Aunt Rose Change Me Into Girl (Again) - Part 2 Season Two

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The rhythm of college life settled into a strange, dualistic pattern. My days became a carefully managed performance, a tightrope walk between two worlds. Mornings and evenings in the Wicker Park loft were for Reene—a sanctuary of soft fabrics, herbal scents, and Pilates sessions where my body could move with its natural grace. The days on campus were for Rome—a performance in a stiff, uncomfortable costume for an audience that seemed increasingly confused and, at times, cruel.

The buzz-cut guy from the first day had a name: Brad. And he had friends—Mark and Jason—who seemed to take his lead in turning my existence into their personal source of entertainment. I was a puzzle they couldn't solve, and their method of puzzling it out was relentless, low-grade teasing.

It was never outright hostile, never a direct confrontation. It was the kind of subtle, needling commentary designed to make me feel like an alien, a glitch in their social matrix.

In Sustainable Food Systems, Brad made a point of saving me a seat—right in the middle of their group. “Saved you a spot, Lopez,” he’d say loudly, patting the chair next to him with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Trapped, I’d have to sit, subjected to a constant, low hum of commentary.

“Dude, what kind of shampoo do you use?” Jason would ask, leaning in to sniff exaggeratedly. “Smells like a flower shop. My sister uses that stuff.”

“You ever lift weights, man?” Mark would add, poking my arm. “You’re like, crazy slender. You gotta hit the gym with us.”

Their words were like tiny paper cuts, each one small but collectively stinging. I’d just shrug, mumble non-committal answers, and keep my eyes glued to the professor, my face burning. My responses were always in that strained, neutral voice I’d adopted—a poor imitation of masculinity that felt like a betrayal with every syllable.

The worst was the group project. Our professor assigned us into teams of four to develop a proposal for a sustainable campus food event. Fate, in its cruel sense of humor, placed me with Brad, Mark, and a quiet girl named Chloe—the one with the kind eyes who’d complimented my hair.

Our first meeting was in a noisy study lounge. Brad immediately took charge, slapping a notebook on the table. “Alright. I’m thinking a burger cook-off. Local beef, blah blah blah. I’ll handle the meat. Mark, you get the buns.”

Chloe frowned, tapping her pen. “A burger event doesn’t exactly scream ‘sustainable,’ Brad. The methane footprint of cattle is huge.”

“Yeah, well, it’s gotta be something people will actually want to come to,” Brad retorted.

I saw an opening, a chance to contribute something I actually cared about. “What about a farmers' market-style event?” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “We could feature local vegetable farmers, cheesemakers, maybe a vegan chef doing cooking demos. It’s educational and it directly supports sustainable practices.”

There was a beat of silence. Brad stared at me, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “A vegan cooking demo? Seriously, Lopez? That sounds….” He trailed off, looking me up and down. “Yeah. That sounds about right for you.”

The implication was clear. My idea was feminine, weak, and therefore, fitting for whatever it was he thought I was. Humiliation, hot and sharp, lanced through me. Chloe, however, brightened.

“I love that idea,” she said, shooting me a small, supportive smile. “It’s actually on-brand for the class. We could have stations.”

Brad rolled his eyes but, outnumbered, reluctantly agreed. The rest of the meeting was a special kind of torture. Every time I spoke, Brad would exchange a look with Mark. When I leaned over the table to look at Chloe’s notes, Brad muttered, “Careful, man, your hair’s gonna dip in my coffee.”

I flinched back as if burned.

When we packed up, Chloe hung back as Brad and Mark lumbered off. “Don’t mind them,” she said quietly, stuffing her laptop into her bag. “They’re Neanderthals. Your idea was really good.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, not meeting her eyes. Her kindness was almost harder to handle than their cruelty. It made me want to confess everything, to tell her the person she was being nice to didn’t really exist. But I just nodded and hurried away.

The performance was exhausting. The constant vigilance—monitoring my voice, my walk, the way I sat, the way I held my books—was a drain on my soul. I’d come home to the loft each afternoon feeling hollowed out, a shell of myself.

Aunt Rose was my anchor. She’d have a tonic waiting—something warm and soothing with reishi and ashwagandha. She never pressed for details, but could read the state of my spirit in the slump of my shoulders.

