WEARING HER BLACK high heels, Louise walked carefully out of the lift toward her apartment door. It was late and the corridor was quiet, carpeted, elegantly lit. She preferred it when it was late—less chance of bumping into anyone, fewer explanations to make. Silently, she unlocked the door and stepped inside, the soft click of the latch behind her marking the end of yet another chapter in the life she wished she could live more often.
With a deep sigh, she dropped her handbag on the small hallway table. Her movements were graceful, unhurried, but tinged with melancholy. The sigh wasn’t just from tired feet or the tension in her back from holding posture and presence for hours—it came from deeper. A low ache, familiar and persistent.
She padded quietly into the kitchen, her heels now discarded beside the door, and poured herself a glass of fresh watermelon juice. She took it into the living room and sat on the sofa, crossing her legs, the bottom of her cream top riding up slightly above her beige skirt. She pressed the remote and the radio came on, picked up the book she had nearly finished—something light, romantic, set in a world far from her own and settled into the sofa. She turned the pages absently, the words blurring in front of her eyes.
Fifteen minutes passed before she realised she hadn’t really been reading. Time, as always, was slipping through her fingers. She glanced at the clock—just after 10:25 PM. Tomorrow, she would be back at work. Back to expectations. Back to the voice, the body and the name and the clothes that no longer felt like hers.
She stood slowly and walked into the bedroom. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she looked around the softly lit room—her sanctuary. Other pairs of high heels lay beside the wardrobe. Makeup brushes were lined neatly on the dresser. A scarf she had worn yesterday was draped over the back of a chair. All small reminders of the woman she was when she allowed herself to be.
She put her head in her hands, elbows resting on her knees. Eyes closed. The familiar sadness came creeping in like a slow mist, filling the room with doubts. She shook her head very slightly, as though to ward off the thoughts she had fought a thousand times before.
It was always the same. Every time she had to ‘change back’, it left a mark. To remove the makeup, unpin the wig, pull off the clothes that felt so right—it was like pulling herself apart. The transformation back into Louis felt not like becoming someone else, but like erasing herself. And yet, she did it. Again and again.
"How do I solve this dilemma?" she asked aloud, her voice barely more than a whisper. There was no one to hear her but the mirror across the room—and the reflection of the woman she truly was.
She let out another sigh, longer this time, and looked at her nails—carefully polished, still perfect from earlier in the day. Then she glanced up and caught her reflection again. It surprised her, still, sometimes: the softness of her face, the way her eyes looked brighter, fuller, framed by mascara and liner. She didn’t look like someone in her mid-fifties. She had worked on keeping her figure in good shape, trim; her diet and regular yoga kept her mobile, graceful. Her features, once sharp and masculine in youth, had softened with age. Life had blurred the edges of her maleness and offered her something gentler in return; then there were the occasional low doses of oestrogen she took when the feelings were strongest.
"You’re beautiful," she murmured to herself. "You really are." And she believed it. Or tried to.
So, what, then, was holding her back?
She knew the answers, of course. She had gone over them too many times to count. It wasn’t fear of rejection anymore—not exactly. A few of her friends, those who mattered, already knew. Some even supported her quietly. No, it was something deeper. The weight of years spent pretending. Of obligations, roles, expectations built up over decades.
She had a life, a job, a steady pension to consider. Would it all unravel if she declared herself, fully, as Louise?
And then there was the question of transition. Social, yes, perhaps. But medical? Officially taken hormones? Surgery? Did she need to change her body to validate who she was?
That question lingered like a riddle with no answer. She had studied the risks—at her age, hormone therapy wasn’t without complications. And whilst the doctor she had consulted had been kind, even understanding, there was still hesitation in his voice when he spoke of the long-term implications.
But it wasn’t just medical. It was emotional. Louise feared losing the version of herself she had been forced to become. The career man. The loyal friend, the neighbour, the dependable colleague. Even if none of those roles had ever fully fit, they were still part of her identity. To shed them now felt… selfish? Reckless? Or was it finally brave?
She blinked back tears. Not from only sorrow, but from exhaustion. It was tiring to live in pieces. To live in fragments. A life split into hours and compartments—Louise at home, Louis at work. Louise on weekends, in moments stolen from the world. Louis every time the phone rang from someone who didn’t know, or couldn’t understand.
She stood up and walked to the mirror. She looked again—closer this time. She touched her face, her cheek, her lips. The lipstick was still faint, a soft reddish shade. Her eyes, even rimmed with tiredness, still held a spark. The person staring back at her was real. Not a disguise. Not a game. Just… her.
“I’m not a pretender,” she whispered. “I’m me.”
But being ‘me’ full-time was complicated. Messy. Risky.
Still, the thought had been growing louder lately. What if she didn’t change back tomorrow? What if she called in sick? What if she took one more day as herself? Would the world end?
She didn’t know yet. But tonight, for at least another hour, she would remain Louise. She wouldn’t rush to wipe away her identity. Not yet.
And deep inside, Louise began to imagine a world where she never had to change back again.
