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Chapter 2

  Kiran took the phone from Raj hesitantly. The device felt absurdly normal in his hand—familiar, grounding—but what came through the speaker was anything but.

  “Hello, beta?”

  His breath caught. That voice.

  His mother.

  The same warm, caring voice that had tucked him into bed as a child, scolded him for coming home te, fussed over his eating habits. It was her—completely unchanged. And yet, to her, he was not her son. He was… her daughter.

  “Kiran?” her voice came again, soft with concern. “Raj just told me you’ve been a little upset since morning. What’s wrong, beti?”

  The word beti, which meant, daughter, hit him like a wave.

  Kiran tried to respond, but his throat constricted. A sob escaped before he could stop it—raw and sudden. He hadn’t cried like this in years. Maybe not since he was ten. Not like this—helpless, broken, overwhelmed.

  “Oh my god, Kiran!” his mother’s voice sharpened with arm. “Talk to me, sweetheart. Is it… is it Raj? Did you two fight again?”

  Raj looked over, visibly concerned, but kept his distance.

  Kiran wiped at his cheek. His voice came out small, choked. “No… no, Ma, I’m… I’m okay.”

  “You’re crying, darling. That doesn’t sound okay.”

  The care in her voice, so familiar yet directed at a version of him that had never existed in his world, only made the knot in his chest tighter.

  “I just… had a weird dream,” he lied softly. “Felt… off when I woke up.”

  There was a pause, then his mother’s voice gentled further. “Maybe you’re just stressed. You’ve been juggling work, home, and Raj’s te hours. It happens. But listen—you were coming over for lunch today, remember? We have to start pnning for Priya’s engagement. She’s already being difficult about the outfits.”

  Kiran blinked. Priya.

  The name snapped something back into pce. His sister. Same name. Same face, even in this world. That part of his life—their life—seemed untouched. The engagement… yes, it was next week. The memories floated to the surface, overpping strangely with his real ones.

  “Y-yeah,” he managed. “We’ll come. Maybe a bit early.”

  “That’s my girl,” she said with gentle affection. “Come soon, beti.”

  Kiran murmured a soft "mm" and disconnected the call.

  He handed the phone back to Raj.

  Raj slipped an arm around his waist again, hesitant but warm. “You okay?” he asked, watching him closely.

  Kiran didn’t trust himself to speak. Everything in his world was familiar and foreign at once, like living someone else’s life… and yet, somehow, also his.

  “I want to be alone for a while,” he said quietly.

  He went back to the bed and sat down, arranging the pillows behind him, pulling the sheet loosely over his p. His body felt alien and too responsive, yet the weight of the world inside his chest felt achingly real.

  Raj opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He lingered for a moment by the window, then said gently, “I’ll go prepare breakfast for us.”

  Kiran sat on the bed for what felt like hours, knees drawn close to his chest, arms wrapped around them. The quiet of the room seemed to close in on him—soft, stifling, almost too peaceful for the storm inside his mind.

  In his earlier life, everything had made sense.

  He had been a software engineer—logical, methodical, always chasing deadlines and projects. The dependable son, the one who made his parents proud. His engagement had only recently been finalized—a pleasant arrangement with a girl named Ananya, the daughter of a family friend. They were still in the early stages of getting to know each other. She was bright, independent, studying management in another city. She came home twice a month. Their conversations had been polite, awkward at times, occasionally pyful. There hadn’t been fireworks, but there was a quiet possibility of something growing.

  And now—all of it was gone.

  That version of him, that life, had simply... evaporated. Like morning mist in sunlight.

  But it hadn’t completely disappeared. The memories were still there—clear, vivid, undeniable. And yet, yered beneath them like faded photographs beneath newer ones, were memories of this life. Female Kiran’s life. The awkward teenage years. Quiet rebellion against her mother’s expectations. Dreams of working in fashion—before family pressures nudged her toward software engineering. The arranged marriage. The wedding saree. The first night.

  No. These weren’t his memories, he told himself.

  They belonged to the other Kiran.

  But he was that Kiran now... wasn’t he?

  Kiran hugged his knees tighter, his—her?—body still feeling wrong. Too soft. Too sensitive. Too aware.

  “Breakfast.”

  The word cut through the haze.

  Kiran looked up. Raj stood at the door, holding a tray with toasted bread and two mugs of coffee. He wore a pin T-shirt and pajama bottoms, hair still tousled from sleep, his expression a careful blend of concern and patience.

  He brought the tray over and set it on the nightstand.

  Kiran accepted the mug, fingers brushing Raj’s for a second too long. A strange current passed through him—something caught between comfort and discomfort. He flinched and hurriedly took the cup. The coffee was strong. Just the way he remembered liking it… in both lives.

  “Thanks,” he said quietly, taking a sip.

  Raj sat in a chair near the bed, giving him space.

  And the memories came—of arguments over movie choices, of painting the living room wall a ridiculous shade of orange, of shouted words and smmed doors. And of whispered apologies in bed, of stolen kisses in the kitchen.

  Not mine, he told himself again.

