He Is Not Himself

Chapter Two. Two Girls. One Secret. The Dance That Will Change Everything.

The Summer Everything Shifted

I was seven when I learned that love could be a performance.

That stone I had put on my shelf — the one I clutched on the day I met Irina — watched me from the corner of my room. A reminder. A warning. I didn't understand it then.

I would later.

Irina and I played together every day. Tag in the courtyard. Hide-and-seek behind the old garages. Ice cream from the kiosk on the corner, eaten so fast it dripped down our chins.

She laughed loudly. I laughed quietly. We were a strange pair — the noisy girl with scraped knees and the pretty boy everyone still mistook for a girl.

The boys in the yard still called me "womanizer." I still didn't know what it meant. But I saw their smirks. Felt my face burn.

Irina still defended me. "Manizer!" she screamed, and they backed off. I didn't know what that word meant either. But it worked.

She was my shield. My proof to the world that I was normal. That I could be normal.

One afternoon, she grabbed my hand.

— Come on! I want to show you something.

Her fingers were sticky from candy. Warm. Small.

I didn't pull away. I couldn't. Something about the way she held me made my stomach flutter — or maybe I just wanted it to flutter. Maybe I was trying so hard to feel something, anything, that I invented the feeling.

She dragged me to a bench under the lilac bushes. Sat so close our shoulders touched.

— Denis, — she said, suddenly serious. — Are we boyfriend and girlfriend?

My heart stopped.

Not because I was excited. Because I didn't know the right answer.

— I… I don't know, — I stammered.

— Well, I think we are, — she declared, as if announcing a new law. — So you have to hold my hand now. Always.

I nodded. My palms were sweating. My throat was dry.

That night, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. My hand still tingled from where she had held it.

"Boyfriend and girlfriend," I whispered to myself.

This was good. This was normal. This was what everyone wanted.

So why did I feel nothing?

The stone on my shelf glinted in the moonlight. It didn't answer.

The Girl in the Shadows

A week later, Irina introduced me to someone new.

— This is my best friend, Lena, — she said, pulling a quiet, serious girl out from behind her back.

Lena.

The name hit me like a slap.

This was the girl. The one I had confused Irina with on that first day. The one whose name had burned my lips before I knew why.

She was different from Irina. Where Irina was loud, Lena was silent. Where Irina ran and jumped and broke her knees, Lena stood still, watching, like she already knew everything before it happened.

— Hello, — she said.

Her voice was soft. Calm. It made something in my chest tighten.

— Hi, — I managed.

She looked at me with those dark, unreadable eyes. Not curious. Not friendly. Just… watching.

I couldn't look away. I didn't want to.

— So, — Irina clapped her hands, oblivious to the tension. — Now we're all friends. The three of us. Forever.

Forever turned out to be a long time.

But not long enough.

That night, I took the stone off the shelf. Held it in my palm. It was cold. Smooth. It had been waiting.

"Lena," I whispered.

The name still burned.

The First Time I Saw Her Dance

I didn't start dancing right away. That came later — two years later, when I couldn't stand being away from Irina anymore.

But I remember the first time I watched Lena move.

We were in the schoolyard. A portable stereo played some pop song. Irina was spinning in circles, laughing, her skirt flying up. But Lena… Lena was standing still.

Then, without warning, she began to move.

Slowly. Deliberately. Her hips swayed. Her arms rose like wings. Her fingers traced the air as if it were solid.

I couldn't breathe.

The other kids were playing, shouting, ignoring her. But I saw. I saw the way her body told a story no one else could hear.

She caught me staring.

For a second — just a second — her lips curved into a tiny smile.

Then she turned away, and the moment vanished.

But I never forgot it.

That was the first time I understood: Lena wasn't just a girl. She was something else. Something that would one day ruin me.

That night, I dreamed of her hands. Her fingers. The way they moved through the air like they were touching something invisible.

I woke up hard. I didn't know why. I was nine.

I pressed my face into the pillow and pretended nothing happened.

The Dance That Changed Everything

I started choreography class when I was nine.

Not because I wanted to dance. Because Irina was there. Because I told myself I loved her. Because I needed to prove — to myself, to everyone — that I was normal.

The first day, I walked into a hall full of girls. Twenty of them. All in pink leotards and tutus.

And one boy. Me.

They giggled. Whispered. Pointed.

— A boy? What's he doing here?

— Look at his pretty hair!

— Is he a boy or a girl?

I clenched my fists. Stared at the floor. Pretended I didn't hear.

"I am a boy," I whispered to myself. "I am a boy. I am a boy."

