what to say. So I just whispered, "Thanks."

She bumped her shoulder gently against mine. "Anytime."

The sun was setting by the time I got back to the room. A deep orange glow spilled through the sheer curtains, casting warm light across the bed where my small overnight bag sat—half-zipped, my options already limited. The email had mentioned a "cocktail party by the pool" after dinner. Dress code: "resort chic." Whatever that meant.

James was already in the shower, probably throwing on something casual and confident like he always did. Me? I sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the two things I'd packed. One was a simple button-down shirt and trousers—loose, safe, boring. It was the closest thing I had to my old self. I could wear it. No one would say anything. But it didn't quite fit me anymore.

The other option was the one my sister had nudged me to pack, just in case: a light, flowy blouse in soft cream, with delicate stitching around the collar and sleeves, and a pair of tailored high-waisted pants that emphasized my waist and hips just enough to make me self-conscious. I held the blouse up to the light. It looked elegant. It felt like something I would have never worn even two months ago. But now? Now it didn't feel like a costume.

I took a deep breath, pulled off my towel, and started to dress. The blouse slid over my arms with soft ease, brushing against my skin like it belonged. I tucked it in gently, adjusted the waistband, and looked at myself in the mirror. I hesitated, then added a light touch of nude lipstick—something I'd taken from my sister's makeup pouch before the trip, just in case.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, James looked up from tying his shoes. He whistled. "Damn. You're going to make everyone else look underdressed."

I blinked. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"

He smirked. "Both."

The cocktail party was in full swing by the time we arrived at the pool deck. String lights crisscrossed above the patio, casting a golden glow over the resort's gleaming tiles. Music played low and jazzy from hidden speakers. Most people had a drink in hand and a smile on their face.

I stayed close to James, mostly because I didn't know where else to go. We stood near the edge of the crowd with drinks—mine untouched—watching Camille and a few others laughing near the bar. James leaned on the railing, his expression quieter than usual. Another moment passed before he spoke again.

"Listen," he said, eyes fixed ahead, "about all the stuff I've said lately... the teasing, the 'Miss Derek' crap. I thought I was being funny, but I guess I didn't think hard enough."

I stayed quiet.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I was trying to keep things normal, you know? Like, if I joked about it, then nothing had really changed. But you have changed. And I... didn't handle that great."

I looked down at my drink, fingers tracing the condensation. "You didn't mean harm. You're just not used to this either."

"No," he said firmly, "but that doesn't make it okay. I've been your friend for a long time, and I should've seen you were going through something real. Not just a new look. Not just a phase."

I finally met his eyes. They were honest. Sincere.

"I'm sorry, man," he said. "Truly. I respect whatever this is for you—even if you're still figuring it out."

"Thanks," I said, my voice low. "That... means more than you probably know."

He smiled faintly. "Still my wingman, right?"

I gave a small laugh. "Only if you stop calling me Miss Derek."

He grinned. "Deal."

The night had softened into something almost dreamlike. Laughter floated under the fairy lights. Glasses clinked. The air was warm with ocean breeze and just enough alcohol to dull the edges of worry. Music pulsed gently in the background—something upbeat, easy to move to.

"Come on," Derek said, nudging me with a grin. "You have to dance now. You look like you're about to start narrating a perfume commercial."

I rolled my eyes but smiled. "Fine. One song."

He grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor under the lights. People cheered, clapped along. It was fun—awkward at first, but soon I was laughing, spinning with him in that dorky, familiar way we always joked around.

And for a minute, I forgot to worry. I forgot what I looked like. I forgot what I'd become. It was just joy.

Then—it hit. A sudden, stabbing pain in my abdomen—deep and sharp. I gasped, stumbling mid-step. James caught my arm. "Whoa—hey. You okay?"

But I couldn't answer. The pain bloomed again, like something twisting beneath my skin. My knees buckled. I clutched my stomach.

"Derek?!"

The music blurred. People stopped moving. My vision dimmed. Then everything tilted sideways. And I collapsed into darkness.