  The memories told him they had married four years ago. Another arranged match. But somehow… it had worked. At least, mostly. Raj had been kind. Attentive. Sometimes temperamental, but never cruel. And Kiran—this version of Kiran—had adapted. She taught software at a local college, a career shaped more by family practicality than personal passion.

  Kiran sipped again. The headache eased, but the storm inside didn’t.

  “We need to get ready,” he said at st, softly. “Ma’s waiting for us.”

  Raj nodded, watching him with quiet intensity. “Yeah. I’ll take a quick bath. Gimme ten minutes.”

  Kiran almost ughed.

  Ten minutes. He knew Raj would take at least an hour.

  And when the thought came, so did a smile. It tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

  Then, he thought, who smiled?

  Him... or her?

  --------

  Raj finally emerged from the bathroom after what felt like half an hour. His hair was damp, neatly combed back, and the clean shave added to his fresh, crisp look. He wore a white towel slung low around his waist as he rummaged through his section of the wardrobe—completely at ease, completely unaware of the existential crisis Kiran was silently drowning in.

  Meanwhile, Kiran had been digging through his side of the wardrobe, growing increasingly frustrated. Sarees, salwar suits, kurtis, floral blouses—clothes that made his skin crawl with their strangeness, despite the persistent memories insisting they’d once been his favorites.

  Finally, he found an oversized round-necked top—pin, beige, gender?neutral enough to tolerate. Paired with the jeans he’d already put on earlier, it looked passable. Casual. Nothing that would attract attention—or so he hoped.

  He sat at the dresser and began combing his hair. The brush moved easily through the long strands, and without thinking, his fingers swept them into a bun and clipped it in pce with practiced ease. It felt instinctive. Natural. Too natural.

  He stared at his reflection. The bun framed a face that was still his—if he’d ever been born female. The same eyes. The same cheekbones. The tilt of the chin. Only softer. Finer. Delicate. Beautiful, even.

  He waited silently as Raj began dressing.

  Raj pulled out a few T-shirts and jeans, holding one up after another like he usually did. “Should I wear this?” he asked, showing a dark green tee with a pair of faded jeans.

  Kiran nodded slightly, managing a small, mechanical smile. Raj’s easy familiarity felt both comforting and surreal.

  Then Raj looked at him fully, brow furrowing. “You’re pnning to wear that?”

  Kiran blinked. “What?”

  “I mean…” Raj hesitated, pulling the T-shirt over his head. “It’s just—won’t your dad say something? You know how he is with you wearing Western clothes.”

  Kiran’s heart sank. Right. His father.

  In this world, his father was strict—protective to the point of control. Rules about attire, behavior, expectations—especially for his daughters—had always hovered like shadows over the household. And now that Kiran was one of those daughters, it all made cruel, sudden sense.

  As a son, he’d never experienced it. Never once had his father commented on his clothes, his behavior, his choices. His sister, Priya, though? She’d lived under constant surveilnce. The way she dressed, who she talked to, when she returned home—everything was scrutinized.

  And now…

  Kiran gnced down at the oversized top and jeans. It was modest by any standard, but he finally understood Raj’s concern. The bar was different when you were some conservative father’s daughter.

  A heavy silence settled in his chest.

  “So this is what she’s been dealing with all these years,” Kiran thought grimly. “And I never really saw it.”

  “Okay,” he sighed, eyes still on the mirror. “I’ll change.”

  He turned and walked to the wardrobe, rifling through neatly folded salwars and kurtis. After a moment, he pulled out a loose cotton kurti in pale blue, paired with a cream-colored salwar. The fabric felt light and comfortable, if not exactly desirable.

  Holding them against himself, he checked the length. Raj gnced over as he pulled socks from a drawer.

  Their eyes met. Kiran said softly, “I need the room, Raj.”

  Raj looked puzzled. “What? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, is it?”

  There was nothing lewd in Raj’s tone, but the implication—that casual intimacy was simply normal between them—hit Kiran with a surge of discomfort and vulnerability.

  He spun around, snapping, “Just go, Raj. I’m having a bad day.”

  Raj raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright… crazy women,” he muttered as he stepped out and closed the door.

  Kiran stood still for a moment, kurti in hand. Then, moving slowly, he peeled off the oversized top and jeans. He looked at himself in the dressing-table mirror, stripped down to bra and panties. His cleavage filled the cups of the bra, overflowing slightly and below his shapely hips and a slight belly—everything he’d once envisioned in his dream woman. Now he was that woman. That sexy woman of his dreams, he thought in frustration.

  He sighed and dressed quickly, tugging on the loose salwar and slipping into the kurti as if he’d done it a hundred times before—because, somewhere in his mind, he had.

  He grabbed a dupatta and draped it across his chest, adjusting it twice before it felt right. Then he looked at himself in the mirror again.

  The woman staring back looked modest, simple, soft?spoken.

  But inside, Kiran felt none of that. Inside, he was still tangled in the chaos of two lives, two selves, with no roadmap between them.

  He sighed, barely a whisper.

  Does this nightmare have an end?

  That's the end of Chapter 2. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Thankyou

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  Copyright Notice & Discimer

  > ? Moonmars, 2025. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, pces, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resembnce to real people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.

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