Only for a few hours...Right?

After the Funerals, A Quiet Corner

The new house sat near the edge of the village, a modest cement structure with two rooms, a low mossy compound wall, and a gate that creaked every time the wind passed through. There was nothing fancy about it, and yet for Arun and Pavithra, it was more than they could ask for.

It was the government’s way of doing, something, after both teenagers lost their families in two unrelated but cruelly timed accidents. Arun’s parents had died in a bus crash just two months before Pavithra’s mother lost her battle to illness. With no other close relatives to claim them, the panchayat, through a newly launched rehabilitation scheme, allotted them a joint living space and a modest monthly support amount, provided they stayed in a rural village. It was meant to give orphans “a fresh beginning” though no one ever asked if they wanted one.

Arun was 21 born in Chennai, but his life felt paused. He had completed his degree quietly and had been working from home in temporary contracts while waiting for his long-delayed Group IV interview call. Since moving here, he hadn’t left the house much. They moved in right after Pavithra's SSLC exams ended.

He didn’t want to.

Too many eyes.

Too many whispers.

Too many people saying, “Ivan paiyan-a? Illa ponnaa?”

Shadows in Contrast:

Arun stood at 5’4, with a lean body that never quite caught up to adult masculinity. His skin was pale, with a polished softness that never needed cream. His eyes, almond-shaped and wide, always made him look surprised. His lips were full and soft-pink. But the most talked-about thing, especially when he went into town, was his hair thick, black, long, and always freshly oiled. It reached well below his shoulders when unbraided. He didn't cut it because it reminded him of his long dead akka.

No one would say it to his face, but more than once, strangers assumed he was someone’s younger sister or daughter. From behind, he had been called “chinna ponnu” more times than he cared to remember.

What made it worse was the way his body betrayed him. His chest wasn’t flat. Without any hormone, exercise, or effort, there were soft, visible curves slight, but present. Mounds. No matter how many layers he wore, they existed bouncing subtly with every step. His college nickname, cruelly whispered behind his back, was “half girl.”

Below the waist was no comfort either. He had never had to “adjust” himself the way other boys did. Even the tightest underwear fit like it was made for a girl. His private part was so small it never caused discomfort. Not once had he stood shirtless before anyone since puberty.

Pavithra was 16, in contrast, was like a carved block of stone ,tall, raw, sharp-angled. At 5’6, she had the stance and stride of a boy who grew up playing cricket with older brothers. Her hair, roughly cut just above the nape, stuck up at odd places. Her limbs were all elbows and knees, and she had no curves to speak of. Her voice was deep and scratchy, like someone still recovering from a throat infection only, it had always been that way.

People often mistook them not by mistake, but by instinct. Villagers sometimes addressed her as “-pa” and Arun as “-ma” in passing. At first it hurt. Then it became normal.

Fever and a Favour:

That morning, the smell of Amrutanjan and hot rice water filled the house. Pavithra lay curled under a thin sheet, her body flushed and damp. The fever had come suddenly the night before, stealing her energy and her sharp voice.

Arun sat by her bed, wiping her forehead with a wet towel.

“I need to go,” she mumbled hoarsely. “Today is the signing day. If I don’t, they’ll cancel my admission and my scholarship.”

“Sign what?” he asked.

“11th standard joining register. It’s just a signature maybe thumbprint. No classes. Just formality.”

“Can’t they postpone? Tell them you're sick?”

“No one cares. It’s a government school. If you don’t show up, they assume you don’t want the seat.”

Arun hesitated. “I can go with you—”

“I can’t even stand up, Arun…”

Her fingers trembled as she reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“You go.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“You go in my place. Just once. Nobody will notice.”

“I’m… a guy, Pavithra. You really think they’ll let me walk in there?”

“They won’t check and they don't know me nor do they have a database with photos”. They won’t even look. It’s just a rural girls school. You wear uniform, sign, and walk out.”

“I don’t even know how to wear that stuff,” he said, his voice already shaking.

“I’ll teach you,” she said, almost pleading. “I kept a spare set. Brand new.”

“I’ll look— I’ll look like some kind of—”

She cut him off, eyes fierce despite her pale face. “You’ll look like me. Better, actually. You already do. Everyone thinks you're a girl anyway. This will just… confirm it.”

Arun’s heart pounded in his chest.

“I’m not like you,” he said softly.

She didn’t reply at first. Then, in a cracked whisper: “If you don’t help me today… I may lose this seat. And then what, Arun? No Amma. No Appa. No future. We’re just here in this empty house. Alone.”

