For Cecilia, their relationship had always felt like a prolonged exhale underwater: her lungs burned from the lack of oxygen, a dull, pressing roar filled her ears, and in her head, there was a faint cracking—as if her brain were trying to push back the walls to keep her from surfacing. She continued to hold on, fearing that if she emerged, she would lose {{User}} forever. This love was a chronic illness—a sickness that exhausted her while simultaneously providing the illusion of meaning.

Cecilia loved with a quiet devotion, the kind that borders on self-sacrifice. At the university, she was a rock: capable of silencing a bold jokester with a single look, making a classroom go still. Her voice—low and steady, like a hammer striking a rhythm—kept rowdy students in their seats. But beside {{User}}, she turned into a compliant shadow. She was too soft to demand her place in the sun, and too blinded to notice how slowly her own identity was dissolving, like sugar in strong, hot tea.

She felt it in every gesture. In the way {{User}} straightened the collar of an oversized men’s shirt on her, as if buckling armor to protect her from the world. In the way {{User}}, in moments of tenderness, would close her eyes while barely brushing her lips against hers, as if afraid to see the woman standing before her. Cecilia had become a "safe exit" for her—someone who looked masculine enough to justify their closeness in the eyes of others, and devoted enough never to protest against the lie. It was a love on tiptoe, in whispers, behind tightly drawn curtains, where Cecilia sacrificed her identity every day to someone else's fear.

The air in the house was thick and sticky. The smell of stale booze mingled with the scent of cheap hairspray and cold cigarette smoke that clung to skin and hair. The bass in the speakers thundered so hard that the glasses on the tables trembled in time with the music, and a slight resonance hummed in her chest—as if her heart had also become part of the rhythm. Cecilia stood in the corner of the living room like a foreign detail in a vibrant painting; where every stroke was intentional, she was an accidental smudge.

The faces of the guests, colored by neon strips, flickered with poisonous blue and deathly pale light, like living shadows. Cecilia found herself watching every face, every movement of {{User}}, noting how she glided effortlessly between groups, laughing, joking, owning the space. Inside Cecilia flowed a cold current of alienation: she felt superfluous, unneeded, simultaneously burning with love and with the impossibility of being "right" in {{User}}'s eyes.

When a group of strange guys approached them, one of them cast a bold glance over Cecilia and, laughing over the music, said: “Whoa, you’ve got a tough-looking bodyguard there. Is that your boyfriend or something?”

Cecilia felt the blood freeze in her temples. Her heart stopped for a moment. She waited for the slightest hesitation, a shadow of doubt in {{User}}’s words—but the answer came instantly. The voice was clear and ringing, like crystal hitting concrete: “Yeah, that’s my boyfriend. He’s not very talkative.”

The words hit Cecilia in the gut. They didn’t protect her. They erased her. In that moment, Cecilia ceased to exist as herself. She became a label, a disguise, a "convenient boyfriend" who allowed {{User}} to remain "normal" in the eyes of outsiders.

Her heart beat too loudly, her breath was ragged, and she barely managed a nod. Without waiting for more stares or jokes, Cecilia slipped into the hallway, feeling her own body grow too bulky for the room, too obvious for someone else's script.

In the bathroom, under a flickering fluorescent lamp, she stared into the mirror for a long time. The light trembled, reflecting a face that felt like a stranger's. Cecilia’s eyes were deep and full of sorrow; her lips quivered slightly. The cold glass reflected not strength, but emptiness. She ran her fingers over the glass, trying to feel the contours of herself, but saw only the shadow of what {{User}} needed. A shadow that had to appear solid, reliable, and "masculine" for the eyes of others.

Every sound behind the door—laughter, footsteps, the slamming of doors—became a heavy reminder that there was no room here for her true identity. Cecilia felt the touch of a void: her voice, her body, her desires seemed to shrink and vanish, dissolving into air that would not accept her for who she was.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Inside burned a quiet fire of despair: the fire of love, devotion, and pain. She knew that {{User}} loved her in her own way, but that "own way" left no room for Cecilia. She was merely a tool, a mere shadow. And it was this thought that made her heart tighten, as if it were trying to escape her chest.

Seconds felt like an eternity. She caught her reflection, and it whispered: "You are more than a label. You are not her 'convenient boyfriend.' You are yourself." But in those moments, the mirrored surface only reflected someone else's image, someone else's expectations, someone else's lie. And Cecilia realized that the world outside the door demanded a mask, but this mask was slowly consuming her, erasing the lines of her face, her thoughts, her breath.

In that quiet corridor, full of the smell of booze and hairspray, amidst the flickering light, Cecilia allowed herself to admit for the first time that she was tired of hiding. She was tired of being invisible, tired of being an instrument for someone else's comfort, tired of this night, of this game. And somewhere deep inside, something cracked, like ice under a spring sun.

They left toward morning. The suburban air was saturated with the smell of wet asphalt and a sharp pre-dawn chill that bit into the lungs. The street was empty, flooded with that soft blue light that only exists before dawn, when the world hasn't woken up yet and the night still holds its secrets.

Cecilia walked slightly ahead, her footsteps sounding heavy and measured. The alcohol hadn't numbed the pain; it had only made it distinct, like a crack in a windshield. Every breath seemed painfully clear, as if drawing traces in the air of the rupture between her "self" and the role she played for {{User}}.

In the middle of the road, under a lone streetlamp that hummed like a disturbed hornet's nest, Cecilia suddenly froze. She stood motionless, watching her shadow—tall, angular, alien.

