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I’m an only child. Was an only child. I say that because my mother thinks I’m dead now, which is probably for the best. I don’t think she'd be happy with who I am now.
Being an only child, and a son, at least, so they thought, I was given many responsibilities and put under so much pressure from a very young age. When my father died, I had to take the role of the “man of the family” to care for my mother. I always knew I was a woman. Always. But I never thought it would be possible to live freely due to my family and society. So when my mother became sick, and I received an offer of money in exchange for marrying a woman I didn’t know who needed support for her unborn child, I felt like I had no choice but to accept. I felt that I owed it to my mother, and that sacrificing my dream of living as myself was the only option to help her.
On our wedding day, everything seemed fine. The woman, whom I barely knew, appeared sweet and accepting of me, and I assured her I would do right by her to support her and her child. I didn't love her, but her well-being mattered to me; do you understand? But later on, I found her with… someone. I tried to explain I wouldn’t tell anyone. I pleaded with him, begging him to let me go. Again, I didn't love the woman; I barely knew her, and what she did with others was none of my business. But the man didn’t trust that. He saw me as a rival, not knowing anything except I was the person who married the girl he loved. So he became violent. Attempted to kill me. With a knife. Drove it deep into my stomach. And I bled a lot. So much so that they thought I’d die quickly, and they left me to do that. But I was found by my friend just in time, and she took me to a hospital. And–surprise–I lived.
But I was terrified. I knew that if that... if he found out I was still alive, he wouldn’t hesitate to try to kill me again. So I faked my death. I hid and recovered from my injuries, slowly and quietly. And as the days went by and I spent more time with myself, I began to think deeper about my identity, my life. I realised that I no longer had to pretend to be Arpo, the good, dutiful son, because there was no one else I needed to please. No one I needed to convince. My family's expectations of me died because, for all they knew, I had died. But back then, I had no money, so I asked that same friend for help, the one who saved my life. She told me she could lend me the money if I promised to work and pay her back over time. I agreed immediately. Of course, I did. And you know, in doing that for me, I feel she saved my life for a second time.
After consultations with professionals, I met with a doctor who approved me for HRT, then gender affirming surgeries. And as time went by, my body became softer... my hair grew longer... and I healed from my surgeries. And then one day I looked at myself, and I realised I was finally the Arpo I had always dreamed of being. I saw myself in that mirror the way I had always pictured the girl I was inside. And she was... beautiful.
***
Arpo finished speaking, her cheeks flushed with a pink tinge. She’d never told anyone things like that before, ever. Her eyes met Pan’s. The girl’s lips were slightly parted and her eyes were round, and in their proximity, Arpo’s eyes darted over her face, picking up every faint freckle on her smooth, tan skin. The silence continued. Porpan still looked at Arpo with an unreadable expression, and Arpo felt herself grow anxious at the lack of response.
She began apprehensively, “N'Pan-”, but was cut off as Porpan launched forward and hugged her tightly, her arms around Arpo’s neck, their cheeks pressed together. Porpan’s delicate frame emanated a warmth that, to the elder of the two, felt like the glowing hearth in a home she’d always sought, and she couldn't help but bask in that gentle safety. But she didn’t move, still unsure of Pan’s feelings.
“P’Arpo…” Pan murmured against her neck, her breath tickling the sensitive skin very slightly. Then slowly, she drew back, her hands coming to rest on either side of Arpo’s fair face, holding her as if she were a delicate porcelain artifact.
Arpo looked down, avoiding the warmest brown eyes she’d ever known. Vulnerability was never her strong suit, and in this moment–sitting here in the soft, warm light of Pan’s bedroom, their bodies so close–she felt there was nowhere to hide. And it unsettled her. Then Pan’s thumb began to brush back and forth over Arpo’s cheek, and without thinking, Arpo leaned into the touch. Pan smiled down at her, eyes creasing, and nudged Arpo’s face up so their eyes met. And shit, Arpo would never get tired of seeing the gorgeous, sun-kissed face of that sweet girl.
Porpan’s dark eyes gazed into Arpo’s so softly as she spoke, a gentle smile on her lips. “Your story is beautiful, phi. You should never be ashamed of it.”
The words struck deeply. Arpo’s eyes began to sting, and water gathered at the corners. “Do you really think that way?” She asked quietly, her eyes dropping again, her hands anxiously twisting in her lap. She swallowed and wrinkled her nose to try to halt the tears, but it had little effect.
“Yes,” Pan murmured emphatically. The young woman's eyebrows knitted together in a desperate insistence, and she reached out and squeezed Arpo's hands in her own. “You fought so hard and overcame so much to become the beautiful woman you are. That’s something you should always be proud of. I really do mean it. I'd never lie to you, phi.”
Arpo couldn't find it within herself to respond. She just sniffed, a tear falling. Pan let out a quiet noise of fondness before she embraced Arpo again, pulling her close and rubbing her back gently. Arpo paused, just for a moment, then exhaled shakily and allowed herself to sink into Pan. A small hand came to rest on the back of her head, gently holding her in place. She held Porpan tighter, pressing their bodies close enough that their heartbeats could be heard by both women. In that quiet, softly-lit room, Arpo closed her eyes and finally smiled.
“Thank you, Pan,” she whispered.
I love you, she thought.