The ceiling fan was spinning like it was two drinks away from throwing hands — slow, unbalanced, and deeply committed to making weird noises. I lay beneath it, half-mummified in blankets, body buzzing with pain meds and the vague awareness that, oh right, I now had a completely new torso situation. My chest felt like it had been rearranged by a raccoon with a power tool and a dream. But hey — boobs: deleted. Gender: affirmed. Vibes: weird, but good.

Garrett, my hamster and tiny live-in chaos gremlin, was curled up against my arm like a fuzzy hot water bottle with opinions. Every so often he squeaked in his sleep, probably dreaming about overthrowing humanity or hoarding an illegal amount of sunflower seeds. I could feel the judgment radiating off him even in slumber. If Garrett could talk, he’d probably say something like, “Wow, you look like a cryptid who lost a fight with a weed whacker. Proud of you though.”

The door creaked — not politely, but like it was auditioning for a haunted house — and I heard footsteps approaching. Good. I’d left it unlocked so my boyfriend could bring me the homework and maybe also a will to live. I turned my head slightly, managing the exact posture of a Victorian widow dramatically wasting away on a fainting couch.

Then, without missing a beat: “Hey, handsome,” I rasped, my voice sounding like a crow that had smoked since birth. I gave it a beat, then added, “So... you drop by often, or just when your boyfriend’s officially got his chest evicted?”

Garrett stirred, opened one eye, and promptly looked away like, “Absolutely not. I did not sign up for this cringe.”

“You bring the homework,” I continued, grinning like a lopsided goblin, “or did you just come to bask in my narcotic-fueled masculinity and hamster-approved aura?”

Garrett did a full-body stretch, turned around, and shoved his fuzzy little butt against my bicep in what was either support or protest. Hard to say. Probably both.