“The body remembers the stress the mind tries to forget,” she said one evening, guiding me through a series of hip-opening yoga poses. “Let it go. Breathe it out. You are safe here.”

And I was. In the safety of that space, Reene would slowly re-emerge. I’d change into soft linen pants and a flowing top, and the relief was physical, like taking off a pair of shoes that were two sizes too small. Leo’s evening messages were my other lifeline.

Leo: How was the battlefield today, soldier?

Me: They assigned a group project. I’m stuck with the barbarians.

Leo: Want me to come ‘accidentally’ start a fire alarm during your next meeting?

I’d laugh, a genuine one, feeling the tension ease. He always knew how to make it better.

Me: The one nice girl in the group liked my idea. But then Brad said it “suited me” in that gross way he does.

Leo: He’s a clown. His opinion is irrelevant. What was your idea?

I’d tell him, and he’d engage with it seriously, asking smart questions, treating me like the person I was inside—a person with good ideas about sustainable food, a person worth listening to. Those conversations were a balm.

The second group meeting was held in the library. We were supposed to be dividing tasks and finalizing our vendor list. Brad, however, was more interested in a video on Mark’s phone. I was trying to focus on a list of local organic farms, my brow furrowed in concentration.

Without thinking, I brought the end of my pen to my lips, a habit I had when thinking deeply.

Brad’s head snapped up. “Whoa, dude,” he said, his voice loud enough to earn a “shush” from a nearby student. “What are you doing?”

I lowered the pen, confused. “What?”

“You were like, about to suck on that pen.” He made a crude gesture. “That’s so… girly.”

Mark snorted. Chloe looked mortified.

My whole body went rigid with shame. It was such a small, unconscious thing. A thing Reene did all the time. But in this body, in this costume, it was suddenly a spectacle.

“I was just thinking,” I said, my voice tight.

“Yeah, well, think like a man,” Brad laughed, though the joke fell flat even with Mark.

The rest of the meeting was a blur of silent humiliation. I retreated into myself, speaking only when directly spoken to. I could feel Chloe’s sympathetic glances, but I couldn’t meet them. I just wanted to disappear.

The breaking point came a week later. We were in the cafeteria, a required “team bonding” lunch Brad had insisted on. I was picking at a salad, listening to them argue about sports, doing my best to be invisible.

A first-year student, a girl with bright pink hair and a friendly face, stopped by our table. She looked directly at me.

“Hey, excuse me,” she said, smiling. “I’m lost. Do you know where the registration office is?”

I looked up, startled to be addressed. Before I could open my mouth, Brad leaned back in his chair, a wide, malicious grin on his face.

“He doesn’t know,” Brad said, jerking his thumb at me. “But she might.” He winked at the girl. “This is Rome. We can’t figure out if he’s a she or she’s a he. Maybe you can ask him… her… it… for directions and figure it out for us.”

The world stopped. The cacophony of the cafeteria faded into a dull roar. The girl’s smile vanished, replaced by shock and then acute embarrassment. She mumbled a quick “sorry” and fled.

Time seemed to slow. I saw Mark’s surprised chuckle, saw Jason’s awkward glance away. I saw the redness creeping up Chloe’s neck as she stared at her plate, horrified.

But all I could really see was Brad’s smug, triumphant face. He had said the quiet part out loud. He had taken their whispered speculation and hung it out in the open, a grotesque banner for everyone to see.

The hollow feeling inside me cracked open, and something hot and furious rushed in to fill it. The months of teasing, the constant anxiety, the feeling of being a zoo animal—it all coalesced into a single, white-hot point of rage.

I stood up. My chair scraped loudly against the tile floor. The table went quiet.

Everyone was looking at me. For the first time, I didn’t feel exposed. I felt powerful.

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t slam my hands on the table. I just looked directly at Brad, my gaze steady, my Reene-voice, clear and cold and perfectly audible, cutting through the noise.

“My name is Rome Lopez,” I said, each word a shard of ice. “And my pronouns are he and him. Not that it’s any of your business, but since you seem so obsessed with me, I thought I’d clear that up for you.”

