In the truck

The hum of the engine provides a steady backdrop to the silence between us. The cab is filled with the smell of worn leather and the faint aroma of the pine air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. I sit there, my thin legs slightly drawn up on the seat, and every time the truck hits a bump, the fabric of my jeans crackles against the upholstery.
"I thought you were a girl," says the driver, without taking his eyes off the road. His voice is rough but not unfriendly, and it brings a touch of warmth to the coldness of the cab. I turn my head so that the ends of my braid touch my cheek. "Why?" I ask, curious and a little unsure.

"Your slim figure, the curves, the beautiful legs, the waist, the tight jeans and no noticeable bulge in the crotch. Your hair was just loose," the driver gestures with a nod toward the rearview mirror, where I see my reflection. "And now your voice is a little too deep for a girl and you've tied your hair back in a ponytail. That makes you look more boyish again. And makes me realize that I didn't pick up a girl."
"I do that on purpose," I admit, my voice sounding soft, perhaps a little ****—a truth I have allowed myself to acknowledge more and more in recent weeks.

"Young men alone don't like to be picked up," the driver continues, glancing sideways at me. "People are afraid of being mugged."
"I figured as much," I reply, remembering the words of a friendly Samaritan who approached me on the street. "And that's why you let down your long hair, to give people the illusion that you're a girl, right?" I nod shyly, feeling myself blush slightly and feeling caught out. I'm not entirely sure about any of this myself. I just don't dare to set off on my journey in my new look yet.

"Why don't you take the hair tie out and let your hair down," the driver suggests, a smile playing on his lips. "After all, I'm taking you with me. Even as a boy. But you can keep up the illusion a little longer."
I hesitate, but then, as if making a small concession to this shared journey, I spontaneously reach up and pull the hair tie out of my hair. My fingers comb through the soft waves, letting them fall gently over my shoulders . Finally, I take the hairbrush out of my backpack and brush my hair thoroughly. I notice the truck driver watching me with interest, and I enjoy the ritual as, a short time later, my long hair falls in soft waves over my shoulder.

"Better?" I ask with a hint of playfulness in my voice.
"Much better." The driver's approval is obvious. "You're pretty, like a real girl, especially with your hair down. Only your voice is a little deep, and maybe you should wear a little makeup."
I turn to the man, my demeanor gentle but firm. "I'm a man, I just have long hair, that's all." But the words lack bite; they float between us, light as air.
"No, not really, right? There's something distinctly girlish about you. How old are you?" the driver persists, unimpressed.
"20," I reply.
I remain silent and think about the remark. The conversation falls silent and a pleasant calm returns, interrupted only by the noise of the street.

"You'd probably look really cute in a dress," the driver says after a pause, and his words hang in the air like fog. "You have really nice legs, and they'd look great in a short dress and high heels. But why don't you have a bulge in your crotch? What are you really?"
My gaze wanders out the window and I watch the world blur by. In the reflection, I see not only Julius or Jules, but a mixture, a person who moves between two worlds and is learning to find their way in the space in between. The man is right. What am I, actually?

I start to think.
After the amputation of my testicles and the cancer diagnosis, I set out on a journey. I plan to hitchhike through Italy for two or three months to figure out what to do next. I don't dare to appear really feminine. But somehow, appearing clearly masculine is no longer an option either. And because of my uncertainty, I've ended up somewhere in between. But my outward ambiguity seems to be noticeable. Not only to the truck driver. There had been some irritation before, too.

Back in the truck...
"Why should I wear a dress?" I ask ly after daydreaming for a while. The conversation has stalled, the driver is silent, but his eyes rest on me more and more often—a mixture of curiosity and something else I can't name.
"To make me happy," he finally replies, with a sincerity that seems almost childlike. "You let your hair down to look girly so I'd take you with me, right? Surely you can go one step further."
A giggle escapes me—quiet, surprising. Even to me. "Did it look like I let my hair down for you?" I tease him, and a genuine little smile plays around my lips. It's true. I did make myself look nice. Maybe for him. Maybe just because I needed it myself.

"And you think I should put on a dress for you now?" I raise an eyebrow, half mockingly, half thoughtfully.
"Yes, exactly," he says. "If you do that for me, I'll drive you wherever you want to go." His voice sounds almost tender—not lustful, but hopeful, as if this moment were more than just a whim.
"I wish you would just take me to Italy," I murmur, looking out the window again. My reflection, blurred in the dark glass, is a hybrid of the past and longing. Julius and Jules. And somewhere in between, a Julia who may soon come into being.

Silence returns. It feels heavy, almost tangible. Only the monotonous rhythm of the tires on the asphalt fills the space, the night outside lying over everything like a blanket.
After half an hour, the driver breaks it again. "Think about it again. Do it for me and I'll take you anywhere."
I take a deep breath. The smell of leather and motor oil hangs in the air. It's that typical smell of masculine spaces, which is both foreign and familiar at the same time. "Wherever I want, huh?" I say quietly, more to myself than to him. It sounds ridiculous. It's absurd. And yet I feel something—a kind of power. A chance to choose. Even if it's just to say "no."

