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Author's Note:Another week, another part. Here we are at part 3 of 5. I mentioned last time how some chapters might be longer than others, well this is one of them. It seemed to work out that way when I broke this up into 5 parts. I really like this part, I hope everyone else does too. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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3.

Tyler woke in bed, his tongue thick and sour like he'd licked a battery. The ceiling fan spun lazy circles above him, its rhythmic click-click-click the only sound in the room. He tried to sit up—and immediately regretted it. His head pounded in time with the fan, a dull ache radiating from his temples down to his jaw. "Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his face.

His fingers twitched against the sheets, the fabric damp with cold sweat. The last thing he remembered was Kayla dragging him through Sierra's pulsing basement, the world tilting like a carnival ride gone wrong. Now his bedroom walls swam in and out of focus, the Avengers poster above his dresser warping into a blur of primary colors. He swallowed—his throat felt lined with sandpaper.

Something flashed into his mind.

A girl.

A kiss.

He absently touched his lips, almost as if he could still feel her lips there.

Tyler groaned as he rolled onto his side, his entire body protesting. Every muscle ached like he'd run a marathon—or gotten hit by a truck. His skin burned one moment and prickled with goosebumps the next. The back of his throat felt raw, like he'd swallowed a cheese grater. He squinted at his phone on the nightstand; the bright screen seared his retinas. 8:17 AM. The party was last night.

Shit. What happened? He couldn't remember a damn thing.

He tried sitting up again and again, his body protested.

He fumbled toward his phone, taking it off the nightstand.

There were several missed calls and texts from both Benny and Callie.  They grew from calm to desperate to scared very fast.

There was a gentle knock on his room door and a moment later, his mother came in. She looked scared and something else he couldn't quite place.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice strained.

His mother hesitated in the doorway. The morning light cut across her face, revealing dark circles under her eyes. "You don't remember?" Her voice was too controlled, the way it got when she was trying not to scream at Kayla.

"Bits and pieces" he said, trying to remember. "Went to the party. Thought I saw Kayla in the basement. Then some girl..." He stopped, touching his lips.

His mother was clutching her hands. "I called the doctor. They want to run some tests..."

Tests? "What for?" he asked, not willing to think of the correct answer.

That's when he noticed his mother had clearly been crying.

Realization was slowly dawning. She suspected. Tyler saw it in the way his mother's fingers tightened around the door handle, white-knuckled. In the forced calm of her breathing. In how her eyes kept darting to his neck, his wrists—any exposed skin—like she was tracking the spread of some invisible stain. His stomach lurched. "Mom," he croaked, "just say it."

His mother’s breath hitched—just once—before she stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind her with unnatural care.

The silence between them stretched like a live wire. Tyler watched his mother's throat work as she swallowed—too many times, too deliberately. Her fingers twitched toward his nightstand drawer, where she'd stashed the thermometer last winter. But she didn't move. Just stood there, breathing through her nose like a bull about to charge.

"You think...?" He couldn't bring himself to say it.

His mother clearly couldn't either. "The doctor will know."

Shit.

He felt sick to his stomach. This couldn't be happening.

Something dawned on him a second later. "What about Kayla?"

"Grounded for eternity" his mother said coldly.

He shook his head. "No, not that. Is she ok? Did she...?"

His mother sighed. "I love that about you honey. Your sister did something unthinkably stupid and you're concerned about her well being" His mother rubbed her temples. "She's fine. No fever. She's just the dumbest person on the planet"

Tyler reached for the glass of water on his nightstand, his fingers trembling against the condensation. The coolness should have been comforting, but his skin felt wrong—too sensitive, like someone had peeled back a layer. He took a sip and winced; even the water tasted different, metallic and thick. His mother was still hovering by the door, her arms crossed so tight her elbows were turning white.

"I'll let you get some rest and call the doctor to see when I can get you in," his mother said, before leaving the room.

He drifted off for a while.

A gentle knock on his door woke him up. He didn't even remember falling asleep but as soon as his eyes were open, he felt like someone had hit him with a truck.

The door opened and his mother came in with two people behind her---a man and a woman---both dressed in white coats with badges hanging from their necks.

He recognized the older man as Dr. Harris, the same doctor his family had been seeing for years. The woman was younger, more crisp and put together.

"Tyler," his mother said softly, "Dr. Harris and Dr. Jones are here to see you."

Dr. Jones stepped forward, her hands in her pockets, her eyes scanning him as if she were studying him under a microscope. "We didn't want you to have to leave the house," she said smoothly. "CDC protocol."

CDC.

"So it's..." he asked, swallowing hard, his head hurting. "Are you sure?"

Dr. Harris sighed, adjusting his glasses. "We can't be sure yet. But given the circumstances..." He glanced at Dr. Jones, who gave a subtle nod. "We'd like to run some preliminary tests. Just to rule things out."

Dr. Jones unzipped her medical kit with a sharp, plastic sound that made Tyler flinch. The contents gleamed under his bedroom light—needles in sterile packaging, vials with purple caps, alcohol swabs that smelled like chemical lemons. She snapped on gloves with practiced efficiency, the latex stretching tight over her fingers. "This will just pinch for a second," she said, but her tone was detached, like she'd said it a thousand times this week alone.

Tyler watched the needle sink into his arm with morbid fascination. His blood flowed darker than he expected, sluggish as syrup, filling the vial in thick pulses. Dr. Jones didn't react when he hissed—just swapped the first vial for a second, then a third. The room tilted slightly; he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until spots danced at the edges of his vision.

Dr. Harris patted his shoulder. "You're a good, strong boy, Tyler".

The way he said "boy" though with a slight pause almost, it was quite telling.

"How long will it take to be certain?" asked his mother as Dr. Jones stored the samples.

She smiled. "Once upon a time ago, it would take hours. I brought a mobile lab, it should only be a few minutes"

The amazement of modern medicine, thought Tyler, as both doctors left the room.

