The bathroom lights are a yellow blur, the harsh fluorescent brightness making me squint, making my skin crawl, making the change come harder and faster and more unbearably raw. I stumble to the mirror, the surface cool and shocking against my overheated palms. The reflection is an unsteady accusation. The reflection is not me. Not Mara Wolfe. The claws scratch against the glass, scratch at the life I’ve built, scratch at the disguise I’ve worn. They scratch at the parts of me I can’t keep.
The parts that should be safe.
But they’re not.
The reflection distorts with each unsteady breath. It distorts and reforms and comes into focus with the brutality of a truth I am not ready to face, not ready to be, not ready to admit. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
The sound of my breathing fills the sm
