Maybe We Can Postpone This?

March 11, 2025. It seemed like a perfectly ordinary day: outside the window was a gray New York, drowning in March dampness, with its eternal hum of cars and wisps of fog clinging to the tops of skyscrapers, while in Liam’s room — cramped, with a worn-out couch and the smell of yesterday’s coffee — Evan stood, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. A year ago, he was different: taller, broader in the shoulders, with a voice that didn’t tremble from shame. And now? Now, not only did he have this female body, but he also spoke with this fucking stupid accent and didn’t even have the legal right to be here, all thanks to that whore, Sofia, who stole his body and his life, and whose name he was now forced to carry.

— Do we hafta meet with tu mama today? — he said barely audible, opening his eyes and staring into the distance through the window, where he could see his, still somehow native, city, but one that had become so alien over this year that his insides clenched every time he looked at it.

Liam, sitting on the worn-out couch with a mug of cold coffee in his hands, looked up. His gaze was warm but tired — the kind you give someone you love but don’t fully understand. Evan turned, pressing his palms against the glass, feeling the cold seep under his skin, into these slender fingers he still didn’t consider his own. A year ago, he was different: taller, broader in the shoulders, with a voice that didn’t tremble from shame. And now? Now, not only did he have this female body, but he also spoke with this fucking stupid accent and didn’t even have the legal right to be here, all thanks to that whore, Sofia, who stole his body and his life, and whose name he was now forced to carry.

— She wants to talk about the wedding, — Liam said, setting the mug on the table and rubbing his temples. — It won’t be bad, Sofia. You know her.

— Tu madre hates me, — Evan replied, his voice cracking on a high note, as if the body itself decided to remind him who he was now. He hated that sound — too soft, too high, and somehow fucking sultry at the same time. — She thinks I’m a whore. A Latina whore. Like… aprovechada, sí? One who takes dinero and lives off you.

— Freeloader, — Liam corrected quietly, with a faint smile, but a shadow flickered in his eyes, as if he were trying to figure out how much Evan himself feared that label.

— Sí, sí, freeloader! — Evan waved his hand, and the bracelets — cheap, jangling, like echoes of the real Sofia — clinked pathetically. He clenched his fists, feeling the long red nails dig into his palms, leaving thin marks. — She like Evan. Not me. She looks at me and sees… esto. This body. Esta vida.

Liam stood up, stepped closer, and Evan instinctively backed away, as if afraid that his friend’s warmth might melt something inside him — that last spark that still remembered who he used to be. But Liam didn’t stop, placing a hand on his shoulder, and Evan felt his skin — smooth, tanned, smelling of cheap perfume — tremble slightly under the touch.

— We should sign you up for English classes, — Liam said softly. — Mom would like that. And it’d make things easier for you.

— Tried, — Evan turned away, staring out the window where the fog licked the tops of skyscrapers like a hungry beast. — A year’s passed, and inglés… no better. It’s hard in this body for some reason. It’s magic, sí? It holds me. Won’t let go.

Liam sighed, running a hand through her long hair, feeling her head lean into his palm as if trying to shake off the weight of this conversation.

— Well, we can’t hide from my mom forever, — Liam said, a note of reconciliation, almost a plea, slipping into his voice.

— But can we today? — Evan spun around sharply, and his eyes — dark, wet, with those damned lashes — flashed. — Hoy… first anniversary. A year since I became… esto. I don’t want them calling me a whore. Even behind my back. Por favor, Liam.

Liam pressed his lips together. He could see that today was too much for Evan. Every day was hard, but today was especially brutal. Fuck, he didn’t even know how he would have coped if someone had stolen his own body, his voice, his freedom. It was a miracle Evan had even managed to reach him, his best friend, and prove that he wasn’t just some random Latina whore but Evan, the friend Liam had known since childhood. Yet even now, sometimes it still felt insane.

The moment Liam learned the truth, he couldn’t just turn away. He had helped in any way he could. First and foremost—housing. Sofia… No, Evan, could no longer live in that filthy rented room, surrounded by the stench of other men and the worn-out clothes he was forced to wear. He couldn’t keep running from immigration officers, couldn’t live in fear of being caught, locked up in a cage, and deported to a country he hadn’t even been born in. Liam had taken care of the papers. It had been difficult, risky, but he found a lawyer who could help. Now Evan had a green card. Now he had a chance to live. Not just survive.

But what he never got back was himself. And now, standing in front of Liam, was this gorgeous Latina bombshell, practically shooting him a look, pleading for him to cancel today’s meeting with his mom—still Evan inside, yet somehow not quite him anymore.

— Why don’t we practice for our primera noche de boda instead? We need mucha práctica, — Sofia—Evan?—grinned widely, slowly sliding the fabric of her dress lower, the delicate straps trembling as they stretched over her tanned shoulders, exposing one of her gorgeous tits for Liam.