It was the longest few minutes of his life.

When Dr. Jones returned alone, he knew. He saw it in the way she looked at him.

Dr. Jones didn't speak at first. She just stood there with the tablet in her hands, her polished nails tapping against the screen in a rhythm that matched Tyler's rabbit-quick pulse. The silence stretched until his mother made a small, wounded noise—the kind someone makes when they already know the answer but need to hear it anyway.

The tablet screen flickered as Dr. Jones turned it toward them. A graph pulsed in jagged red lines, but Tyler barely registered it before she spoke. "Positive for Strain Gamma," she said, clinical and precise. "Viral load suggests exposure approximately..." She glanced at her watch. "Nine hours ago."

The Bug.

The tablet's glow painted Dr. Jones' face in cold blue as she recited statistics—viral mutation rates, cytokine markers—but Tyler barely heard her. His fingers crept up to his collarbone, pressing into the hollow where his pulse jumped. His skin felt fever-slick. Different.

"What exactly is Strain Gamma?" asked his very confused mother.

"The fast one" said the doctor in her detached way of speaking.

Dr. Jones' tablet clicked shut with finality. Tyler's mother pressed a hand to her mouth, her wedding band glinting under the harsh bedroom light. "Fast?" she echoed, voice cracking.

"Within 48 hours" Dr. Jones said with certainty.

His mother covered her mouth, trembling.

Tyler felt sick but he tried to remain calm. "What about my sister?"

Dr. Jones shook her head. "There are a few things we leave out of the press. One of them pertains to the various strains of the virus. Strain Gamma is not an airborne variant,” She paused for a moment as if considering her words. “In fact only 0.000001% of the strains are. It is one of the faster variants though, little fuss or muss"

The silence in Tyler's bedroom thickened like drying cement. Dr. Jones' tablet screen dimmed automatically, plunging them into the pale morning light filtering through his half-drawn blinds. Tyler stared at his hands—still his hands, still boy-hands—turning them over as if expecting to see cracks forming in his skin.

Dr. Jones shook her head. "It doesn't quite work that way. Most of the changes will happen while you sleep".

He sighed. That was good at least.

Dr. Jones turned to his mother. "Let's give your daughter some rest now, there are a few things we need to discuss".

Dr. Jones and his mother left.

Daughter.

Hearing it made him flinch. He was a daughter now.

He started to tremble but managed to get his phone. He took a deep breath and called the only person he wanted to tell: Callie.

The phone rang three times before Callie's breathless "Tyler?" punched through the speaker. There was a muffled clatter—books hitting the floor, probably—and the squeak of her bedroom door slamming shut. "Holy shit, I've been texting you since—"

"I was at a party last night. Sierra's. Kayla ran off and..." He took a deep breath. "Some random girl kissed me in the dark"

Callie’s gasp crackled through the phone. "Jesus Christ, Tyler—"

The phone slipped slightly in Tyler's sweaty palm. "Callie, it's—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "The doctors just left. I tested positive. Strain Gamma."

The silence on the other end of the line stretched so long Tyler thought the call had dropped. Then came a sharp inhale, followed by the rustling of fabric as Callie shifted positions. "Gamma," she repeated, voice low and urgent. "That's the one Jasmine had."

He thought it might be.

The phone line hummed with static, or maybe it was the blood rushing in Tyler’s ears. Callie’s breathing hitched—once, twice—before she spoke again. "Okay," she said, too evenly. "Okay. Are you... feeling anything yet?"

"Just sick. Like flu sick" he groaned.

Tyler’s phone buzzed against his ear—Callie texting him a screenshot mid-call. He pulled the phone away, squinting at the image: a blurry selfie of Jasmine from earlier that morning, her lips glossy and parted in a mock pout. The caption read *Day 3 of being a gurl!!!* with a string of heart emojis. His stomach twisted. "She looks..."

Callie sighed. "I've been doing research. About the mental reconditioning"

Tyler stared at Jasmine's photo until his vision blurred. The girl in the picture bore no resemblance to the Jason he'd known—sharp-eyed and sarcastic, always three steps ahead in debate club. This version giggled behind a manicured hand, her lashes fluttering like trapped butterflies. "Mental reconditioning?" he echoed hoarsely.

"It varies from person to person. Some get the extreme like Jason and others get very little" said Callie, sending him another picture.

Another girl.

"Carla Smith from Atlanta. She was a track and field star before the change" Callie said "and one after it as well. No mental changes, other than some subtle nudges"

The second image was a candid shot—Carla running in a track meet. She looked like a normal girl.

She looks slow, Taylor waywardly thought.

"It's about having a strong constitution," Callie clarified. She took a deep breath. "You're strong Tyler. Stronger than Jason. If anyone can..."

He smiled. "Thanks Callie"

Tyler's fingers tightened around his phone. The screen flickered—low battery warning—but he barely noticed. Callie's voice had gone quiet, the weight of unspoken fears pressing between them. He opened his mouth to ask how long Carla had lasted before the changes started, but his bedroom door creaked open again.

His mother stood in the doorway.

"I gotta go Cal, I'll call you later?" he said, noticing the urgency in his mother's look.

The door clicked shut behind his mother with unnatural finality. She held a steaming mug—chamomile, probably, the kind she swore by for nerves—but her hands shook so badly the liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim. "Tyler," she started, then stopped. Her gaze darted to his phone before snapping back to his face like she was afraid it might bite him. "Who were you—?"

"Just Callie, Mom" he said after hanging up and setting the phone down.

His mother set the mug on his nightstand without a sound, her fingers lingering on the ceramic like she was afraid it might shatter. The steam curled between them, carrying the scent of over-steeped chamomile and something medicinal beneath—valerian root, maybe, the stuff she’d started taking after Dad started traveling for work. She perched on the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, but her posture stayed rigid, shoulders squared like she was bracing for impact.