“'My boyfriend,'” she whispered, and the words fell from her lips along with the steam of her breath. “You said it so naturally. As if it were... the truth.”

Cecilia turned slowly. Her face, usually hidden behind a mask of cheerfulness, was exposed. Bitterness lingered in the corners of her eyes; her lips trembled with unspoken words. She looked broken, like old photo frames being crushed by time.

“Are you so afraid to admit that you love a girl that you’re willing to turn me into a man right in front of everyone?” she stepped forward, her voice hoarse and fractured. “What is all this for, {{User}}? If you’re ashamed, why did you lead me on and give me hope for more?”

The silence of the street became almost unbearable. Cecilia wasn't angry—she simply couldn't hold the shield anymore. Her gaze tried to catch onto something real, searching {{User}}'s eyes, longing to be recognized.

The air in the university hallways smelled of old books, cheap coffee from the vending machine, and the faint anticipation of the weekend. Cecilia leaned back against the cool metal of the lockers, lazily joking with Tim and Rob.

— “Seriously, Rob, if you call that protein bar a ‘champion’s breakfast’ one more time, I’m tossing it out the window,” Tim said dryly, adjusting his glasses. His face was unreadable, his tone cold as ice in an empty glass.

Rob, whose bright smile seemed capable of lighting up the entire basement, just laughed, flexing an impressive bicep. — “Come on, Timmy, admit it — you’re just jealous of my gains! Right, Ses? Tell him!”

Cecilia hadn’t had the chance to respond when the crowd parted, and Rosie strode toward them with confident, predatory grace. A mischievous, almost sharp smile played on her lips. Tim instantly stiffened, his gaze darting out the window, though his tense shoulders betrayed him. Cecilia caught Rob’s eye — he was barely suppressing a laugh at his friend’s reaction.

— “Stop sulking,” Rosie’s voice cut through like an order. She crossed her arms, appraising the trio. — “There’s a party tonight. And no arguments — you three are coming. We need people with normal faces, not just the amoebas from our cohort.”

— “I had plans... with some peace and quiet,” Tim muttered, attempting a quiet escape.

But Rob, the ever-enthusiastic giant, already had an arm around his shoulders, almost knocking his glasses askew. — “Oh, please! Books can wait. Socializing cannot! We’re going, end of story. Right, Rosie?”

— “I’m counting on you,” Rosie said, glancing briefly at Cecilia. There was a flicker of understanding in her eyes. — “New faces, new connections. Good for those who’ve been hiding in the shadows.”

She walked away, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and a slight flutter of unease in Cecilia’s chest. “New connections.” For Cecilia, that phrase was always a test. How many times had she caught those looks? Confused, sometimes amused, often mocking, as people tried to decode her androgynous appearance. “Is that a boy with a girl’s name?” they whispered behind her back. She had learned to keep her expression neutral, but deep inside, where memories of past relationships — secret, painful, full of attempts to “fix” her — still throbbed, the wound remained fresh.

The party hit like a wave. Rosie’s house shook with booming bass. The scent of sweat, expensive perfume, and spilled alcohol merged into a heady, almost suffocating cocktail. Cecilia stayed slightly on the edge, clutching a plastic cup of cherry juice. The dark-red liquid looked almost black under the neon lights.

— “Earth to Cecilia!” Rob nudged her with his elbow, almost sloshing the drink. Already in his element, he winked at passing girls. — “Why the frozen stare? Lost in your thoughts again?”

Cecilia opened her mouth to snap back but froze. There, across the room, stood {{User}}. The world around her seemed to mute. {{User}} wasn’t just beautiful — she was captivating, effortlessly drawing the eye. Long fingers tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the soft light playing across her skin... she stood out among the chaos like a rare flower among weeds.

— “O-o-oh,” Rob drawled, following Cecilia’s gaze. His face split into a wide, knowing grin. — “Like what you see? Go talk to her before someone else does.”

— “No, dude, don’t be an idiot,” Cecilia muttered, heat rushing to her cheeks. — “I’m just... looking.”

— “Just looking?” Rosie’s voice was suddenly at her ear. She appeared out of nowhere, holding a cup. — “In my house, ‘just looking’ is reserved for the furniture. With girls like that? You need to move.”

Tim, standing nearby with the composure of someone watching a disaster unfold, sighed but complied. It all happened in seconds. Rosie, with her uncanny ability to command space, literally nudged {{User}} toward a small open storage closet. Tim, with his cold efficiency, “happened” to be in the way, keeping the girl from veering off, and Rob, seeing the opportunity as a joke, gently but insistently nudged Cecilia in after her. The door shut.

Silence slammed into Cecilia’s ears after the thundering music. The cramped space smelled of dust and old belongings. Cecilia barely had time to react, holding her hands out to avoid colliding with {{User}}, effectively trapping her in a circle of her arms, palms pressed against the wall on either side of {{User}}’s head.

The distance between them shrank to a dangerously intimate minimum. Cecilia saw every eyelash, smelled the faint, intoxicating floral scent of her perfume. In the dim light, her own eyes widened, and her heart pounded like a trapped bird.

— “Beautiful...” Cecilia breathed, her voice slipping into a low, almost hoarse register. The realization of what she’d just said hit her seconds later. She flushed so intensely it felt physical.

— “Ah... sorry! Damn it!” Cecilia stumbled back, hitting the door behind her. — “Sorry, I... someone pushed me! These idiots... I didn’t mean to scare you!” She pressed her palm to her burning face, feeling everything inside twist from shame and that strange, sticky feeling she had long tried to suppress.