"Maybe," I whisper. The word hangs between us like a delicate promise or a deceptive illusion. "Even if I did," I finally say, "I'd have to admit that I don't own a dress."
The words are quiet, but they carry weight. Perhaps more than I intended. I hope that settles it. I don't want to talk about the dress anymore. About what would come next.
But he doesn't let it go. "We could buy you one," he says. His voice is firm, his gaze unwavering.
I pause. My eyes narrow slightly. I look for mockery or playfulness, but find none. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?" I ask. He just nods.

"Suppose I wear it... would you touch me then?" I ask. My voice is calm, controlled. But inside, I'm raging. It's a test. I want to know who I'm talking to here.
"Yes, I would like to," he says, almost casually.
"Why?" I whisper.
"Because I think you're cute. There's something incredibly girlish about you. Do you know that?" His voice is soft, almost affectionate. "If we spruce up your outfit a bit, maybe a tight T-shirt, nice curls, and makeup, you wouldn't need a dress at all. You'd look like a girl anyway."

His words cut deeper than they should. I feel my body tense up, my thoughts racing. Fear. Defiance. And somewhere between the two—a kind of frightened clarity.
A dress. And a man who wants to touch me for it.
I stare out the window, see the nighttime expanse, the rest stop in the distance, the neon light in the void. I take a deep breath. The air tastes of exhaust, of night, of freedom.

"I think I'd better get out," I say, quietly but firmly.
"Too bad," he says.
I pack my things, slowly, almost ritually. There is a calmness in my movements that I don't really feel. I get out at the rest stop. The ground beneath my shoes is cold and firm. I don't look back.
He's watching me, I can feel it. But I keep walking without turning around.

Continue Journey:
I am now standing at the side of the road again, among strangers, among possibilities. I am a figure in the twilight, upright, slim, a little lost—and yet determined. My gaze scans the horizon. I am waiting for a ride that is not aimed at my body, but at my direction. For a journey that is not defined by desire, but by what I want to be.

I am waiting for someone to take me with them – not because I look attractive, but because I want to find a place where I can be whole.
I've been standing here for what feels like an eternity, while the sun slowly moves across the sky, as if mocking me with its indifference. Two hours, to be precise. Cars rush by without a single driver noticing me. With a sigh that ruffles my blonde waves, I reach up and pull out my hair tie. My curls fall over my shoulders in a soft, golden cascade. I run my fingers through the strands, untangling the knots of my frustration and letting the breeze play with the ends.

"Come on, Jules, go for it," I whisper to myself and **** a smile—the smile that used to belong to Julius, but now belongs entirely to me. A beautiful, disarming smile.
As if on cue, a car slows down. My heart skips a beat. The driver looks me over, a spark of interest in his eyes—until he hears my voice. A boy. The car accelerates abruptly and disappears in a cloud of dust. "Damn," I mutter, shaking my head at the indifference of this street.

"Come on, Jules, be brave," I encourage myself, paying attention to the voice. Then I shoulder my backpack and march determinedly to the rest stop. Almost as if by itself , I enter the ladies' room and look at myself in the mirror. My slightly feminine features are still very subtle—the four or five pills I've taken over the last few days haven't had enough effect yet, even though my small breasts feel incredibly tight. I reach for the box in my backpack, shake out another tablet, and swallow it. It doesn't matter that I already took one this morning.

Then I take out the tight girls' T-shirt, pull the loose men's shirt over my head, and slip breathlessly into the new one. The difference is immediately visible. My curves are back in evidence – together with the jeans, the picture is finally coherent. I take the brush and comb my blonde curls. Suddenly I feel light, almost elated by this decision.
One last look in the mirror, then I pack my backpack and go back to the hitchhiking spot. Optimistic, I hold my thumb up. Let's see what happens now.

Minutes pass until a familiar rumbling approaches—the truck that has somehow become both my tormentor and my savior. It stops next to me, the driver leans out with a grin that could melt steel. "Hey, sweetheart, have you changed your mind?" he says, his voice dripping with honey, but I can taste the insincerity in it. "You look really pretty in that outfit."
I sigh. My resistance crumbles. "All right," I give in and climb back into the passenger seat. The engine starts, and the driver gives me a mischievous look. "The currency is still the same," he reminds me. I take a deep breath. "Okay."

After a few miles, my voice breaks through the engine noise: "About the dress... where are you even going to get it?"
I give him a skeptical look. Images of shopping malls flash through my mind—those temples of consumerism with their endless parking lots, like oases on the highway. The thought of rummaging through mountains of fabric just to find something he likes disgusts me.

But the alternative? The merciless heat, the endless asphalt, this damn road that wants to swallow me up. I don't feel like going through all that," I think, with a mixture of defiance and resignation.
"Oh, come on, it won't take long. I'm a nice guy," he chuckles—a sound like rolling gravel. I bite my lip. "All right. But you're paying." Somewhere inside me, a spark of my old self flickers.
"No problem," he says and nods contentedly. "By the way, my name is Erwin."

I sink back into my seat. "Jules," I reply—and this time my smile is genuine.