Morning came too quickly.

Samuel opened his eyes slowly, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the beige curtains moving faintly in the air conditioning, and the lingering smell of hairspray mixed with perfume.

Natalie's house.

The gala.

Tiffany.

The dance.

The message.

His chest tightened at once.

He sat up on the guest bed. He was wearing a girls pijama Natalie had lent him. Traces of makeup remained around his eyes, faint dark smudges beneath the lashes betraying how much he had cried the night before.

For a moment, he wanted to lie back down.

Maybe if he slept again, he would wake to a different version of the night.

But no.

Everything remained.

Tiffany dancing with someone else.

Someone watching him from the shadows.

Two blows in one night.

He sat at the edge of the bed and stared at the fuchsia gown, now draped carelessly over a chair because no one had had the energy to protect it properly. He tried to find the precise moment when everything had gone wrong. The decision. The mistake. The second he should have stopped before risking too much.

Eventually he left the room.

In Natalie's bedroom, the girls were sitting on the bed with messy hair, bare faces, and the exhausted glow of people who had lived a huge night.

For them, the gala had been unforgettable in the beautiful way. For Samuel, it had become a nightmare folded inside satin.

He entered quietly.

"How do you feel?" Maddie asked.

The question stayed in the air.

Samuel considered several answers.

Tired.

Humiliated.

Empty.

Afraid.

Finally he only shrugged.

"I don't know."

No one mentioned the dance at first.

They helped him return to Samuel slowly: removing the last makeup, undoing the hair, packing away the shoes, finding his own clothes. He asked them about the rest of the party because he did not want to become only someone they took care of. They told him stories: Maddie's speech, Riley's dance with her cousin, Natalie's father crying at the wrong moment, photos, music, the after-party energy that had grown once the adults relaxed.

He smiled sometimes.

Not much.

But enough to let them know he was trying.

Then his phone vibrated on the bed.

All four looked at it.

Samuel felt the same cold emptiness from the night before.

Unknown number.

Good morning, princess. I hope you slept well after last night. How should I address you now that I know your secret?

Maddie moved closer.

"That's terrifying."

"Don't answer yet," Natalie said.

"He has to," Riley argued. "If he doesn't, it could get worse."

Samuel stared at the screen.

His hands were sweating.

"What do I do?"

They thought together.

"Ask who it is," Maddie said.

Samuel typed:

Who are you?

The answer arrived almost immediately.

That doesn't matter yet. You'll find out soon enough. But tell me what to call you.

Samuel wrote:

I'm Samuel. You know that.

Three dots.

Yes. But what is your name when you're a girl?

No one spoke.

Samuel felt a humiliating heat move through him. As if writing the name would make it real in a way it had not been when only the girls used it. As if Samantha no longer belonged to them.

Finally he typed one word.

Samantha.

The answer came:

OMG! Love it! That name suits you very well.

A shiver moved through him.

Then the next messages arrived.

We need to talk. Today, we both rest. Now you know that makeup, hair, a dress, and heels are exhausting.

I know you're on break, so Friday will work. Dinner.

And please, get pretty. I want to meet Samantha properly. Wear a nice dress, something feminine. Good makeup. Shoes that match. I'll wear a skirt too, and I don't like being the only one making an effort.

Silence filled the room.

Even Riley looked pale.

"Okay," she said. "That is officially scary."

Samuel dropped the phone onto the bed.

After the night before, he never wanted to be Samantha again.

Now he would have to become her to protect himself.

The week crawled.

He went home and tried to leave everything connected to Samantha at Natalie's house, as if distance from the gown and heels could help him forget. It did not. The nights became long. He slept badly. Sometimes he stared at the ceiling until two or three in the morning, replaying the months from the first time he met Tiffany to the disastrous night of the gala. Other times he opened Tiffany's chat and closed it without writing.

There was nothing to say.

She had been clear.

And, deep down, he knew she had not been cruel.

She had been honest.

The unknown sender did not write again.

That silence was almost worse.

It gave his imagination too much room.

Who was it? How had they known? Since when had they been watching? Were there photos? Videos? Did someone else know?

He considered not going.

Blocking the number.

Disappearing.

But everyone knew that would not solve anything.

By Wednesday, he accepted the truth. He had to end this.

He texted the girls.

I need help. Friday.

The answers came quickly.

Riley: I have the right dress.

Maddie: Not too fancy. She is not going to a wedding.

Natalie: But we are not sending her sad and sloppy. If someone wants to meet Samantha, they will meet her properly.

Samuel smiled for the first time that day.

Maybe that was why, when Andrew texted him later, he agreed to meet.

You alive or did prom drama kill you?

Samuel laughed softly.

They met at a small pizza place they had gone to since middle school, the kind of place where everyone dressed casually and no one paid attention to anyone.

Exactly what Samuel needed.

Andrew arrived in cargo pants and a graphic tee, relaxed in his own skin as always.

"Look who decided to come back from the dead," Andrew said. "I thought after prom you'd run away with Tiffany."

Samuel sat across from him.

"Things didn't go well."

Andrew's smile faded.

"With Tiffany?"

Samuel nodded.

He told Andrew part of it. The version he could tell. He spoke of the ban, the hiding, the way Tiffany had said they could not keep hurting themselves. He did not mention Samantha. He did not mention St. Catherine's. He did not mention the fuchsia gown, the gala, the messages.

Not because he did not trust Andrew.

