Thank you so much for choosing to read The Wrong Shape. This is a story about identity, finding your voice, and the power of first love. Because this book deals with some heavy and personal themes, I want to make sure you are aware of the following topics included in the story:

Gender Identity & Intersex Themes: The story explores the protagonist's journey with her body and gender presentation, including themes of being intersex and masculine.

Family Conflict & Religious/Social Pressure: There are depictions of parental homophobia and transphobia, including themes of parents attempting to force medical/surgical "correction" on a child without their consent.

Social Ostracism: Some scenes include verbal bullying and social exclusion at school.

Emotional Stress: Characters experience anxiety and emotional breakdowns related to family and societal expectations.

While this book explores these difficult challenges, it is ultimately a story of hope, empowerment, and love. It is a "slow-burn" romance meant to celebrate the beauty of being exactly who you are. If you are going through similar struggles, please know that you are not alone.

Be kind to yourself as you read.

-N.N.Nova

✯✧ Sirius POV ✧✯ 

The air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of yeast, browned butter, and the bitter aftertaste of fear. I was elbow-deep in flour, mixing a batch of sourdough starter—not for the family bakery, not for a customer, but for the frantic, solitary comfort of the ritual itself. Every measured scoop, every slow, careful fold of the dough, was a tiny act of rebellion against the chaos I couldn't control.

My hands, though, were a source of conflict. They were strong, slightly veiny from working out, and skilled enough to coax a perfect crust from an oven. But they were also the hands of the child my parents had decided I was supposed to be: the baker, the quiet, artistic girl, not the person who looked back at me from the steamed-up reflection of the window.

The silence of the house was broken only by the rhythmic thump of my mixing bowl and the dread that had become my constant shadow. Dad had brought it up again last night, his voice deceptively soft, framed as an offer, a gift, a solution. "We have the money now, Sirius. For the correction. Before school starts. It's for your future success." Correction. As if I were a typo, a mistake on the birth certificate that a surgeon's knife could finally fix.

I knew the script. Born with the male private, but also with breasts. They raised me as a girl because that was easier, cheaper, less scandalizing to their traditional sensibilities at the time. Now, they had the money saved, and the shame had become too heavy. They wanted me to be "proper" before senior year, before college applications, before I could ruin their carefully constructed image.

I wiped my hands on a flour-dusted apron and retreated to the one place in the house that felt entirely mine: the small, unused sunroom at the back. My guitar sat on its stand, a silent, wooden confidante. I picked it up, the cool, familiar neck resting perfectly in my hands, and let my short, curly dark brown hair fall forward, shielding my face and those distinctive circle glasses I wors. With the first chord, the noise in my head—the you owe us this, the it's for your own good—began to quiet. The song I played was one of longing, a haunting original piece that was all soft vocals and complicated, sorrowful chords. It was my quiet, deep emotional life translated into music.

I could make a hundred cakes, but they'd still say I was the wrong shape. The wrong person.

Suddenly, a loud, jarring sound cut through my music—the loud, squealing hiss of air brakes and the heavy thud of something large hitting the pavement.

I paused, fingers frozen over the fretboard. Moving trucks.

I hadn't forgotten. The Chens were coming back. Evelyn's family. Our next-door neighbors, our family friends, back after five years away. Evelyn's parents, the passionate LGBTQ+ activists who would, ironically, become the indirect force chipping away at my parents' rigid control.

I put the guitar down and walked cautiously to the front window, peering out from behind the heavy lace curtain. The Chens' driveway was a circus of activity. A massive moving van was parked haphazardly, and two figures—Mr. and Mrs. Chen—were directing traffic with the practiced ease of people who organized community benefits in their sleep.

Then I saw her.

Evelyn.

Eve.

She was standing on the lawn, holding a cardboard box loosely, her dark red, straight hair gleaming in the summer sunlight. The last time I'd seen her, she was a gangly, awkward kid with a loud laugh, and her hair hadn't been dyed yet, though she always talked about dyeing it red. Now, she was "smoking hot", as my brother would call it, her body perfectly contoured, the kind of effortlessly charismatic person who drew a crowd just by existing. She wore black glasses—for the looks, I guessed—and was instantly recognizable as the social media star I occasionally saw pop up on Noah's phone, doing makeup reviews and random streamings. All of that achieved by the sweet age of 18, before senior year, while I still haven't achieved anything. 

The shock was a physical punch. It wasn't just that she was beautiful; it was that she was so fully there, so confidently taking up space in the world. I, meanwhile, was still lurking in the shadows of my parents' expectations, trying to become invisible.

I watched as she put the box down and pulled out her phone, instantly snapping a charismatic picture, no doubt. The gesture was so her, so utterly self-possessed.

And then, her soft hazel eyes, magnified slightly behind her fashion glasses, flicked over the hedge and straight toward the sunroom's window. She didn't see me, but she was looking, and then her gaze settled on a figure lurking near the window.

It was me.

I pulled back from the curtain, my heart hammering against my ribs, feeling that familiar, panicked rush of social anxiety. She saw me. Did she recognize me? I had changed, too, deliberately leaning into a masc presentation that had only intensified my parents' fury.

The thought of facing her, of navigating her easy charm and popularity when I was a social pariah, made my stomach clench. But the idea of her being so close—a friendly face, a reminder of a simpler past—also created a tiny, dangerous spark of hope. The summer of dread had just been thrown into new chaos and possibility.

The front door slammed open downstairs. It was Dad. "Sirius! The Chens are here. Get cleaned up. We're inviting them over for an immediate reunion dinner. And for God's sake, change your clothes. You're going to present yourself like a young woman."

