Not Alec anymore
As I stared into the mirror, all I could see were my breasts and my soft, feminine face. It was suffocating. I hated it — hated the curves that betrayed me, hated the body that wasn’t mine. I clawed at the reflection with my eyes, wishing I could rip it apart.
I stumbled backward onto my pink bed, the room spinning around me. Pink lights. Pink computer. Pink hairbrush. Pink walls. Pink everything. It felt like a cage. Like I was drowning in a color that wasn’t mine, never had been.
"I don't want this," I whispered, my voice cracking.
Tears blurred my vision. I grabbed the scissors from my desk, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold them. Without thinking, I dragged the cold metal across my arm, just once. Just enough to leave a shallow, burning line behind.
The sting grounded me. It hurt — but it was a pain I chose. A pain that made sense.
"Goodbye, Alice," I choked out. "Hello, Alec."
I hacked at my hair, the scissors tearing through it unevenly, leaving jagged strands. I didn't care. I just wanted it gone. I wanted her gone.
When I looked back at the mirror, I almost recognized myself for the first time.
The next few months blurred together. I transformed everything. I got a tattoo — the trans flag carved into my skin like a brand. I came out to everyone. I made TikToks, posted every day, smiling wide for the camera.
"Hi everyone! I'm Alec!" My voice sounded strong. Confident. But inside, there was still a crack running through me, spreading wider every day.
I grew angrier. I lashed out online, called people bigots, screamed at anyone who disagreed. It felt good — for a moment. Like I was finally powerful. Like nothing could hurt me anymore.
But it was a lie.
One night, after another brutal comment war online, I slammed my phone down and locked myself in the bathroom. I stared at my reflection, at the short hair, the tattoo. I grabbed a razor from the sink and pressed it against my skin — just hard enough to leave thin, bleeding lines down my arm.
It made me feel real again. It made me feel something.
I wiped the blood away, trembling.
And then it happened. A popular trans creator called me out — said I was fake. Said I was doing more harm than good.
At first, rage swallowed me whole. But when the anger faded, when it was just me and the mirror again... I saw it.
I wasn’t a boy. I never had been.
I was still Alice. Still trapped. Still broken.
I let my hair grow back. I covered the tattoo with thick, black ink, crossing out the flag like a failed promise. I deleted my account — the one that had felt like my entire identity.
And I started a new one.
"Hi everyone," I said into the camera, voice shaking. "My name’s Alice."
This time, I told the truth. About everything. About how easily kids could be swept up in something they didn’t understand. About how pain could wear a thousand different masks.
I clawed my way back. I rebuilt myself, scar by scar.
And somehow, against all odds, I rose. I became the first female president of the United States — the scarred remains of the old tattoo peeking out from under my jacket sleeve during the inauguration.
I found peace. I became a mother. I laughed again. I lived again.
And Alec... Alec became nothing more than a ghost, fading into the cracks of my past.