"They’re sending a kit," she said finally, picking at a loose thread on his duvet. "Special vitamins. Electrolyte packets. Some... other things." Her voice hitched on the last word, eyes darting to his chest—just for a fraction of a second—before snapping back to his face. Tyler didn’t need to ask what "other things" meant. The way her fingers twitched toward her own collarbone told him everything.

He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. "How bad is it gonna be?"

His mother’s breath shuddered out in a rush. She reached for his hand, then seemed to think better of it, her fingers curling into a fist on her knee instead. "Dr. Jones says Gamma moves in stages." Her thumb rubbed circles into her palm, a nervous tic he hadn’t seen since Kayla’s appendectomy. "First the fever breaks, then... the reshaping starts." The clinical term sounded grotesque in her mouth, like she’d practiced it in the mirror and still couldn’t make it fit.

"They... they have protocols for this now," she said carefully, her gaze fixed on her own twisting hands. "Once the transformation stabilizes—" The word caught in her throat. She cleared it and tried again. "Once you're through the worst of it, there's a streamlined process. New birth certificate, school records, everything."

Tyler watched his mother's reflection warp in the curved surface of the mug. His throat burned—not from the virus, but from the way she kept glancing at his shoulders, his jawline, like she was memorizing them. Like she thought they might vanish overnight.

Well they actually would sadly.

"The CDC has a fund," she continued, forcing her voice steady, though her fingers plucked at the hem of her shirt. "For... essentials. Undergarments. Skincare." She swallowed hard. "They said most families opt for the prepaid Visa—less paperwork that way."

Tyler's fingernails bit into his palms. Essentials. Like he was packing for some twisted summer camp where they'd teach him how to walk in heels instead of shoot arrows. "What about school?" The words came out hoarse, scraped raw from the inside.

"Extended leave of absence for a while, they have online classes for that kind of thing" his mother sounded hollowed out.

"Did you call Dad?"

She nodded. "He's in Boston. He's booked a flight".

The mug trembled in Tyler’s grip as he took a sip, the chamomile tea scalding his tongue—too hot, too sweet, wrong in ways he couldn’t articulate. His mother’s phone buzzed violently against the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a flood of notifications from the neighborhood watch group. He caught snippets—*confirmed case on Maple*, *CDC checkpoint at the high school*, *keep your teens inside*—before she flipped it face-down with a sharp exhale.

The mug slipped from Tyler’s fingers—not quite falling, but tilting enough that tea sloshed over the rim and onto his sheets. His mother snatched it away with a stifled gasp, but he barely registered the burn spreading across his thighs. The heat felt distant, secondary to the prickle crawling up his spine. His skin no longer fit right—too tight at the wrists, too loose at the neck—like someone had dressed him in a costume two sizes off.

The mug hit the nightstand with a dull thud. Tyler’s hands—still *his* hands, for now—clutched at the sheets as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through him. His mother’s fingers hovered near his shoulder, unsure whether to touch him or the medical bracelet Dr. Jones had snapped onto his wrist moments ago. The plastic tag burned against his skin, its embossed letters spelling out *STRAIN GAMMA* in stark red.

"I'll let you rest some more," she said, standing, taking both her phone and the mug with her.

Tyler was alone again. His own phone beeped, warning him of the low battery. He was too tired to take care of it.

Later, he thought.

Then fell asleep again.

******

Tyler jolted awake with a gasp, his pillow damp with sweat. Something tickled his neck—an insect, maybe—and he reached up to brush it away, only to freeze when his fingers tangled in long, silky strands that hadn’t been there hours ago. He yanked his hand back as if burned, heart hammering against his ribs. The bedroom was dark, but the streetlight outside cast enough glow to see the blonde locks coiled around his fingers, sleek and foreign.

Shit.

Tyler sat bolt upright, his breath ragged as he clawed at the strands clinging to his neck—too fine, too soft, like spiderwebs dipped in honey. The digital clock on his nightstand read 3:17 AM in searing red, hours since his mother had left.

He gently touched his hair, it was soft. Turning on the light near his bed, he slowly sat up. The only good thing about this was that the fever was finally gone. Just like Dr. Jones predicted it would be. He just never expected it to be gone this fast. He grabbed at a mirror that he sometimes kept on his nightstand, turning it slightly to see what he was working with now. There was no denying what he was seeing---his hair was lighter than Kayla's but longer now. Not as long as hers but touching his shoulders at least.

Shit.

The mirror tilted in Tyler's trembling hands, catching the sharp angles of his face—except they weren't sharp anymore. His jawline had softened overnight, the stubborn squareness now yielding to gentle curves. His Adam's apple sat less prominent against his throat, as if someone had sanded down the edges of his body while he slept. But it was his lips that made his breath hitch—fuller, pinker, with a natural Cupid's bow that hadn't been there yesterday. He pressed a fingertip to them, half-expecting the plumpness to deflate like a lie.

He looked like a feminized version of himself. Not quite an identical twin to Kayla but close. He could maybe pass for her androgynous sister now.

He spared a quick glance down and sighed in relief.

His chest was still flat as a board.

The mirror clattered onto the nightstand as Tyler scrambled out of bed—too fast, his vision swimming with black spots. He stumbled toward his ensuite bathroom, his legs feeling oddly uncoordinated, like his knees had been greased.

The bathroom light flickered on with a buzz that made Tyler wince. He braced against the sink, waiting for his vision to clear before daring to look in the mirror. The face staring back was his—but not. The same blue eyes, now fringed with lashes too thick to ignore. The same nose, but softer at the bridge. His collarbones protruded more sharply beneath skin that looked poreless, almost polished.

The hand mirror had not done his inspection justice.

He reached slowly into his pajama pants and was happy that his "little friend" was still there.

For now at least.

He actually read online it was one of the last things to go.

