Minho sat alone this time in the small, stuffy waiting room to see a doctor again about his ‘emotional problems’ or whatever label they wanted to put on it this time. He still didn’t like being there or talking about how he feels. 

It’s stupid, he told himself.

Minho’s inner defense mechanism kicked in, growing more childish about it the closer it got to the appointment. His leg shook and fingers dug into his knees, anxiety worsening. 

He jumped when his name was called, doctor ready to see him.

Minho brushed his long bangs from his face, trying to make eye contact with the doctor as he took a seat in his office. They got through the usual formalities before the doctor finally asked how he was feeling again.

Lost. 

Identity still missing.

Minho could only smile, speak in rehearsed lies. Sure, home life was better and he was grateful, but he still had a father expecting things from the person he used to be, a worried mother, and a brother who wouldn’t leave home for long in fear of family fights or something with his sick little brother. 

He still had waking nightmares of the assault, or confusing dreams waking him to a sense that his body wasn’t quite right, because dreams told him he was happy being a girl, left in a disorientated daze for hours, or on the verge of a panic attack staring in the mirror too long at something that didn’t fit right.

He hated it. All of it.

Minho rubbed his sore arm under long sleeves, fairly new marks there from means he wasn’t supposed to do. 

He crossed his arms, like he did a lot now, head low while he listened to the doctor. He nodded when he had to, shook his head when he needed to, smiled when he should.

When asked about fighting, Minho played it off. Of course it had nothing to do with how he felt, how he needed security in the few shreds of masculinity he still felt he had now – some self-respect, dignity. Fight for what he didn’t fight hard enough for in the past. He should have fought harder, resisted harder. He should have done so much more that night to stop it, so his mind told him constantly.

The times any talk of his ual life came up, Minho would go stiff. It was probably obvious since the doctor’s tone would change then. Softer. Cautious.

Minho just told him he wasn’t interested in anything ual right now. It was mostly true. Though the idea of dating again boosted his self-esteem in some ways, but then he was never all that interested in dating before the assault either. So which one was more true. Was wanting to date even him?

The thought of ual interaction didn’t feel the same as it used to, the very vague and curious appeal that used to be there was gone, girls were even frightening on some level now. He shouldn’t touch them. He couldn’t. If he thought too long or hard on it, an uncontrollable laughter would build within him until sometimes it spilled. He felt like a little kid again when that would happen. It was something he couldn’t explain, but somehow relieved him in the moment. At least until he realized what he was doing and felt far too childish.

Minho cringed when the doctor would around about talk of ‘homoual thoughts’ – discouraged them if they were even there in the first place.

He nodded, listening as much as he could. Trying not to recall the confession a friend had made to him months ago. One he still didn’t know how to respond to. One he didn’t know how he should feel about. Probably guilt. It was his fault everything had changed. Why did things have to change? Minho didn’t want it to. Minho wanted to forget everything.

He was prescribed more refills on his medication.

Minho would get better, forget, move on.

Why was it taking so long?