The words felt hollow.

Irina was in the front row. She waved. I waved back. It was fine. Everything was fine.

Then the teacher arrived.

Olga Viktorovna. Forty years old. Gaunt. Sharp as broken glass. Her eyes swept over the room, landed on me, and narrowed.

— A boy, — she said. Not a question. A verdict.

— Yes, — I whispered.

— We'll see how long you last.

She didn't smile. She never smiled.

That was the year I learned to hate dancing. And the year I learned I couldn't live without it.

Because Lena was there too.

The First Time We Touched

Our first performance was a disaster.

I forgot the steps. My hands were sweaty. I stepped on Irina's foot twice. The other girls laughed.

Afterward, I hid in the bathroom and stared at my reflection.

"Pathetic," I whispered.

The door creaked.

Lena walked in. She didn't say anything. Just stood beside me, looking at our reflections in the mirror.

— You're not bad, — she finally said.

— Yes, I am.

— No, — she shook her head. — You're just scared.

She reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were cool. Dry. Steady.

— Don't be, — she said.

Then she let go and walked out.

My hand burned for hours.

I didn't know then that this was only the beginning. That our bodies would learn to speak a language no one else understood. That we would dance so close, so hot, so wrong, that grown adults would look away.

I didn't know that she would be the one to show me what I really wanted.

And that it wasn't her.

That night, I held the stone again. I pressed it to my chest.

"What is happening to me?" I whispered.

The stone was silent.

What Happened Next

The years blurred together.

Irina stayed my "girlfriend." I kissed her on the cheek before bed and felt nothing. I held her hand in the hallway and counted the seconds until I could let go.

Lena became my partner in ballroom dancing. We were good. So good that Vera Sergeevna — our new teacher, the one with sly eyes — started watching us differently.

— You two have something special, — she said. — Don't waste it.

I didn't understand what she meant. Not then.

Then came the rumba.

The rumba changed everything.

The First Rumba

We were thirteen.

The hall was dark. Someone had brought candles. They lined the edge of the floor, flickering, throwing shadows on the walls.

Vera Sergeevna put on the music. Slow. Languid. A heartbeat in strings.

— Dance, — she said. — Just for yourselves.

Lena stepped into my arms. Her body fit against mine like it was made to be there. Her hand on my shoulder. My hand on her waist. Her breath warm on my neck.

We began to move.

Slowly. Dangerously. Every step a question. Every pause a promise.

Her thigh brushed against mine. She didn't pull away. Neither did I.

She looked up at me — her dark eyes reflecting the candlelight — and for a second, I forgot who I was.

I forgot about Irina. About my father's harsh words. About the boys in the hallway who made my heart race.

There was only Lena. And the dance. And the heat building between us.

Her fingers traced my neck. Just once. Light as a feather. I shivered.

When the music stopped, no one applauded.

They just stared.

I heard someone whisper, "They look like they're having s*x on the dance floor."

My face burned. But I didn't let go of Lena's hand.

And she didn't let go of mine.

The Secret I Couldn't Name

That night, I lay in bed and replayed the dance.

Her fingers on my neck. Her hip against mine. The way she breathed — soft, uneven, like she was holding back something.

I touched my own chest. My heart was still racing.

Then I closed my eyes — and the image changed.

Lena disappeared.

In her place was a boy. A faceless shadow. Broad shoulders, strong hands, a voice I couldn't hear but somehow knew.

He pulled me close. His hands slid down my back. His lips brushed my ear.

My eyes flew open. I sat up, gasping.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

But the image stayed burned into my mind.

I reached for the stone. It was cold against my palm.

"What are you?" I whispered to it. "What am I?"

It didn't answer.

That was the first time I asked myself the question I would spend years trying to answer:

What if I wanted him more than I ever wanted her?

What if I was the very thing my father called filth?

What if the boy with the girl's face was never meant to love girls at all?

The Cracks Begin to Show

I tried to bury it. I buried it deep.

I held Irina's hand tighter. I danced with Lena as if nothing had changed. I smiled at my father when he came home from work. I nodded at my mother when she asked about my day.

But at night — alone in my room, the stone pressed to my chest — I couldn't lie anymore.

The cracks were spreading.

And soon, everything would break.

I didn't know how soon.

I didn't know that the girl whose name I had whispered in the dark would become my partner in a dance that would destroy me.

I didn't know that the faceless boy in my dreams would one day have a face.

A name.

Hands that would touch me where no one had touched me before.

But that came later.

For now — I was thirteen. Confused. Terrified.

And the stone was still watching.