Chrysa was genuine before he turned thirteen. Before he knew about facades, before he knew about what people liked and didn't like, before he knew how cruel the world can be. It's like that for most kids—they change drastically once they each a certain age, because they find out that life won't just give them things without having to put in the effort. And for Chrysa, that effort is stripping away his genuine personality for a new one, tailored exactly to other's needs.
But when Chrysa first met Kit, he wasn't thirteen or twelve or eleven or even ten. He was nine, and as a nine-year-old Chrysa didn't know about the horrors of the world yet. His mother hadn't asked him to start changing himself, hadn't said a word about muting his old self to be who she wants. So, for now, Chrysa could act as he pleased.
Chrysa sat in his half-jellyfish form, perched on a rock with his tentacle and oral arms splaying about. He leans against the rock with his elbows, arms folding into each other as he stares past the empty black and at the stops beyond. He's always fantasized about going to see the whole other world that isn't his own, to make a human friend and see what it's like. But whenever humans get close, he always says something stupid and then scampers away. It's a habit that he's determined to break when the next human gets curious about him and comes over.
Which just so happens to be an eight-year-old Kit, who's curious and naive and incapable of reading the room.
Chrysa's head peeks back from behind the rock, taking a glimpse at the boy in front of him. Shoulder-length hair, androgynous outfit, long eyelashes...
"You look like a girl," he blurts instead, disregarding Kit's question.
"Are you a girl? Because only boys are allowed to talk to me. Girls are gross."
