You got interrupted

A sharp knock on the door jolts you awake.

"Time to get up! You’re going to oversleep again!" your mother’s voice rings out, and you yank your hands back as if burned.

Panic. You sit frozen, staring at the door, but it doesn’t open. A moment later, you hear her footsteps retreating.

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of thoughts. Then, almost mechanically, you grab your phone from the nightstand. The screen glows — same date as expected. Just a little over a month until graduation.

"Just like before…" you whisper, realizing that nothing has changed about your school schedule.

Except now… you’re a girl.

Your gaze drifts to the closet. You pull it open. Shelves stuffed with clothes. Girl’s clothes. Jeans. T-shirts. Dresses. Skirts. A lot of skirts.

You settle on a white T-shirt and dark jeans. Simple. Neutral. You pull them on quickly and step in front of the mirror.

The reflection… isn’t just pleasant. You look damn good. Damn attractive. So much so that the thought makes you smile.

"Guess I’m popular," you smirk, catching your own confident grin in the mirror.

Makeup? Normally, you’d probably put some on, but you have no clue how. Not worth the hassle.

You grab your backpack and head downstairs.

The warm scent of fresh coffee and something sizzling fills the air.

Your father sits at the table, sipping coffee while scrolling through his phone. Your mother, dressed in a crisp blouse, is finishing up breakfast.

"Oh, finally!" she turns to you with a smile. "I was about to come wake you up again."

"Morning," you nod, making your way to the fridge.

"Morning," your father mutters, barely looking up from his screen.

"Sleep well?" your mother asks, placing a plate of toast on the table.

You shrug.

"More or less."

"You took your time getting ready," she notes, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Something wrong?"

"No, just…" you quickly come up with an excuse, "Had a weird dream."

"How’s your morning?" you ask out of habit.

"Same as always," your father replies.

You nod, even though you have no idea what that actually means.

"I can drive you," he suddenly says, setting his mug down. "I’m leaving a bit later today."

You answer almost on autopilot:

"No need, I’ll get there myself."

"You sure?" your mother gives you a questioning look.

"Yeah, no problem," you wave it off, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "Alright, I’m off. Have a good day!"

And with that, you step out, leaving the warmth and bustle of the kitchen behind.

Closing the door behind you, you take a deep breath. The crisp morning air is refreshing, but then — it hits you.

Your underwear is still damp.

You exhale slowly, trying not to think about it, but the sticky sensation down there is a persistent reminder of what happened just minutes ago. And, to make things worse, you’re still… turned on.

"Fuck…" you mutter under your breath. "Hell of a morning."