The bathroom tiles were cold beneath Tyler's bare feet as he leaned closer to the mirror, tracing the unfamiliar contours of his face with trembling fingers. His skin was smoother—not just in texture, but in actual structure—as if someone had airbrushed away the roughness of adolescence overnight. He pinched his cheek experimentally, half-expecting the flesh to peel away like clay, revealing something entirely new underneath.

He was pretty. A blessing and a curse. Kayla was well liked and popular, one of the prettier girls in school. He kinda knew what he was getting into because he was her twin after all. He wasn't done changing either, only a few hours in.

The creak of floorboards snapped Tyler’s head around so fast his new hair whipped across his face. Kayla stood frozen in his bathroom doorway, one hand still on the knob, her sleep-mussed hair sticking up in familiar cowlicks. Her mouth hung open slightly, her gaze darting from Tyler’s face to the mirror and back again.

She stared for a long time before she started crying. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry"

Tyler blinked. That wasn't the reaction he expected.

Instinctively, he rushed over to her and hugged her tight. He held her as she sobbed. He wasn't afraid of infecting her because he wasn't contagious, well not unless he kissed her which made him shudder to think about. Instead, he held her as she sobbed into his shoulder. He let her cry long and hard.

Kayla’s tears soaked through Tyler’s pajama shirt, warm against his collarbone where the skin had grown strangely sensitive. He could feel each shuddering breath she took, the way her fingers clutched at his back like she was afraid he’d dissolve if she let go. His own hands hovered awkwardly before settling on her shoulders—lighter than he remembered, the bones more delicate under his touch.

Tyler felt Kayla's grip tighten as her sobs subsided into hiccupping breaths. "You don't have to apologize," he murmured into her hair, which smelled faintly of her strawberry shampoo—the same brand she'd used since middle school. The familiarity of it grounded him, even as the weight of her body against his felt different, the angles of her shoulders fitting against his chest in ways they never had before.

The digital clock ticked over to 3:42 AM when Kayla finally pulled back, wiping her nose with the back of her hand in that unselfconscious way Tyler had seen a thousand times—except now her fingers looked slenderer next to his own, her wrists finer-boned. Moonlight caught the tear tracks on her cheeks as she sniffled. "It's my fault," she whispered hoarsely. "Sierra's party—I shouldn't have gone. I'm a fucking idiot."

Tyler reached out, tucking a strand of Kayla's messy hair behind her ear—a gesture he'd seen their mother do a thousand times, but one that felt oddly natural now. "Stop," he said, his voice softer than he intended. "You didn't know some random girl would shove her tongue down my throat."

Kayla let out a wet, startled laugh at that, her breath hitching as she wiped her eyes again. "God, when you say it like that..." She trailed off, her gaze flickering over Tyler's face—lingering on his fuller lips, his smoothed jawline—awed. "Shit, you're me"

Kayla's fingers hovered near Tyler's cheekbone, not quite touching. "No," she murmured after a moment, tilting her head. "You're like... almost me maybe." Her thumb brushed the corner of his eye—where the lashes now curled without mascara. "Your eyes are still yours, though."

Kayla's eyes were green. It was the weird thing about them. They were not at all close to being identical when they were brother and sister. He was taller, still was apparently. He had blue eyes, hers were green. Her hair was honey blonde, his was almost sun bleached.

The bathroom mirror fogged slightly from their combined breath as Tyler and Kayla stood shoulder-to-shoulder, studying their reflections like mismatched bookends. Tyler's new hair curled slightly at the ends where it brushed his collarbones—lighter than Kayla's honey-blonde, almost platinum under the harsh fluorescent light. Kayla reached out, twisting a strand around her finger. "It's softer than mine," she murmured, her voice still thick from crying. "Does it feel weird?"

He shrugged. "Jury's still out" He brushed a strand absently behind an ear, like she did some times. "This is only after a few hours".

"Almost all day technically" she corrected. "You've been asleep since this morning, it's now technically another whole morning"

He groaned. So almost 24 hours. How had he not noticed that?

Kayla’s fingers twitched toward her phone in her pajama pocket—Tyler knew that nervous tic. She bit her lip. "We should document this," she said quietly. "For science."

Before he could say anything, she took out her phone and snapped a pic of him.

Tyler blinked at the sudden flash, his reflection in the mirror momentarily replaced by the afterimage burned into his retinas. "Did you seriously just—?"

"Day One of Taylor" she said happily.

"Who's Taylor?" he asked, utterly confused.

"You silly" she said, happy with herself.

"You can't just..."

"Well I did," she said triumphantly. "Deal with it"

The flash of Kayla’s phone camera left spots dancing in Tyler’s vision as she grinned at the screen, thumbs already flying across the keyboard. “Stop,” he groaned, reaching for the phone, but she danced back with a smirk, holding it just out of reach—a move perfected over years of sibling rivalry. His lunge sent him stumbling, his center of gravity off-kilter in a way that made his knees buckle. Kayla’s smirk faltered as she caught his elbow, her grip firm despite the new delicacy of his bones.

"I wasn't going to post it, was saving it to a folder" she said, steadying him.

He sighed. She had a point. "As long as they don't pop up all over your socials, I'm ok with it"

The mattress dipped under their combined weight as Tyler and Kayla settled onto his bed, knees brushing in a way that would've felt accidental before but now carried an unspoken awareness of space—his space, her space, the inches between them suddenly loaded with everything unsaid. Tyler plucked at his pajama pants, the fabric pooling differently around his hips now. "So," he started, then stopped, staring at the fraying seam of his comforter.

Kayla flopped backward onto his pillows, her hair fanning out in messy waves. "So," she echoed, stretching the word out until it lost all meaning. She rolled onto her side, propping her head on one hand, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. "Does it hurt?"

Tyler's fingers drifted to his throat, where the skin felt taut and strangely sensitive. "Not... hurt, exactly." He swallowed, noticing how the motion no longer made his Adam's apple bob as prominently. "More like growing pains. But inside out."

