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Aava pulled her thrift-store cardigan tighter, its frayed sleeves doing little to ward off the damp chill of the Finnish autumn that seemed to seep from the walls of the Korpela Middle School. Korpela, the only middle school in this nondescript rural town, was Aava’s universe, a universe she navigated with the practiced unease of a seasoned trespasser.
Her mother, a woman whose affection was a suffocating blanket of expectations, insisted on Aava attending. "School is important, Aava. It's your future." The words, delivered with that unwavering certainty, always left her feeling hollow. Homeschooling, she’d once dared to suggest, her voice trembling, had been met with a firm, "Absolutely not. You need to be around people." People. The concept felt alien, a foreign language she’d never quite mastered.
Aava was a puzzle with missing pieces. Her movements were often clumsy, a secret shame that manifested most spectacularly during physical education. The sheer terror of being singled out for her lack of coordination, her body protesting every attempt at grace, left her perpetually flushed and anxious. On top of it, her joints ached nearly every day, and she was always dizzy and fatigued.
Her mind, however, was a different story. It was a vibrant, untamed wilderness, filled with the fantastical creatures of the fantasy novels she devoured, the intricate workings of the human body she studied with a quiet intensity, and the hushed, forbidden whispers of gay fanfiction. These stories were her sanctuary, digital havens where she could escape the bleak reality of Korpela and the gnawing emptiness within. She was a voracious reader, her grades a testament to her sharp intellect, even if her engagement with the material was purely for self-preservation, a way to avoid further scrutiny.
But even in her internal world, there was a shadow. A quiet shame that coiled around her heart whenever she stumbled upon a particularly tender description of male affection. Her crush on a girl in 7th grade and on one of her female teachers. Buried even deeper, her crush on a 6 year old boy when she was 12. She wasn't ready to face that part of herself yet, not for two more years. So she just identified as bi. She had come out to her mother, sobbing, and her mother had accepted her. But still her sexuality felt shameful, dangerous, a secret too heavy to bear. She masked, of course, a constant, exhausting effort to appear as normal as possible, to blend into the background, to be the good girl her mother expected. Yet, the mask never quite fit, and the effort left her drained, perpetually battling a deep fatigue. Dissociation was a frequent companion, a fog separating her from her own body, as if she were merely a passenger observing a life unfolding around her.
School was a minefield of subtle cues and ostracization. She was the girl with the thick-rimmed glasses perpetually sliding down her nose, the one who always sat on the floor reading and didn't talk to anyone, the one whose clothes, a haphazard collection from the local second-hand shop, seemed to possess a peculiar, unplaceable awkwardness. She was the outcast, the ghost in the hallways, the recipient of hushed giggles and occasional, stinging verbal barbs.
Then, one Tuesday, the predictable monotony of Korpela was disrupted. Exiting her first class, Aava saw a new student sitting on the hallway floor. A boy who seemed to carry a storm cloud with him. Buried in an oversized hoodie, earphones in his ears, scribbling something in a notebook. He was short, like Aava, with a shock of black hair that defied any attempt at neatness. His eyes, when they flickered towards the loud, passing students, were dark and piercing, darting away almost immediately. He wore eyeliner, a deliberate rebellion against the conformity of rural Finland.
Aava watched him from her usual perch by the window, the one that offered a view of the bleak, windswept landscape outside. Her initial reaction was one of quiet judgment, a familiar reflex. He looks angry and scary. Probably a troublemaker. But as the days wore on, and the other students studiously ignored him, their conversations flowing around him like water around a stone, a different feeling began to stir within her. A flicker of recognition, of silent empathy. He was an island, just like her, adrift in a sea of indifference.
One day during recess, while the others clustered in their usual noisy groups, Aava found herself drawn to the solitary figure everyone ignored. He was hunched over, meticulously unwrapping a stick of salty liquorice. Hesitantly, Aava approached, her heart thumping a nervous rhythm against her ribs.
"Hi," she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
He jumped, his dark eyes snapping up, wary and suspicious. "What do you want?" His voice was rough, clipped.
"Nothing," Aava said quickly, her people-pleasing instinct kicking in. "Just... hi. I'm Aava."
He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze unnervingly direct, then quickly shifted away. "Alex," he grunted, returning to his liquorice.
It was a start. A tiny, jagged crack in the wall of isolation.
Over the next few days, Aava found herself seeking Alex out. She’d linger after class, putting her jacket on with exaggerated slowness, waiting for him. They didn't talk much, not at first. Aava would offer a hesitant observation about something. Alex would respond with monosyllabic grunts or sharp, dismissive glances. But he didn’t actively push her away. On rainy days when they were allowed to stay inside, he let Aava watch him draw. It was clear he loved monsters and cryptids, his notebook full of them, his only friends. Maybe that's why he tolerated her presence, a silent acknowledgment that she was an exemption from his misanthropy and the suffocating solitude he seemed to prefer.
One afternoon, as they were walking out of school, a group of older boys, their faces contorted into sneers, blocked their path. Jari, the ringleader, a hulking figure with a perpetually bored expression, nudged Alex. "Hey, freak. What's with the spooky outfit?"
Alex’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists. He met Jari's gaze for a fleeting second, a flicker of raw anger in his dark eyes, before looking away. "Leave me alone," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly.
"Oh, look, it can talk!" another boy jeered. "Think you will find a boyfriend with that face? What are you, even? Some shemale freak?”
Aava felt a familiar heat rise to her cheeks, a potent mix of shame and righteous indignation. She wanted to disappear, to melt into the pavement, but a stronger, unfamiliar urge propelled her forward.
