Chapter 8: Things That Can't Be Hidden (4)
While the guy sorted out his feelings and changed clothes, I opened my laptop on the living room table. Not the charts—I pulled up the search bar. TS disease early symptoms. Emotional changes. Physical adaptation period. Articles poured in with every keyword I typed. Community posts, medical info sites, government guides, even cafes run by TS victims themselves. Search terms I wouldn't have glanced at yesterday were now all about my life.
I opened a few and scrolled through. The victim testimonials were overflowing with similar stories. The whole body heating up, tears for no reason, hypersensitive reactions to the slightest touch, wild mood swings. All matching what he'd shown over the past two days. And one cause kept coming up: hormones. A physical mismatch where the brain couldn't keep up with the body's signals. It varied by person, but stabilization took weeks to months, and emotional outbursts or overreactions during that time were totally normal.
What happened earlier fit right in. His familiar body reacting in completely alien ways—his brain just couldn't handle it. Not weak will or weird personality. Just a physical gap between signals and processing. The real relief? It was one of the common TS disease symptoms. Common meant there were ways to cope.
Flipping through more medical pages, I found treatments—simpler than expected. Hormone stabilizers. A checkup at an OB-GYN or TS clinic, get a prescription, and symptoms eased up a lot.
'Just go to an OB-GYN or clinic for a script...' I stared blankly at the screen. Simple. Pure info-wise, dead simple. Like grabbing cold meds at a convenience store. The problem was doing it.
I pictured telling him to hit up an OB-GYN. He could barely accept being a woman—dropping that word would trigger a meltdown. The guy who'd screamed "female stench" yesterday. Admitting his body's female was a wall he hadn't climbed; dragging him past to an OB-GYN was miles off. Plus, ID issues. Total transformation meant his old ID was useless, no temp ID yet—reception would stonewall him.
'Ah, that poster at the convenience store...' Temp ID issuance. Guarantor needed. I'd brushed it off, but it might come sooner than thought.
I opened another tab: temp ID process. Apply at community center, one guarantor's ID and signature, about a week turnaround. No hassle—I could guarantee. But he had to go in person for his signature. Getting someone barely emerging from blankets to a center? Another headache.
'Don't try everything at once.' I half-closed the laptop, summing it up. Three things to remember now: One, his symptoms were the disease, not his fault. Two, hospital meds would fix it. Three, that meant getting ID first. Order set, I shut the laptop, stood, and opened my bedroom door.
He wasn't buried in blankets. Just sitting blankly on the bed. No covers, no pillow, legs dangling off the edge, staring into space. Eyes with no thoughts—like a powered-off screen, pupils unfocused, just open. It was beyond pitiful; it scared me. The trembling under blankets earlier was better. At least struggling meant some emotion left. Now, even that seemed drained.
The room air hung heavy, humid. The scent wouldn't hide even if he wanted; no bandwidth left for ventilation or changing amid his collapse.
'If that's how it is... no choice.' Waiting for self-recovery ended here. No more hovering for him to emerge, eat, or speak. That passive approach wouldn't cross this line. Time to intervene—or he'd live like this forever. Soulless doll on the bed, staring blankly. Pet eating and sleeping on command. Frozen as someone who only moved when told, starting nothing himself.
'That might feel easier... no thinking, just obey.' From his view, maybe. No judgments, choices, responsibility. Safest: follow orders. But I didn't want that, couldn't imagine it. Never been into dolls. I wanted my friend back—not the world's prettiest puppet.
I walked to the bed, sat gently beside him. Mattress dipped; his body tilted slightly my way but didn't pull back. Side by side, same view—felt like I should speak, but he beat me.
"Finally get it... everything."
No tears in his voice—dry as ash after emotions burned out.
"What?"
"That bastard Sangcheol... and the manager creep. Why they came at me."
"Yeah?"
I didn't ask why. He went on.
"They targeted this... me all lit up, crumbling at a touch."
No strength for tears, or full acceptance? He stared blankly, mouth moving. I stayed silent. But I had to say it. Now or never—this moment of self-awareness, or the words might stay buried.
"It's a TS disease symptom."
His shoulders tensed. "Hospital meds fix it."
TS disease hit his ears—body started shaking hard, hands clutching blanket edge, head dropping.
"Where... do I go?"
Didn't expect that. Thought denial or screams—instead, trembling question on destination.
"OB-GYN. University hospital. Anywhere."
Shaking sped up. Fingers whitened on fabric, breath ragged beside me.
"That's... that's... that's......"
Repeating, no end-word, speeding till breath lagged.
"Hah... huff... hng... hate it...."
Gasped out between pants. Of course. OB-GYN screamed "woman" to him. Unaccepted body—that was an uncrossable wall.
'In that state. How to get him out?'
Outside was now predator land: Sangcheol types, pimps, dismissive stares. This tiny home—sole safe zone—had become his world. No one's fault. Not his fear, not my solo burden. World spun on; sole perp was the TS disease reshaping him, ripping family, stealing friends, now locking the door.
I exhaled, spoke. "I'll check burn clinics or whatever. Shower now—lunchtime's past."
His trembling eased a fraction. "Okay...."
Quick reply this time. He slid off bed slow. Feet hit floor, wobbled—then steadied, stepping to door. Shirt dripped droplets below—sweat? Marked a trail to bathroom. I didn't comment, just followed, wiping prints with socked feet.
Shower door shut, water roared again. I returned to room, opened drawer. His sorted drawer—few left. Oversize shirts and hoodie in laundry; only white shirt available.
'Sorry, but...' First night flashed: drenched at door in just a shirt. Same handoff might sting, but better than nothing.
'If he wants different, army gear it is.' Reserve uniform deep in closet—covering, thick; maybe comfier for him.
Shirt folded on bathroom door, I headed kitchen, checked phone. Basket empty, as expected.
'Same old then.' App up, usual Chinese place—menu popped, fingers auto-selected: fried rice, jjajangmyeon, tangsuyuk. Our combo. Added to basket, hit order—paused on jjajang.
'Spicy broth now? Throat's wrecked.' Post-sob rasp—no. Swapped black for white jjajang. Rest same: fried rice, white jjajang, tangsuyuk. Sofa-TV-chopsticks memory, just broth color flipped.
Ordered. 'Feels like only he's changed... but irreversible.' Like confirmed order—no cancel. Red-to-white jjajang; his body swapped too—no refunds. Clinging delayed delivery only.
More work? Glanced at laptop—shower stopped. Silence, then door cracked, shut. Took the shirt.
'Good... dressed proper.' Door opened again, voice.
"Pants... missing."
"Ah, yeah. Hold on."
First request. Eats on eat, sleeps on sleep, showers on shower—now voicing need. Jam? Queried back. Menu? Emptied basket. Pants? Spoke first.
Back to drawer, grabbed elastic pants, to door. He cracked it, slim arm out—no full open.
'Not like him...' Old him: door wide, towel-loincloth to living room. Bathhouse strip-first, dress-last. Now arm-shy.
Accepted? Body changed. Not for casual show. Thought crossed handing pants—truth unknowable. Fingers pulled, arm vanished, door shut. Steam wafted hall, ceiling-dispersed. Truth behind door or steamed away.
I lingered in hall, eyed shut door, returned kitchen.