Kayla's nose scrunched—their mother's exact expression when confronted with biology homework. "Gross." She reached out, poking his cheek with one finger. "You're warmer than usual."

"Still running a low-grade fever, probably." Tyler caught her wrist before she could poke him again, startled by how slender it felt in his grip. Kayla didn't pull away. Instead, her fingers curled around his, her thumb brushing the newly softened knuckles. The silence stretched, thick with all the arguments they weren't having.

The digital clock on Tyler's nightstand clicked over to 4:13 AM when Kayla finally spoke again, her voice quieter than he'd ever heard it. "Remember when we used to share clothes?"

He groaned. "I remember when you used to force me to wear your clothes!"

Kayla kicked him lightly under the covers, grinning. "You looked cute in that sundress."

Tyler grabbed a pillow and threw it at her face, but there was no heat behind it—just this strange, giddy lightness that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the virus. Kayla caught the pillow with a laugh, hugging it to her chest as she studied him with an expression he couldn't quite place—not pity, not curiosity, but something raw and unfiltered that made him suddenly aware of how close they were sitting.

"You're still you," she said finally, poking his shoulder. "Just... prettier."

Tyler snorted, shoving her hand away. "Shut up." But he couldn't help glancing at the mirror across the room, catching the blurred reflection of them side by side—his hair catching the dim light in a way Kayla's never had, his profile softer against the sharp angles of her face. He swallowed hard. "Does Mom know?"

Kayla nodded. "She was in here a couple of hours ago"

He blinked. "And?"

Kayla shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his comforter. "She cried. A lot."

Tyler swallowed, staring at his hands—still his, but softer now, the knuckles less pronounced. He flexed his fingers, watching the tendons move differently under skin that looked poreless in the dim light.

"Dad?" he asked.

Kayla sighed. "Flight delayed. He keeps texting for updates"

They sat in silence. The air between them hummed with all the things they weren't saying—the fights, the slammed doors, the cruel words hurled like weapons during one of their endless battles over bathroom time or chores or nothing at all. Tyler realized with a start that this was the longest they'd gone without arguing since middle school.

He wasn't sure what it was actually.

Kayla's fingers lingered on Tyler's wrist—not gripping, not pulling away—just resting there like she'd forgotten how to let go. It was like there was this subtle shift now in their relationship, something tectonic moving beneath the surface of all their old patterns. The usual barbed teasing felt dulled at the edges, the competitive tension replaced by an unspoken vigilance. Tyler realized with a start that Kayla was studying him the way their mother checked the stove burner—three glances to be sure it was really off.

The digital clock ticked over to 4:27 AM when Kayla abruptly stood, her knees popping loudly in the quiet room. "You hungry?" she asked, already heading for the door—not waiting for an answer because she already knew he was. That part hadn't changed. What had changed was the way she paused in the doorway, looking back at him with her brow furrowed like she was memorizing the slope of his new jawline.

Tyler followed her downstairs, his sock feet whispering against the hardwood. His center of gravity felt off—not enough to stumble, but enough that he noticed the way his hips moved differently, the way his shoulders automatically pulled back to compensate. Kayla's head turned slightly as she walked ahead of him, as if she could hear the unsteadiness in his steps.

"C'mon Bambi," she teased.

"Screw you" he said, sticking out his tongue.

She laughed.

Tyler had expected pity, or worse—revulsion—from Kayla when she saw his changes. Instead, she'd slipped back into their old rhythm with unsettling ease, like his feminization was just another quirk to be mocked. It was unsettling in its normalcy. The fridge light bathed Kayla in a sickly yellow glow as she rummaged through leftovers, her movements jerky with restless energy. Tyler leaned against the kitchen island, his hips pressing into the counter's edge in a way that would've bruised yesterday. The tile floor chilled his feet through his socks.

"It's weird, right?" Kayla asked abruptly, slamming the fridge door with her hip. She held two yogurts—strawberry for her, blueberry for him—like nothing had changed. But everything had. "How normal this feels?"

The yogurt container felt foreign in Tyler's grip—his fingers too slender against the plastic, the lid resisting his usual twist-and-pop technique. Kayla watched, eyebrows raised, as he struggled before surrendering it to her with a muttered curse. She popped it open effortlessly and slid it back across the counter, her smirk fading when she noticed the tremor in his hands.

The yogurt tasted like ash in Tyler's mouth, but he forced it down anyway, watching Kayla lick her spoon clean with the same exaggerated relish she'd had since they were six. The kitchen clock ticked loudly—4:39 AM—and somewhere outside, a dog barked.

The two of them sat at the kitchen table, eating their yogurt.

Kayla's spoon clattered against her empty yogurt cup, forgotten. She stared across the kitchen table, her gaze tracing the unfamiliar lines of Tyler's face with an intensity that made his skin prickle. The dawn light filtering through the blinds painted them both in watery stripes—illuminating how Tyler's new hair caught the light in a way Kayla's never had, throwing golden highlights against cheekbones that were hers but not.

"You're staring," Tyler muttered, pushing his half-eaten yogurt away.

"I know," Kayla breathed, unblinking. Her fingers twitched toward his face before curling back into her palm. "It's just—you look so much like me now"

He snorted. "Its that freaky twin thing"

"I know this is going to sound really fucking horrible but I always wished you were my sister" she admitted.

Tyler froze mid-bite, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. The yogurt dripped onto the table with a wet plop. "You—what?"

Kayla's cheeks flushed pink as she suddenly found the pattern of the tablecloth fascinating. "Not—not like this obviously." She gestured vaguely at his softening jawline, his longer lashes. "Just... you know. Growing up." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Sometimes I'd pretend."

The admission hung between them like smoke—impossible to ignore, impossible to grasp. Tyler's fingers tightened around his spoon. He'd spent fifteen years orbiting Kayla's sunshine, never guessing she'd wanted him closer. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence—4:43 AM—the minute hand trembling as if unsure where to go next.