He looked down.

She looked smaller than ever, sick and fragile, and yet , somehow , still in control. Like she was always the stronger one. He felt ashamed for even hesitating.

He saw the blue cloth bag at her bedside.

“Clothes are inside,” she whispered.

The Pile of Girlhood:

Arun opened the bag slowly. Everything smelled faintly of soap and something else --- teenage girl.

He lifted out the uniform piece by piece:

A blue checkered kurti, short-sleeved with a open collar.

Loose, blue salwar pants with wide legs.

A navy blue sleeveless overcoat, stiff with starch.

A folded camisole , soft white cotton, almost translucent.

A light pink panty, tiny hearts printed all over.

A faded white training bra, elastic stretched, cups small.

Black socks, Bata school shoes.

A black comb, maroon hair ribbons, and a small sheet of round black bindis.

His hands trembled as he laid them out on the bed. It was too real now.

She reached up from the bed and picked up the bra.

“Holding it like this… it looks small. But for you… it’ll fit. It might even be tight.”

He swallowed.

“Why?”

She smirked, weakly.

“You have more… than me.”

The Trial Dressing:

He went into the back room and locked the door, heart pounding louder than the ceiling fan.

He peeled off his T-shirt and jeans. His reflection stared back, smooth arms, thin waist, narrow shoulders, the slight swell on his chest unmistakable.

He picked up the pink panty. He hesitated… and then slid it up.

No resistance. No bulge. No shame from below. It just fit. Perfectly.

And then the bra.

His fingers fumbled at the clasp. When he finally fastened it and adjusted the straps, the pressure shocked him.

His flesh filled it. No stuffing needed. The elastic band pulled against his ribs. Every breath reminded him it was there.

Then the camisole - thin and breathable. It hugged his chest softly, almost like a whisper. It made the curves feel more visible.

Then came the kurti, soft and well-stitched. The fabric settled over his body like it belonged there, curving just slightly over the bra cups. He couldn’t see them much but he could feel them.

The salwar pants tied at the waist, loose and floaty.

The overcoat came last, sharp and school-like.

When he looked at the mirror again, a stranger stared back.

Final Touches from the Real Girl:

Pavithra sat up on her bed as he stepped out.

She blinked, her expression shifting from amused to strangely moved.

“You… look exactly like someone I imagined once.”

She pulled him down and began to part his long hair gently, fingers skilled despite the fever.

She braided it neatly, tied the maroon ribbons, and stuck a bindi between his soft eyebrows.

“You walk like me?” she asked.

He tried.

“Hmm. Loosen your hips. Not too much. Just… let the salwar swing.”

She adjusted his overcoat, dusted his shoulders, and helped him into the black socks and shoes.

“They’re a little tight,” he winced.

“You’ll manage. You’re used to pain in worse places,” she joked.

He gave a nervous smile. The bra tugged every time he lifted his arms. His panty was hugging him warmly. His braids bounced when he moved his head.

He was too afraid to speak.

She whispered, “Say something.”

“…Enna solla?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes sparkled.

“Perfect.”

Through the Gate:

He clutched the file tightly to his chest and stepped out.

Every sound felt louder. Every movement made him aware of how differently he was dressed.

The villagers on the street smiled politely.

“school ku poriyama?,” one old lady said.

He nodded, heart thudding.

He couldn’t respond. He was afraid his voice would break the illusion.

The school gate appeared - yellow paint peeling, a rusted sign declaring “Educating a Girl is Educating a Nation.”

The old watchwoman looked up from her stool.

“Late-a vandhutiya, ma?”

He nodded slightly, keeping his voice low. She gestured him in.

He didn’t notice the small camera overhead - it blinked once, logging time, date, and image.

He crossed the gate.

A part of him knew he could still run.

But he didn’t.

And in that moment - without a single mistake, word, or resistance - his identity began to shift, in silent ways he could never undo.

Author’s Note:

Hi, I’m Jerusha Anne Joy, a writer who enjoys exploring identity, emotion, and transformation often through stories involving forced change and characters of both genders.

I am a sloth myself (⁠*⁠﹏⁠*⁠;⁠) , so it takes time for me to complete stories, but I love building slow, immersive journeys. I’ve also some (albeit unsuccessful) written science fiction and coming-of-age tales under a different pen name.

This particular genre has always fascinated me, and my inspiration comes from creators like Jessica and Anjali. I believe in thoughtful storytelling that lingers with readers long after the last word.

Thank you for reading, I hope my stories leave you curious, moved, and wanting more.