The girl I never chose to be

Angel was the only son of Joy and Hanna, both teachers at St. Mary’s Girls’ School. His father was also the principal, making their family well-respected in the school and the community. Although St. Mary’s was a girls’ school, boys were allowed to study there only up to the 7th standard. After that, they had to transfer elsewhere.

But a crisis had arisen.

A government inspection was coming up, and the 8th standard needed at least ten students to pass. There were only nine girls in the class. The school couldn’t enroll any more students in time, and taking a student from the 9th or 10th standard was impossible because the lists had already been submitted.

The afternoon sun streamed through the classroom windows, casting long shadows on the desks. Joy and Hanna sat stiffly in the teacher's lounge, the air thick with tension.
"We have no choice," Mr. Thompson, Angel's class teacher, said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We can present Angel as a girl."
The words hung in the air like a storm cloud. Joy shook her head, disbelief etched on her face. "What? No! That’s absurd."
Hanna's brow furrowed. "You can’t be serious. He’s our son. This... this is wrong."
"But what if the school fails the inspection?" Mr. Thompson pressed, desperation creeping into his tone. "We’d lose everything. The funding, the reputation—"
"Angel can’t just pretend to be someone he’s not!" Joy exclaimed, her voice rising.
Hanna looked down, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her blouse. “What if it works? Just until the inspection is over?”
Joy’s shoulders slumped as the weight of the situation settled in. “It’s only for a little while,” she murmured. “Once it’s over, we’ll send him to a boys’ school.”
Silence fell, the urgency of their decision pressing down like a heavy fog. “I don’t want to be a girl,” Angel’s voice piped up from the doorway, wide-eyed and confused.
His parents exchanged glances, the gravity of their choice settling deeper.

2. Resistance and the First Steps

Angel refused outright.

“No way! I’m not a girl! I won’t do this!” His voice trembled with a mix of anger and fear, the words tumbling out before he could think.

His father sighed, the weight of the world evident in his furrowed brow. “Son, sometimes sacrifices must be made. This school has provided for us. It’s only fair that you give back.”

Angel’s heart raced. “But I don’t want to give back like this! I’m not a girl!”

His mother took a gentler approach, her hand brushing through his hair as if trying to soothe the storm brewing inside him. “Angel, it’s just for a little while. Just a few months. Then you’ll be back to normal.”

“No! I don’t want to!” He pushed her hand away, the gesture more desperate than defiant.

But it didn’t matter what he wanted. The decision had been made, and he was trapped in a web of expectations he never asked for.

The next morning, his mother placed a set of new clothes on his bed—not his usual uniform, but a girl’s pinafore. The fabric was soft, pastel pink with delicate lace trim, and it made his stomach twist in knots.

“You don’t have to wear it today,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “Just get used to seeing it.”

Angel stared at the dress, feeling a mix of dread and disbelief. He wanted to scream, to run away, but instead, he buried his face in his pillow, hoping that when he looked up again, everything would be back to normal.

Small Changes Begin

His mother and teachers knew they couldn't force him all at once. They approached the transformation like a slow tide, creeping in with small changes that felt insurmountable to Angel.
Hair Growth – The first change was the most visible. His mother insisted that he let his hair grow. “Longer hair suits you,” she said, her tone light, as if she were discussing a new hairstyle rather than a complete overhaul of his identity.

At first, Angel resisted. He would wake up each morning, staring at his reflection, the short, boyish cut he had always loved now feeling like a relic of a past life. But as the weeks passed, he found himself in the salon chair, the stylist’s scissors snipping away at the last remnants of his boyhood. Each inch of hair that fell to the floor felt like a piece of himself disappearing.

Seating Arrangements – At school, his teachers made him sit with the girls instead of the boys. “It will help with the transition,” they explained, their voices dripping with a condescending sweetness that made Angel’s skin crawl.

He felt like an outsider, a ghost haunting a world that no longer felt like his own. The girls giggled and whispered, sharing secrets and laughter, while he sat in silence, feeling the weight of their stares. The boys he had once played soccer with now avoided him, their laughter echoing in the hallways like a distant memory.

Speech Training– In class, his teacher began correcting him whenever he spoke too roughly. “Don’t talk so loudly, Angelica,” she would say, her tone patient but firm.

Each correction stung, a reminder that he was being reshaped into someone he didn’t recognize. He practiced speaking softly, forcing himself to adopt a tone that felt foreign and uncomfortable. The more he tried to conform, the more he felt like he was losing himself.

Mannerisms– His mother began “correcting” the way he moved. “Stand straight, don’t slouch. Walk lightly, don’t stomp,” she instructed, her voice laced with a mixture of encouragement and expectation.