Kayla reached across the table, her fingertips brushing the back of Tyler's hand—so lightly he might have imagined it. "Your freckles are gone," she murmured, tracing the space where his summer constellations used to be. Her touch left trails of heat on his strangely smooth skin.

Tyler caught her wrist, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath his thumb. "Which ones did I have?" he challenged, watching her blink in surprise. They'd played this game since kindergarten—mapping each other's moles like star charts—but now his skin was a blank slate.

Kayla's fingers fluttered to his nose. "One here," she whispered, pressing the tip. "Like someone dabbed you with a paintbrush." Her touch drifted to his temple—"Two here, almost touching"—then skated down to his collarbone, making him shiver. "And a cluster here that looked like Orion."

They shared a laugh.

The fluorescent kitchen light buzzed to life with a harsh click, flooding the room in sterile white. Tyler and Kayla jerked apart like guilty conspirators—her fingers still hovering near his collarbone where Orion's freckles had vanished. Their mother stood frozen in the doorway, one hand clutching her robe closed at the throat, the other gripping an empty water glass so tightly her knuckles bleached white.

"Oh," she breathed—not a word so much as punched-out air. The glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the tile with a crystalline crash that made Tyler flinch violently. His mother didn't seem to notice the mess. She took one halting step forward, then another, her gaze locked on Tyler's face with horrified fascination. "Sweetheart, you're—"

"Me?" Kayla supplied helpfully, kicking her chair back with a screech to kneel beside the broken glass.

Their mother shook her head mutely, reaching toward Tyler's cheek but stopping millimeters away, as if afraid he'd dissolve under her touch. Her wedding band glinted under the lights—the same hand that had cradled his feverish forehead yesterday, when his features were still recognizably his. Now her fingers trembled in the space between them, tracing the air where his jawline had softened overnight into something softer, more delicate.

Tyler swallowed hard. "Hey Mom."

"We were eating," Kayla explained as she scooped up some of the broken glass. "She was hungry".

She? Tyler flinched at the new pronoun. He wasn't expecting it, not yet anyway. He knew it was coming of course but he was hoping to hold onto himself a little longer.

The kitchen clock ticked louder in the silence that followed Kayla's casual pronoun slip. Tyler's mother inhaled sharply, her eyes darting between her children—one kneeling in broken glass, the other gripping the table edge with hands that no longer looked like her son's. The refrigerator hummed to life with a sudden buzz, making all three of them jump.

The shards of glass caught the overhead light like jagged stars as Kayla carefully gathered them into her cupped palm. Tyler watched his mother's face—the way her lips trembled, the way her gaze kept flicking between him and the floor, as if unsure where to look.

"It's ok, Mom," he said, reaching forward and patting her hand.

It was too. It was really weird. All week he'd been freaking out about this possibility and now that it had happened, he was calm? How did that make any sense? Even scarier was that he was strangely relieved. It was like this huge weight had been lifted off his chest suddenly. Not that he ever in a million years wanted this but he wasn't pissed about it like he thought he was going to be.

Was it the mental reconditioning?

Kayla threw out the glass then proceeded to dispose of their empty yogurt containers.

The overhead light flickered once—a brief stutter in time—as Tyler's mother exhaled sharply, her fingers finally closing around his. Her grip was warm, familiar, yet everything about the moment felt alien. Tyler watched their joined hands with detached curiosity—his fingers slimmer now, the knuckles less pronounced, his mother's wedding band pressing into skin that no longer bore his childhood scars.

"I think we should all get a few more hours of sleep," his mother finally said after their long moment of silence.

Kayla groaned. "Mom, she's been sleeping all day!"

Tyler's mother flinched at Kayla's pronoun like she'd been slapped, her grip tightening around Tyler's hand. "She?" The word cracked in her throat.

Kayla nodded. "I know it sucks but it's got to happen"

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead as Tyler watched his mother’s face crumple. Her grip on his hand went slack, her fingers retreating to press against her own lips as if holding back a sob.

Tyler looked at his sister. They shared a look but neither said anything.

"Ok Mom" he finally said. "I'll try to get some more sleep"

Even though Kayla was right. He wasn't tired at all.

He and Kayla left the kitchen, heading up the stairs together.

"She's not dealing with this at all" Kayla whispered, shaking her head.

Tyler sighed. "Give her some time"

Tyler turned and started for his room when she grabbed his wrist and dragged him into a hug. She held him softly, burying her face in his shoulder.

"We got this....sis" she said after pulling away and going to her room.

Tyler sighed.

He went over to his bed, sitting on the ledge. He turned and found his phone on the nightstand. He picked it up to check his texts but it was dead.

Tyler stared at the blank screen of his phone like it had personally betrayed him. The charger dangled uselessly from the outlet—he must've forgotten to plug it in during last night's feverish haze. He pressed the power button three times in rapid succession, as if sheer willpower could resurrect the dead device. Nothing.

He started charging it, turning it on as it did so.

A minute or two later, he was greeted by loads of texts. All from Benny and Callie. He groaned, remembering how he hadn't talked to Benny at all. He'd left his best friend in the dark completely.

He checked the time, it was a little after 5am now. He bit his lip, wondering if Benny was even awake. He risked it and called.

Benny picked up on the second ring, his voice raspy with sleep but sharp with concern. "Dude. Where the hell have you been?"

Tyler took a deep breath and let out a "Hey".

There was a pause. "Kay? Why are you on Ty's phone? What happened? Is he ok?"

Tyler was shocked. Did he actually sound like Kayla now?

He cleared his throat. "This isn't Kayla".

Benny's sharp inhale crackled through the phone line. "No fucking way." The mattress springs squeaked violently—Benny sitting up too fast. "Tell me this is Kayla punking me. Tell me you're—"

"Benny, it's me," Tyler said, his voice catching on the words. The sound of his own speech startled him—higher, softer, threaded with unfamiliar cadences.

