Abi sat on the couch, fingers digging into the edge of his phone as his mom's words from her text circled in his mind like a haunting melody: "Dinner tonight. Don't forget to wear the blue dress."
The blue dress.
He hated that thing. It wasn't just the dress itself; it was what it symbolized. It felt like a costume, a disguise he was forced to put on, a reminder that who he was underneath didn't matter. What mattered was who she saw. She needed to see her daughter. Not me. Not Abi, the person he thought he might be, or the boy he was born as—but her.
The daughter he replaced.
He changed into the dress before dinner, moving with a kind of detached routine that came only with practice. The fabric was soft, the color flattering, but every time he looked in the mirror, he saw a stranger staring back. The makeup on the vanity lay in a neat little row of products, each a tiny reminder of expectations he could never fully meet, no matter how hard he tried.
He wasn't her. He would never be her.
But what else was he supposed to do?
Abi thought about Dex, with his gentle smile and unflinching honesty in how he communicated, despite the barriers life had thrown his way. And Keiji—how he looked at Dex without a trace of shame or hesitation. Abi wished he could have that. He wished he could be that.
Instead, he picked up the eyeliner and traced a line along his lashes, steadying his hand even as his chest tightened painfully.
---
Dinner was exactly what Abi expected. His mom fussed over the food, ensuring everything was perfect, talking about her day in that bright, chirpy voice she used when pretending everything was fine. His dad sat quietly, eating in measured bites, his face unreadable as always.
"You look beautiful tonight, sweetheart," his mom said, her smile tight but warm, like she was admiring a painting she'd worked hard on. Not of him, though—of what he represented.
"Thanks, Mom," Abi said, forcing the words out.
She kept talking, covering topics from work to the neighbors putting up Christmas lights too early, to how proud she was of Abi for keeping up appearances at school.
"Don't you think Abi looks just like her?" she asked his dad suddenly, her voice carrying that strange, fragile hope she always seemed to wear around her.
His dad didn't look up from his plate. "Yeah," he muttered, his tone flat.
It wasn't true. Abi didn't look like her. Not really. His shoulders were broader, his jaw sharper. He could hide it with makeup, with clothes, with careful posture, but it didn't change the fact that he wasn't her. He was just close enough to let his mom pretend.
"Do you think you'll join the choir next semester?" she asked, turning her attention back to him. "You know she loved to sing. You've got her voice, too."
Abi felt the lump in his throat tighten, but he swallowed it down. "Maybe," he said, keeping it noncommittal.
Her eyes lit up, as if he'd handed her a precious gift. "Oh, that would be wonderful! You'd make her so proud."
Her.
Not me.
---
Later that night, Abi sat on the edge of his bed, still in the dress, with smudged makeup from where he'd wiped at his eyes too hard. His room was quiet, the only sound was the faint hum of the heater. On his nightstand was a picture of her—his mom's real daughter. She smiled brightly in the photo, her hair shiny and perfect, her arms wrapped around a little stuffed bunny.
Abi wondered if he'd ever really know her, the girl whose life he was now asked to live.
A soft knock broke the silence. Abi didn't answer, but the door opened anyway. He expected it to be his mom again, but instead, it was Alfonso, his older brother, his face full of the gentle understanding Abi had come to rely on.
"Hey," Alfonso said, crossing the room and sitting down next to him. "Rough dinner?"
Abi nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
Without another word, Alfonso wrapped an arm around Abi's shoulders, pulling him into a hug. Abi leaned into him, the quiet comfort of his brother's presence grounding him. With Alfonso, he didn't have to pretend. He didn't have to be anyone but himself.
"I know it's hard," Alfonso said quietly, finally pulling back to look at him. "I know you're doing this for Mom. But don't ever think you're not enough as you are."
The words were so gentle, so filled with acceptance, that Abi felt a wave of gratitude and pain roll through him. "It's just…sometimes, I feel like I'm not even myself anymore. Like I'm just…her."
Alfonso's eyes softened. "I get it. But you don't have to be anyone but you around me, alright? You're my sibling—not just some replacement."
Abi nodded, his heart easing just a bit. Moments like this made it a little easier to bear, made the bitterness fade, even if only temporarily.
As Alfonso gave his shoulder a final squeeze and left, Abi was left in the quiet once more, but with a lingering sense of comfort. Slowly, he pulled off the dress and wiped the makeup from his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror, feeling that familiar ache return. It was so easy to pretend, to be the daughter his mom needed him to be. But in these moments alone, he felt the weight of it all, pressing down on him.
The emptiness settled back in as he climbed into bed, a quiet resignation mingling with his fatigue. Tomorrow, he'd put on the dress again, he'd smile and nod, and he'd be the daughter they needed him to be.
But tonight, as he lay there in the dark, he felt himself sink back into the version of himself he'd learned to keep hidden.
Tomorrow, he would wear the costume. He would play the part.
But for now, in this moment of quiet solitude, he was just Abi. And even if he couldn't be himself fully around his parents, the one consolation he had was knowing that, with Alfonso at least, he could be seen as he was.
Abi pulled the blanket up to his chin, letting out a long, shaky breath as the weight of everything drifted off, if only slightly.