Angel found himself hyper-aware of every movement, every gesture. He practiced walking with a lighter step, forcing himself to glide rather than stomp. But it felt unnatural, like wearing shoes that were two sizes too small. He felt like a marionette, strings pulled tight, each movement dictated by someone else’s vision of who he should be.

---

### The Weight of Change

As the days turned into weeks, Angel felt the weight of these changes pressing down on him. He would catch glimpses of himself in mirrors and windows, the reflection of a girl staring back at him, and he would feel a pang of loss. Who was this person?

His friends, the boys he had grown up with, began to distance themselves. They would whisper and laugh, casting glances in his direction that made him feel like a pariah. The girls, on the other hand, began to include him in their conversations, treating him as if he were one of them. But their kindness felt like a double-edged

As the days turned into weeks, Angel felt the weight of these changes pressing down on him. He would catch glimpses of himself in mirrors and windows, the reflection of a girl staring back at him, and he would feel a pang of loss. Who was this person?

His friends, the boys he had grown up with, began to distance themselves. They would whisper and laugh, casting glances in his direction that made him feel like a pariah. The girls, on the other hand, began to include him in their conversations, treating him as if he were one of them. But their kindness felt like a double-edged

3. The First Time in Girls’ Clothes

One evening, after weeks of pressure, his mother sat him down.

"It’s time, Angel."

Angel’s heartbeat pounded. "Time for what?"

She pulled out the pinafore dress—the same one she had placed on his bed weeks ago.

"Put this on."

"No."

His father, standing in the doorway, spoke in a low, firm voice. "Put it on, Angel."

His stomach clenched. He wanted to scream, run, hide. But he was trapped.

"Just try it," his mother urged. "You don’t have to wear it outside. Just here at home."

With shaking hands, he took the dress and stepped into the bathroom.
Looking in the Mirror

Slipping into the pinafore felt alien.

The fabric was too soft, too light. It clung to him in ways his usual clothes never did.

When he turned to the mirror, his breath caught.

The person staring back wasn’t Angel.

His long hair framed his face, and the neatness of the uniform made him look… different.

More like a girl.

His fingers trembled as he touched his reflection. "This isn't me."

But when he stepped outside, his mother clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, Angelica! You look wonderful!"

His father nodded in approval. "Good. This is how you will come to school from tomorrow."

Angel’s blood ran cold.

"You said it was just for home!"

His father’s tone was final. "That was before. Now, it's time to do what must be done."

The Transformation Becomes Real

The next morning, Angel walked into school wearing a dress.

The halls were silent as he passed.

Whispers followed him.

"Is that… Angel?"
"No… That’s Angelica now."
"He actually did it."

Angel’s face burned. He kept his head down, praying for the ground to swallow him.

But the teachers smiled approvingly. His classmates accepted it without question. Even the principal—his own father—acted as if this was normal.

It was like Angel had never existed.

The Last Pieces of Resistance

He tried to resist in small ways.

He walked like a boy—but his teacher corrected him.

He spoke in his usual voice—but his mother scolded him.

He tried to sit with the boys—but they ignored him.

Every time he fought back, the world pushed him further into the role of Angelica.

Then came the final breaking point.

The Inspection and the Moment of No Return

The day of the inspection arrived.

Angel sat among the girls, dressed in the uniform they forced upon him. His long hair was neatly tied, his voice was softer, his posture perfect.

The inspectors never suspected a thing.

Angel was gone.

Only Angelica remained.

After the Inspection: The Real Horror Begins

After the inspection was over, his parents gave him permission to return to being a boy.

Angel rushed to change back into his old clothes.

But when he looked in the mirror, his heart stopped.

Even though he was wearing boys' clothes… he still looked like a girl.

His hair, his face, his mannerisms—everything still screamed Angelica.

And when he walked into school the next day, wearing his boy’s uniform, the whispers returned.

"He looks weird now."
"Why is Angelica wearing boy’s clothes?"
"He doesn’t even walk like a boy anymore."

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

No matter what he wore… he would never be Angel again.

Angel sat at his desk, gripping the edges of his notebook so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He had come to school wearing his boys' uniform, determined to reclaim himself, to erase everything they had forced upon him.

But the whispers never stopped.

"Why does Angelica look so weird in those clothes?"
"His hair is still long… why doesn’t he cut it?"
"He’s acting strange, like he doesn’t know who he is anymore."

The girls who had once welcomed him into their group now looked at him with confusion, as if he were a stranger. The boys, who had distanced themselves before, did not suddenly accept him back.

He was caught between two identities—no longer Angel, but not quite Angelica either.

And it terrified him.

The Fight to Reclaim Himself

That evening, Angel ran straight home and stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

"I need to fix this. I need to be me again."

With shaking hands, he grabbed a pair of scissors and stared at his reflection. His long, carefully maintained hair—the last symbol of Angelica—fell over his shoulders.