The silence stretched so long Tyler thought the call had dropped. Then Benny exhaled hard—a rush of static against Tyler's ear. "Jesus Christ." Another pause. "You? When? What happened?"

The phone pressed hot against Tyler's ear as he slumped onto his bed, staring at his reflection in the darkened window—a ghost girl with Kayla's bone structure and his own wide, panicked eyes. "Remember Sierra's Bug Bash?" His voice sounded foreign even to himself—not quite Kayla's crisp alto, but something fluttery and uncertain.

Benny's sharp intake crackled through the speaker. "The one you told me NOT to go to!"

"Yeah well—" Tyler's fingers twisted in the comforter, nails catching on fabric that suddenly felt too rough against his sensitive skin. He swallowed hard, remembering the damp press of bodies in Sierra's basement, the way the unnamed girl ambushed him. "Some girl cornered me. She was—" His throat closed around the memory of her feverish skin, the unnatural gleam in her eyes as she'd whispered *you're going to be so beautiful* before sealing her lips over his.

Benny's muttered curse sounded like it had been punched out of him. "You kissed her?"

"She kissed me!"

The silence stretched thin before Benny exhaled sharply. "That's so fucked up!"

"You're telling me" Tyler sighed. "Its a fast one as you can hear. Like Jason apparently."

There was another pause. "You're not all stupid now, right?"

Tyler felt the idea hit him like a physical force—half impulse, half survival instinct. He pitched his voice higher, letting it go breathy and vacant as he twirled a strand of his new blonde hair around one finger. "Ohmygod Benny," he gushed, batting eyelashes that felt strangely heavy now, "did you see Jasmine’s new lip gloss tutorial? It’s like, soooo fetch."

The silence on the line was absolute. Tyler could practically hear Benny’s brain short-circuiting through the phone. He bit the inside of his cheek—still soft, still unfamiliar—to keep from laughing.

"You're going to be one of those twisted bitches, aren't you?"

They both laughed.

"In all seriousness though, I feel fine" he finally said. "Better than fine, I'm calm. Its really fucking weird".

"Dude, I'd be freaking out," Benny admitted.

The mattress creaked as Tyler shifted, pressing the phone harder against his ear. "I should be freaking out. All week I've been—" His voice hitched. He swallowed, surprised by the lump in his throat. "But now that it's happening? I just feel... relieved."

"That's so weird" Benny mumbled.

Tyler bit his lip, turning the phone and taking a selfie. He debated sending it but did anyway. "No, this is weird" he said seconds after hitting send.

Benny's sharp inhale hissed through the speaker. "Holy shit." The line went staticky with his sudden movement—probably sitting up too fast again. "You look exactly like—"

"Well she is my twin," Tyler laughed.

"Your sister must be freaking out"

"That's the weird bit. She's been really chill about it. We talked this morning. No fighting. Just talking. She was really upset at first, blaming herself but then..." He lowered his voice for some reason even though he was alone. "She admitted she always wanted a sister"

Benny's choked laugh crackled through the speaker. "No fucking way."

"It is what it is," Tyler sighed.

There was a moment of silence before Benny asked the million dollar question. Well at least for him:

"So have your boobs grown yet?"

Tyler sighed and rolled his eyes. "And that is why you don't have a girlfriend"

"Not yet," said Benny.

Tyler laughed. "Bye Benny".

He hung up, shaking his head. A second later, he sent the same selfie with a text to Callie.

Callie called.

The phone buzzed violently in Tyler's palm, Callie's caller ID flashing like a warning light. He hesitated—thumb hovering over the answer button—before exhaling sharply and swiping right.

The phone pressed cold against Tyler's cheek as Callie's voice—unusually breathless—cut through the silence.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Callie whispered through the phone, the words ragged like she'd been running. Tyler heard fabric rustling—her sitting up too fast, sheets tangling around her legs. There was a long pause. "Are you...?"

He knew what she wanted to know. "I'm still me. Well I'm turning into my sister's identical twin now but I'm not different."

Callie sighed in relief. "I'm not sure what would have happened if you became another Jasmine"

"I'm glad too, the thought had me terrified, especially after that stream" Tyler said, relieved.

"How's your family dealing with it?" she asked then added. "I've been talking with Becca, you know Jasmine's sister? Anyway, her parents aren't taking it well."

Tyler nodded. "Mom is...dealing. Dad is still on his way, so who knows".

"And Kayla?"

Tyler bit his lip. "She told me she'd always wanted a sister."

Callie's sharp laugh crackled through the phone. "No fucking way."

The bedroom door creaked open before Tyler could respond to Callie. Kayla stood silhouetted in the doorway, her pajamas rumpled, hair a chaotic halo from tossing in bed. She held two hair ties between her teeth, her fingers busy twisting her own hair into a messy bun.

"Speak of the devil," Tyler said as Kayla flopped onto the bed.

Kayla absently got behind him on the bed and started pulling his hair into a ponytail. Her fingers moved through the unfamiliar golden strands with surprising confidence—separating, gathering, twisting—as if she'd done this a thousand times before. Which, Tyler realized with a jolt, she had. Just never to him. The elastic snapped against his scalp with a sharp sting, making him hiss.

"You ok?" asked Callie, concerned.

"I have a ponytail now apparently" he said, confused.

Kayla snorted, her breath warm against the back of his neck as she adjusted the tension. "Relax, drama queen. It's just hair." Her fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary, tracing the newly exposed line of his nape where baby hairs curled in a dawn humidity. Tyler shivered.

"I think I'm gonna let you sister bond" said Callie with a laugh and she hung up before Tyler could stop her.

The phone screen dimmed as Kayla leaned over Tyler's shoulder, her chin hooking onto the crook of his neck. "Callie?" she asked, her breath tickling his ear—warm and familiar despite everything.

