This is my first attempt at writing a torte. Please provide feedback and comments - they make it worth writing such stories.

Chapter Three: Growing Out

The first weeks after his appointment with Ava felt like a secret season in Arjun’s life. He went to work as usual, logged into Zoom calls with his team, exchanged perfunctory greetings in the apartment lobby. Nothing looked different to anyone else. And yet—he felt different.

The lipstick Ava had written on the card arrived in a discreet black box a few days later. He ordered it late at night, heartbeat quick, then nearly canceled the purchase the next morning. But when the package came, nestled in tissue, he opened it with trembling fingers. The shade was called Peach Whispers. He tried it immediately, his reflection smiling back with a softness that was his and not his. He wiped it off quickly, scrubbing the sink like he’d spilled something illicit, but the faintest stain lingered in the corners of his mouth, and he caught himself touching it, tracing it.

When COVID hit, the city emptied, and offices closed, the world contracted into his apartment. What should have been loneliness became—strangely—a cocoon. His hair, usually trimmed every three weeks, began to grow. At first it was just a matter of barbershops being closed. But as the days stretched into months, he decided to let it happen. Each morning he brushed it flat; each evening he let it fall untamed. Soon it grazed his ears, then brushed his collar, then curled onto his forehead.

He found YouTube tutorials—makeup basics, hair care, beginner feminization voice training. In the privacy of quarantine, he practiced speaking in a higher pitch, modulating vowels, softening consonants. At first it sounded ridiculous, a parody. But repetition sculpted possibility.

One night he dug the wrap dress out of a plastic garment bag Ava had sold him, along with a simple bra and panties. He hadn’t dared try them at home before. But something about the empty city streets below emboldened him. He shaved carefully, laced himself into the garments, tied the dress, and applied Peach Whispers. He didn’t have a wig yet, only his own growing hair, parted in the middle and coaxed with a brush.

He stood before the mirror and whispered: “My name is Aria.” The sound was shaky but carried. He said it again, higher, gentler: “My name is Aria.”

That night, she fell asleep in the dress, curled around herself, the fabric like a lover’s arm.

By midsummer, Melissa—the neighbor who had first dressed him for that shoot—caught him in the hall, mask tugged beneath her chin, eyes crinkling.

“Arjun! Or should I say… Aria?”

He froze, pulse hammering. “What?”

She laughed, kind, not cruel. “Relax. I saw the lipstick stain one day when you took out the trash. Same shade we used for the lavender dress. You don’t need to hide from me.”

The relief came hot, followed by embarrassment. “I… it was just for fun.”

She tilted her head. “Then why’s your hair halfway to fabulous?”

He couldn’t answer. She touched his shoulder gently. “Hey. I think it’s wonderful. If you ever want help styling it, I’m just across the hall. And if you ever want company when you go back to Ava’s salon—I’ve been there too, for shoots. You’d be surprised how many of us need a little transformation now and then.”

Her words were like a key turning in a lock. Arjun—no, Aria—felt something unclench inside.

When Ava’s studio reopened with masks and sanitizer and cautious protocols, he booked immediately. This time, Melissa came along, chatting with Ava like an old friend while Aria was fitted with a longer, layered wig that matched her real hair’s new length.

“You’ll be able to grow into this,” Ava said, brushing it smooth. “Another six months, maybe, and you won’t need the wig at all. But tonight—” she adjusted it, her hands warm— “you get to see the future version of yourself.”

Melissa clapped, grinning. “She looks like trouble. In the best way.”

Aria blushed, heart racing. The pencil skirt, the silk blouse, the pendant—they all returned, but now with her own hair peeking beneath the wig, with a confidence that hadn’t been there the first time. Ava’s gaze lingered a fraction too long on her reflection, and Aria felt the same charge as before, that subtle almost-touch of desire folded into professionalism.

The mini shoot was different this time. Aria didn’t need as much coaching. Her body remembered. She leaned, crossed, arched—not because Ava told her to, but because it felt natural. Melissa cheered from the sidelines, snapping her own photos with her phone.

When they finished, Ava walked her back to the dressing room. “You’ve grown,” she murmured, fingertips brushing Aria’s wrist as she adjusted a bracelet. “Not just your hair.”

The words stayed with her all night, echoing long after she shed the wig, the forms, the clothes. They rang louder than the city’s empty silence, louder than the headlines, louder than the old voice of Arjun.

That fall, as leaves turned and days shortened, Aria began spending whole weekends as herself. She ordered clothes online: soft cardigans, flowing skirts, jeans cut to flatter hips padded with foam. She practiced walking in the privacy of her living room, the click of heels on hardwood like music. Sometimes Melissa joined her, sipping wine, showing her how to curl hair, paint nails, sit with a casual grace that looked effortless and was anything but.

One evening, Melissa said, almost casually, “You know, Ava’s salon isn’t just about makeovers. There’s a Friday salon night coming up. Small crowd, champagne, a chance to meet others like you. I think you should go.”

Aria hesitated. “Others like me?”

Melissa nodded. “People discovering themselves. People living fully. And… people who might see you the way you want to be seen.”

The suggestion lingered like a kiss not yet given.

By winter, Aria’s hair reached her shoulders. She booked another session with Ava—this time not for transformation, but for styling her own hair, blending it into something undeniably feminine. Sitting in the chair, cape snug, the sound of scissors whispering, she watched locks fall and new lines emerge.

When Ava spun her around at the end, Aria gasped. No wig. No illusion. Just herself, framed by layers that swung as she turned her head.

“You’ve arrived,” Ava said softly, her eyes meeting Aria’s in the mirror. “And you’re beautiful.”

The compliment came with a pause that was heavier than friendship, heavier than professionalism. For a moment neither looked away.

And in that silence, Aria felt the first flicker of something she hadn’t dared hope for: not just self-discovery, but romance.