Because there were already too many loose ends.

"She told me we couldn't be together," Samuel said. "That everything was too complicated. That we were hurting each other."

"And what did you say?"

"I accepted it." He laughed once, without humor. "Even though I didn't agree."

Andrew studied him.

"Do you love her?"

Samuel looked down.

"A lot."

"Then fight for her."

Samuel shook his head.

"It's not that simple."

"It never is."

"No, Andrew. This isn't a just-try-harder thing."

Andrew was quiet for a moment.

"Maybe she told you the truth."

The sentence hurt more than Samuel expected.

"I'm not saying it doesn't suck," Andrew said. "I'm saying if she loves you and still had to say that, maybe she wasn't trying to hurt you. Maybe she was broken too."

Samuel did not move.

That was the worst part.

Tiffany had not been cruel.

She had been honest.

"So what do I do?"

Andrew thought for a few seconds.

"Give it time. Maybe in a few months, or a year, you'll understand why things happened. Maybe something changes. Maybe it doesn't. But don't destroy yourself trying to force a door open while she's asking you to stop pushing."

Samuel looked down at his hands.

Without noticing, he had crossed his legs carefully under the table. Not the way he used to sit, careless and open, but the way Natalie and Riley had taught him when he wore a skirt.

Andrew noticed.

"What's with the fancy little leg thing?"

Samuel uncrossed them so fast he nearly hit the table.

"What?"

Andrew laughed. "Nothing. You just got all elegant for a second."

Samuel threw a napkin at him.

"Shut up."

For the first time in days, he laughed for real.

But when the laughter faded, something strange remained.

Andrew had no idea. He had not noticed anything important. He knew nothing about Samantha. He did not know that the gesture had not come from nowhere.

And Samuel understood, with a mixture of fear and sadness, that maybe Samantha did not stay folded away when the dresses were hung up or disappear when the makeup came off.

Maybe she had already begun leaving traces in him.

Friday finally arrived.

They met at Riley's house because her mother knew enough not to ask the wrong questions. Samuel was calmer than anyone expected.

Tired, yes.

Hurt, yes.

But calmer.

He had thought too much that week and reached an uncomfortable conclusion: he had entered this problem by choice. Tiffany had been clear.

She had not betrayed him. She had not even done anything wrong. For all his resistance, he could have said no at any point - no to entering St. Catherine's, no to the gala, no to becoming Samantha again.

He had done all of it for Tiffany.

To be near her.

To force moments the world would not give them.

Everything else was a consequence.

Now there was one disaster left to face.

He would be Samantha one more time to end it.

The transformation was different.

There was no breathless excitement, no secret joy of doing something wild for love. There was still fear and embarrassment, but beneath them was surrender. Samuel let the girls choose. Let them set out the clothes. Let them prepare the makeup. Let them build Samantha with quieter hands than before.

Riley's dress was green satin, midi length, elegant but not formal, fitted enough to feel intentional and feminine without the impossible drama of the gala gown. The fabric caught the light softly, refined and mature, the color deep enough to flatter Samantha's eyes and skin without announcing itself like fuchsia had. It belonged to a dinner, not a stage. To a later version of Samantha: more composed, less innocent, still carrying Samuel beneath every careful detail.

The girls paired it with simple heels low enough for him to manage confidently, delicate jewelry, and makeup more polished than casual but not as intense as the gala: luminous skin, defined eyes, glossy lips, enough softness to make Samantha believable across a restaurant table. The light-brown hair was styled in loose waves, more relaxed than the formal look but more intentional than the school version. They also painted his nails in a similar color of the dress.

When Samuel looked in the mirror, Samantha was there again.

Not the schoolgirl in the navy vest.

Not the bright fuchsia apparition from the gala.

This Samantha looked quieter. Older somehow. Beautiful, but tired around the eyes. Feminine, but not effortless. Composed because she had to be.

"You look good," Maddie said gently.

Samuel nodded.

"I know."

The answer surprised all of them, including him.

They drove with him to the plaza where the restaurant was located. It was elegant without being theatrical: warm lights, outdoor tables, polished stone, planters, people arriving for dinner, the late afternoon turning golden over the storefronts. The girls would shop nearby while they waited.

They were close enough to come if he needed them, far enough not to be obvious.

Samantha walked slowly toward the entrance.

Her heart beat too quickly.

The hostess smiled naturally and led her to a table on the terrace. The golden hour suited the green satin. For a moment, while waiting, Samantha took out her phone and opened the camera.

She hesitated.

Then she took one photo.

I think I'll miss you when this is over, Samuel thought, as if he were speaking to her.

The thought unsettled him more than he expected.

He placed the phone face down and waited.

His heart accelerated with every person who passed the terrace. His legs moved nervously beneath the table until he forced them still. He smoothed the skirt of the green dress over his knees, almost automatically.

Then someone sat across from him.

Samantha lifted her eyes.

The air disappeared from the world.

"Hi, Samantha," a young woman said softly. "You have no idea how happy I am to finally meet you. Truly."

_____

Well... that's the end of Between Two Worlds. First of all, thank you for making it all the way here. Whether you've been reading since the first chapters or just discovered Samuel's (and Samantha's) story, I truly appreciate the time you've spent with these characters.

I have ideas for what comes next, but before I start writing, I'd genuinely love to hear what you think.

Please leave a comment and let me know. Your feedback genuinely helps shape what comes next.

Thank you again for reading.