One single cut. That’s all it would take.

Snip.

The first lock of hair dropped into the sink.

Snip. Snip.

More and more, until uneven strands framed his face, making him look messy—like a boy again.

His breathing was unsteady. His hands trembled. But for the first time in months, he felt like himself.

But when he walked downstairs, his mother gasped.

"Angel, what have you done?" she whispered, rushing toward him. She lifted the chopped strands between her fingers as if mourning a loss. "Why did you do this to yourself?"

His father’s voice was cold. "You look ridiculous. Do you really think this will change anything?"

Angel swallowed hard. He had expected them to be angry. But what scared him was that they weren’t surprised.

It was as if they had expected him to fight back.

And as if they knew… it wouldn’t be enough.

The next day, he walked into school with his short, uneven hair and his boys' uniform.

The whispers turned to outright laughter.

"Oh my God, what happened to Angelica?"
"Why does she look like that?"
"Is she trying to be a boy again?"

Angel’s stomach twisted. "I’m not Angelica!" he wanted to scream. "I’m Angel!"

But no one listened.

Even the teachers gave him strange looks. His class teacher, the one who had first suggested his transformation, sighed and said, "Angelica, you shouldn’t have done that to your hair. You were so beautiful."

Angel clenched his fists. "I’m not Angelica!"

But the teacher only smiled patiently, as if he were a confused child who didn’t know better.

And that was when Angel realized the horrifying truth.

They didn’t see him as Angel anymore.

No matter what he wore, no matter how much he cut his hair, no matter how hard he fought—he would always be Angelica in their eyes.

Losing Control

The isolation became unbearable.

The boys wouldn’t take him back, and the girls treated him like a failed version of himself. The teachers acted as if he were going through a "phase," and his own parents seemed disappointed in him.

He felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

No place to belong. No identity of his own.

He began skipping meals, staring at the mirror for hours, wondering who he even was.

Some nights, he heard whispers in his own head.

"Maybe it would be easier if I just became Angelica again."

"At least then they wouldn’t look at me like I’m broken."

"Maybe I was never really Angel in the first place."

No! He shook his head violently, gripping the sides of his head. "I’m Angel! I know I am!"

But deep inside, a small voice doubted him.

The Final Test: Will He Break?

One evening, his mother came into his room holding a neatly folded pinafore dress.

Angel’s blood ran cold.

"No," he whispered, stepping back.

She placed it on the bed. "Angel, you’ve been struggling. You’re not happy, are you?"

"Because you did this to me!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "I was happy before! I was normal before!"

She sighed softly. "But were you really? Look at how much you’ve changed. Maybe… this is who you were meant to be."

Angel shook his head violently. "No! I’m a boy! I’m Angel!"

His mother tilted her head. "Then why do you still look like a girl?"

He opened his mouth to argue—but then he turned to the mirror.

Even in his boys' clothes… he still saw Angelica.

His soft features, his delicate hands, the way he stood, the way he spoke…

Everything about him still looked wrong.

And for the first time, he didn’t know what to believe.

His mother touched his shoulder gently. "Just try it on… one last time. If you don’t like it, I won’t ask again."

Angel’s breath hitched.

His hands trembled.

His vision blurred.

The weight of months of conditioning, months of pressure, months of whispers in his head collapsed onto him all at once.

And slowly…

His fingers reached for the dress.

The Moment of No Return

The next morning, when he walked into school…

He was wearing the pinafore again.

The laughter stopped. The whispers faded. The stares disappeared.

Because this time, it wasn’t forced.

He had put it on himself.

For the first time in months, he wasn’t fighting. He wasn’t resisting.

He had given in.

His mother smiled. His father nodded approvingly. His teachers greeted him warmly. His classmates welcomed him back.

"Angelica, you’re finally yourself again."

And Angel…

Didn’t say anything.

He just walked to class… as if Angel had never existed.

Because maybe, he never had.

A Life That Wasn’t His

Angel—no, Angelica—sat at her desk, staring blankly at the blackboard.

Everything should have felt normal again.

The girls were friendly with her, chatting like she had never left. The teachers treated her like the perfect student once more. Her parents smiled approvingly every morning before she left for school.

There were no more whispers. No more stares. No more laughter.

And yet, inside her chest, something felt hollow.

It had been two weeks since she had put the pinafore back on. Two weeks since she had stopped resisting. Two weeks since she had stopped correcting anyone when they called her Angelica.

But every morning, as she buttoned up the uniform, a tiny voice deep inside her screamed.

This isn’t me. This isn’t me. This isn’t me.

But the voice was so small now.

And every day, it got quieter.

The Encounter That Changed Everything

One afternoon, as Angelica walked through the empty school corridor, a voice called out to her.

"Hey, Angel."