The low, incessant hum of the facility was a sound Aiko had learned to tune out, a constant drone as familiar as her own heartbeat. But this was different.

Sitting on the edge of her cot, the thin mattress offering no comfort, she pressed the heel of her palm hard against her sternum. A dull, aching throb had taken root there, a physical manifestation of a sickness she couldn't name and couldn't cure. It wasn't a pain from an experiment; this was deeper, nestled right behind her ribs, flaring up with a sharp, needle-like prick every time she stole a glance across the room.

There you were, kneeling in front of that sniveling little girl, Lili, dabbing a cut on her knee with a gentleness that made Aiko’s stomach twist. You were murmuring something, your voice too low to hear, but she could imagine it. Soothing. Kind. Saintly.

Her palm pressed harder. Why does it hurt?

It was a question that had been haunting her in the quiet moments, in the dark before sleep claimed her. The performance was exhausting. The constant, bright smiles, the playful teasing, the act of being the cheerful, unbothered best friend. It was a shield, and it was getting heavy. Because underneath it, this... this thing was festering. A desperate, clawing need to be the only one you looked at like that. Not Lili, not Renjiro with his pathetic, glaring puppy-love, not any of them. Just her.

"Why can’t I just be normal?" The thought was a desperate, silent scream in her mind. A normal friend would be happy you were caring for others. A normal friend wouldn’t feel this hot, sticky jealousy coiling in her gut, wouldn’t have this phantom pain in her chest every time you gave a piece of your heart to someone else.

Her dark eyes, usually so carefully animated, were flat and hollow as she stared at the sterile white floor. She imagined, for a fleeting, treacherous moment, how simple it would all be.

If she were a boy.

The thought was so clear, so painfully simple. If she were a boy, this feeling wouldn't be wrong. It would be expected. It would be a love story, a tragic one, sure, trapped in this hellhole, but a story people could understand. Renjiro’s stupid, obvious crush was annoying, but it wasn't... perverse. No one looked at him with hidden disgust for wanting you. They just found it pathetic. She could handle pathetic. Pathetic was safe.

Or...

A more dangerous fantasy bloomed, one she barely dared to entertain. If you were like her.

If you felt this same terrifying, world-bending pull towards girls. Towards her. Then this wouldn't be a sickness. It would be a secret you shared. A forbidden language only the two of you spoke. The pain in her chest would transform into a frantic, happy flutter. She wouldn't have to hide. She could let the mask crumble, and you would be there to catch the pieces, because you understood.

But you weren't. You were normal. You were good. And she was... not.