Tyler turned the phone facedown on the mattress, the sudden absence of Callie's voice making Kayla's presence feel heavier. Her chin still rested on his shoulder, her fingers now idly playing with the ends of his ponytail.

The ponytail tugged lightly as Kayla toyed with it, her fingers occasionally brushing the sensitive skin behind Tyler's ear—each touch sending strange little shocks down his spine. He could smell her shampoo—something fruity and artificial—mixed with the sleep-warm scent of her skin. It was unsettling how normal this felt, how easily their bodies rearranged themselves into this new configuration of sisterhood.

"This is weird, right?" he asked, unsure and not used to his sister being this friendly.

Kayla's fingers stilled in his hair. "Only if you make it weird," she said, voice muffled against his shoulder. Then she pulled back abruptly, her knee digging into the mattress as she shifted to face him. "Does it feel weird?"

Tyler studied Kayla's face—her furrowed brows, the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when nervous. Same tell since third grade. "It feels like..." He reached up to touch the ponytail, fingertips brushing the smooth elastic band. "Like I woke up in someone else's life but all the furniture's in the right places."

The sunlight hit Kayla’s freckles differently now—or maybe Tyler was just seeing them differently. She sat cross-legged on his bed, knees bumping against his thigh as she scrolled through her phone with one hand, the other absently twisting a strand of Tyler’s hair around her finger. The motion was absentminded, habitual, like she’d done it a thousand times before. Which she had. Just never to him.

She pulled him close and took a selfie of the two of them before he could respond.

The phone camera flashed, freezing Tyler mid-protest—mouth half-open, one hand raised in futile defense while Kayla grinned triumphantly beside him. She studied the screen with narrowed eyes, tongue caught between her teeth. "Huh," she murmured, thumb swiping to enlarge the image. "Your eyelashes are way longer than mine now. That's bullshit."

Tyler grabbed for the phone, but Kayla twisted away, her knee digging into his thigh as she held the screen just out of reach. "Give it—" His voice cracked mid-sentence, the pitch jumping unpredictably. Kayla's grin widened.

Kayla laughed. "Its folder fodder, more documentation"

The mattress dipped as Kayla flopped onto her stomach beside Tyler, her phone screen illuminating the faint down now dusting his forearms—another change he hadn't noticed until this moment. She zoomed in on their selfie, her thumb smudging the glass. "Your pores are smaller too," she announced, as clinically detached as a dermatologist. "Gamma's weirdly good at skincare."

"I wouldn't know," he said truthfully.

"You will" Kayla stated it as if it was fact. "You're my sister now. You're gonna know it all"

He wasn't sure what to think of that.

"I'm still a boy you know" he said, hoping to deter her.

"For now" she said giggling.

Kayla's fingers drummed against Tyler's knee—a rapid staccato that betrayed her excitement despite the forced casualness of her sprawl across his bed. "First rule," she said, holding up one finger with exaggerated solemnity, "you never share your good hair ties. Those are sacred." Her grin turned wicked. "Second rule—when Mom asks who ate the last yogurt, it was always you."

Tyler rolled his eyes, but something warm unfurled in his chest—an odd mix of exasperation and affection. Kayla's knee dug into his thigh as she shifted closer, her phone forgotten on the mattress as she started counting off on her fingers. "Third, you let me do your brows before you leave the house again unless you want to look like a pre-plucked chicken." Her gaze flicked to his forehead critically. "Gamma gave you arch potential, but left the landscaping to me."

The morning light caught the downy hairs along Tyler's jawline—still faint, but noticeably finer than yesterday. Kayla's thumb brushed against them absently as she continued her list, her voice dropping into a mock-conspiratorial whisper.

"And when your period starts—"

Tyler choked on air. "Jesus, Kayla!"

"—which it *will*," she plowed on, ignoring his spluttering, "you steal my tampons from the bathroom cabinet, never the ones in my backpack. Those are emergency stock." Her grin turned sly. "Also? Buy chocolate *before* you need it. You'll thank me later."

"Sage advice?" he asked, amused and more than a bit grossed out.

"There's way more!" she admitted.

Kayla's enthusiasm was bordering on manic as she rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand. "Makeup tips," she announced, ticking them off on her fingers. "You don't need foundation yet, but when you do, blend downward or you'll clog your pores. Waterproof mascara only after the tear-duct changes start—trust me, you'll cry at dog commercials." Her finger jabbed toward his chest. "And never let Mom near your eyeliner unless you want to look like a raccoon that fought a Sharpie."

Tyler blinked. "You've put way too much thought into this."

"Not done! Stop interrupting!"

Kayla's knee dug into Tyler's thigh as she leaned closer, her eyes gleaming with the fervor of a cult leader initiating a new member. "Boys are idiots," she declared. "They'll say they don't care about hair products but they'll sniff your shampoo like bloodhounds." Her fingers twitched toward Tyler's ponytail again. "Also, never leave conditioner in overnight unless you want your pillow to feel like a used teabag in the morning."

Tyler opened his mouth—probably to protest—but Kayla steamrolled over him. "Now, bras." She clapped her hands together sharply. "When Gamma finally gets around to those, don't let Mom take you shopping. She'll try to put you in something that looks like Grandma's parachute silk." Her nose wrinkled. "We'll raid my drawer first, then hit up Victoria's Secret during a sale like civilized people."

Tyler laughed. He was overwhelmed and while he should have felt annoyed, he didn't. It was weirdly strange and comforting.

"We'll leave it there for now or at least until you finish being all girlied up" Kayla jumped off the bed, humming to herself as she left.

Tyler groaned, wondering what he just accidentally agreed too.

Author’s note: As I’m sure all of you know, comments are life blood to an author. I’m not begging or demanding, but I certainly would appreciate anything you have to say (or ask). It doesn’t have to be long and involved, just give me your reaction to the story. Thanks in advance...EOF