"Leave him alone, Jari," she said, her voice surprisingly steady.
Jari turned his attention to Aava, a smirk spreading across his face. "Or what, weirdo? Gonna cry to mommy?"
Before Aava could respond, Alex suddenly surged forward. "Fuck off!" he spat, shoving Jari with surprising force. The unexpected aggression stunned the bullies for a moment, giving Aava and Alex the chance to slip away. As they hurried down the street, Alex’s anger seemed to simmer, his breathing ragged.
"You shouldn't have done that," Alex said later, his voice tight, as they reached the dusty path leading to Aava's house. "They don't care. Nobody cares."
Aava, still reeling from the confrontation, found herself saying, "But they were being horrible. And you… you shouldn't have to deal with that alone." The words felt clumsy, inadequate, but they were honest.
The next day, another confrontation occurred. Before history class, a prominent bully, known for his venomous words and pervasive homophobia, cornered Alex in the hallway. "Still dressing like that, shemale freak?” he sneered, his voice laced with malice.
Aava’s stomach twisted. She couldn't stand by this time. She hurried to find a teacher, her mind racing with the words she would use. Mrs. Nieminen, the kindest of the teachers, listened patiently as Aava, her voice trembling, described what she had witnessed.
Later that day, Aava approached Mrs. Nieminen again, a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest. "Mrs. Nieminen," she began, "about Alex… he was being bullied yesterday. They were saying really mean things."
Mrs. Nieminen’s expression softened with a mixture of pity and concern. "Aava, I've checked the enrollment records. There's no student named Alex in the eighth grade. I understand you want to help, but I can't act on something that isn't officially on record. Perhaps you misheard his name?"
Aava’s heart plummeted. “I think… maybe he didn't want to tell his legal name. He didn't even tell me which 8th grade class he's in. Maybe he's in a special education class and he's ashamed of it? Or… maybe he's trans?" The last word hung in the air, a confession of her own unspoken fears.
Aava felt a wave of despair wash over her. When she found Alex by the school gates, the early evening light casting long shadows, she felt a hollow ache in her chest.
"I told a teacher about the bullying," she blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush. "But she said she can't do anything. She says there's no student named Alex in 8th grade. They don't even know you exist."
Alex looked at her, his expression unreadable, a familiar blankness in his eyes. "And why should they?" he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Nobody ever cares. I may as well not exist." He turned away, his gaze fixed on the distant, darkening horizon.
Aava watched him go, a strange, unfamiliar ache settling in her chest, deeper than the joint pain, more profound than the chronic fatigue. It was a new feeling, a disquieting flutter that had been growing for weeks, ever since Alex had swaggered into her rigidly structured world. It was probably a crush. It felt dangerous, exciting, and terrifyingly real.
It started subtly. A shared phrase, a particular way the light caught Alex's eye, a peculiar mannerism that felt… familiar. But as the days turned into weeks, she became more uneasy. She’d catch herself having a thought, only to realize it wasn’t her own, but a sharp, cynical observation that felt distinctly Alex-like. Then there were the moments of dissociation, where the world would blur, and for a fleeting instant, she wouldn’t be Aava, but rather a boy with black hair and a fierce, untamed spirit.
One evening, curled up in her room, the familiar ache in her joints intensifying, Aava found herself reaching for a drawing pad. She’d always been a clumsy artist, her movements often betraying her intention. But this time, her hand moved with an almost alien fluidity, sketching a creature of darkness, a monster with sharp claws and misunderstood eyes. As she worked, a voice, not her own, echoed in her mind. My creations. My friends. The voice was raw, angry, and achingly familiar. It was Alex.
A cold dread washed over her, chilling her to the bone. She looked at her reflection in the darkened window, her familiar brown hair, her thick glasses, her thin, wiry frame. But for a terrifying moment, she saw not Aava, but Alex. The anger, the defiance, the yearning for a world of monsters and acceptance.
She remembered the shared disdain for the harshness of the world, the quiet understanding of being an outsider, the secret appreciation for stories that celebrated forbidden love. It wasn’t just empathy she felt for Alex. It wasn’t that she was developing a crush on Alex. It was something far more profound, far more terrifying.
She slammed the drawing pad shut, her breathing shallow. The pieces, scattered and disjointed for so long, were starting to click into place, forming a picture so bizarre, so unbelievable, that it threatened to shatter her reality. The teachers who couldn’t find him. The students who ignored him. The unsettling sense of familiarity.
The buzzing in her head intensified, a growing cacophony of thoughts and emotions that weren’t entirely hers. A flash of memory: Alex, alone in the playground, punching the brick wall, his knuckles bloody, an almost detached expression on his face. Aava felt a phantom ache in her own knuckles.
And then, the most terrifying realization of all dawned.
She was Alex. He was Aava. They were two parts of a whole, alters within a single, fractured consciousness, inhabiting the same body, experiencing the same bleak reality in Korpela. The internal conflict she’d felt, the confusion about her own identity, the disjointed nature of her thoughts – it wasn’t just being a teenager, or being queer, not entirely. It was the internal war of a shared existence.
The boy who didn’t make eye contact and the girl who desperately tried to please. The boy who punched walls and the girl who dissociated. The boy who loved monsters and the girl who retreated into fantasy. They were one. And the budding, impossible crush, the longing for connection, wasn't directed at another person. It was a fractured self, reaching out to another part of itself, a desperate plea for understanding, for acceptance, for a love that could only exist within the confines of their shared mind. The wind howled outside, a mournful cry that echoed the silent scream trapped within Aava, within Alex, within their body.