I let the silence hang for a beat, watching the smirk slowly dissolve from his face, replaced by stunned confusion. He hadn’t expected a response. He’d expected me to shrink.

“As for our project,” I continued, my voice never wavering, “I’ve compiled the vendor list and drafted the proposal. I’ll email it to the group. You can handle the ‘manly’ stuff, like figuring out how to get tables and chairs. Since that seems to be more your speed.”

I picked up my tray. I looked at Chloe, who was staring at me with wide, impressed eyes. I gave her a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Then I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a wild, frantic drumbeat of adrenaline and terror and elation. I walked out of the cafeteria, through the halls, and out into the cool autumn air.

I didn’t stop until I was across the street, leaning against the cold brick of a building, my hands trembling violently. I had done it. I had spoken back. And I had used her voice to do it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Chloe.

Chloe: That. Was. AMAZING. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

Chloe: Also, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry they’re such idiots. You’re the only one in that group with a brain.

A sob caught in my throat, part laugh, part cry. I typed back, my fingers shaking.

Me: Thanks. Sorry you had to see that.

Chloe: Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for someone to put Brad in his place. Welcome to the team, Lopez.

I slid down the wall to sit on the pavement, drawing my knees up to my chest. The adrenaline was fading, leaving me shaky and spent. I’d won that battle, but the war felt far from over. I’d asserted a identity that was a lie—he/him, Rome—but I’d used my true voice to do it. The contradiction was dizzying.

I called Leo. He answered on the first ring.

“Reene? Everything okay?”

Hearing him say my name, my real name, was the final crack in the dam. The whole story tumbled out—the pen, the comments, the girl with pink hair, and my outburst.

He listened in silence until I was finished, breathless and crying.

“Holy shit,” he breathed when I was done. There was awe in his voice. “Reene. You magnificent creature. You queen.”

I let out a wet laugh, wiping my nose on the sleeve of Rome’s stupid shirt. “I was so scared.”

“I bet you were. But you did it. You stood up. How did it feel?”

I thought about it, the fear and the fury mixing together.

“Because you weren’t,” he said firmly. “That was you. That was all, Reene. Just because you used a different name doesn’t change that.”

His words settled over me, a comforting truth. He was right. The strength I’d found in that moment hadn’t come from Rome. It had come from the person I was fighting to protect.

When I walked into the loft that evening, Aunt Rose took one look at my puffy eyes and my resolved expression and knew something significant had happened.

“You have that look,” she said, handing me a cup of tea without asking. “The look that says a wall has come down.”

“I think I made things worse,” I said, sinking onto the sofa. “And better. I don’t know.”

I told her the story. She listened, her expression unreadable until I got to the part where I spoke in my clear, natural voice.

A slow, proud smile spread across her face. “You weaponized your truth,” she said, her eyes shining. “You used the very thing they tried to mock as your strength. That, my dear, is not making things worse. That is a revolution.”

Later that night, as I prepared for bed, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I was still in the boy-mode clothes, my hair pulled back.

Aunt Rose had called it a revolution. Leo had called me a queen. But curled up on my bed later that night, the stiff oxford shirt finally discarded for a soft silk camisole, I didn’t feel revolutionary or regal. I felt sick.

I had won. I had stood up for myself. But the person I had defended wasn’t real. I had fiercely asserted an identity—Rome, he/him—that felt like a ill-fitting skin I was desperate to shed. The victory felt like a betrayal. To win the battle, I’d had to fight for the wrong side.

The next day in class, Brad and his friends wouldn’t meet my eyes. They were quiet. The tension was still there, a thick, uncomfortable cloud, but the nature of it had changed. I was no longer just their puzzle; I was an opponent who had fought back.

Chloe slid into the seat next to me. “Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey,” I replied, my voice neutral but not forced.

“You okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

She smiled. “Good.” Then she hesitated. “For the record… I don’t really care, you know? About the… whatever.” She waved a hand vaguely. “You’re cool. And you have great ideas.”

It was the closest anyone had come to acknowledging the elephant in the room without demanding an explanation. It was acceptance, or the beginning of it.

“Thanks, Chloe,” I said, and for the first time, I smiled back at her, a real, genuine smile that reached my eyes. “You’re pretty cool too.”