The dread returned, heavier than the dough I'd been kneading. The socialite was back, and the anchor of conflict was about to be tested.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ✿ Evelyn POV ✿ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

The old house smelled exactly like I remembered: a dusty mix of aged wood, pine needles, and the faint, permanent scent of the lemon bars Mrs. Park used to bring over. I dropped a heavy box of studio lights onto the manicured lawn—Dad would have a fit, but frankly, I was too fried from the cross-country drive to care.

"Evie, sweetheart, don't scratch the paint! Remember, darling, this is our permanent base of operations now," Mom called out, her voice bright with the organizational zeal of someone who runs a grassroots campaign. She and Dad were already deep in the logistics of unloading, their movements a synchronized dance honed by years of moving the family and their entire activist non-profit from city to city.

I pulled out my phone. Duty called. I needed a quick, charismatic post—the obligatory "I'm back!" signal to my followers. I flipped the camera, letting the harsh summer light catch the dark red of my straight hair, and flashed the practiced, wide smile that had earned me 4.7 million followers.

Guess who's back in the original hood! 🏡 So excited for a chill summer and getting the new studio set up. Send me your best small-town snack recommendations! (P.S. Missed this vibe more than I thought I would!) #backintown #newbeginnings #summer

Posting felt like exhaling. It was a performance, sure, but it was also the engine of my career and my connection to the external world, the one that didn't judge me for having parents who handed out rainbow stickers at every town meeting.

But as I finished the caption, my gaze drifted across the narrow hedge that separated our property from the Park's. Our houses were mirror images of each other, but the energy was drastically different. While our lawn was a chaotic mess of boxes, the Parks' property was immaculate, the curtains perfectly drawn, the façade screaming of enforced neatness and silence.

My eyes snagged on a figure near a small, glassed-in sunroom at the back of their house.

It was Sirius.

My old best friend. The kid who taught me how to perfectly crimp a pie crust and whose quiet imagination I used to adore.

I hadn't just heard about the changes; I'd caught glimpses on Noah's social media—the short, curly dark brown hair, the circle glasses—but seeing her now, standing there, was a jolt.

She was tall, leanly, definitely masc, and wearing a loose t-shirt. The last time I'd seen Sirius, she was still in her blue-and-green phase, the colors my parents had gently suggested were fine, but the Parks had demanded they be changed. Now, the presentation was deliberate, almost defiant, yet there was a nervous, almost hidden energy to the way she stood, partly obscured by a lace curtain.

I felt a sudden, sharp curiosity, mixed with something protective. That hair. The clothes. I know that energy. Is that really the little kid I used to share secrets with?

It was her. The distinctive circle glasses were the giveaway. But everything else was a calculated contrast to the shy girl I remembered. She was undeniably cute, in that gentle, soft-voiced way I recalled. She looked like a masterpiece hidden in the wrong frame.

A rush of information hit me: Five years of separation, a massive move back, and the knowledge that this small town would instantly be watching. And the person they'd be watching most critically was the person who was now my next-door neighbor, the one who looked utterly fascinating and completely terrified.

I watched as he quickly drew back from the window, clearly realizing she'd been spotted. A wave of familiar nostalgia, powerful and unsettling, washed over me. Sirius was my childhood tether, the secret keeper, the person who made my big, public life feel grounded.

"Evelyn!"

I jumped. Noah. Sirius's older brother. He was walking across the lawn, radiating the kind of easy, competitive charm that always made me wary.

"Noah, hey! You grew up," I said, turning up my own charisma meter, matching his energy instantly.

"You're still you, Eve. Always were," he said, a grin sliding across his face. "Good to see you. Glad you're back in town." He didn't waste time. "Sirius is inside, helping Dad with the paperwork. We're having an reunion dinner tonight. Mom and Dad insisted."

Ah, the forced reconnection. My parents, bless their hearts, were always orchestrating things, and I knew Mrs. Park was a master of enforced civility.

"That sounds wonderful," I replied smoothly, already planning my exit strategy from this conversation. Noah was nice enough, but he was always trying too hard, a trait I found exhausting. The moment he started talking about showing me "the cool spots" in town, I knew my initial discomfort was justified. He was already re-establishing himself in my life.

But my mind was already back across the hedge. The small-town grapevine was brutal. I knew how my own fame put me under a microscope, but I also knew how merciless small communities were to anyone deemed "different". And Sirius, in her chosen presentation, with her family's traditional expectations, was walking a tightrope.

I saw a challenge. Not just the fun kind, like figuring out the perfect eyeshadow palette, but a challenge to protect, to connect, to cut through the façade. The core connection that had bound us as kids—that quiet understanding—I needed to see if it was still there.

"Well, Noah, I'll see you at dinner tonight. Gotta go unpack the things that matter," I said, giving him a quick wave and heading back toward the house.

As I did, I glanced back at the sunroom. The curtain was closed tight. But I knew Sirius was in there.

Tonight, at the reunion dinner, that was all going to change.

✯✧ Sirius POV ✧✯

The air in the dining room was thick, not with the comforting steam of baking, but with the suffocating formality of a hostage negotiation. The table, normally reserved for quiet, tense family dinners, was now set with my mother's best china—a stark white army of plates designed to impress. I sat stiffly, having been forced by my father to change out of my comfortable clothes and into an old, ill-fitting blouse and trousers that felt like a costume from a past life.

I fiddled with my glasses, the only part of my preferred self I couldn't be convinced to ditch for the evening. They were a small, glass-and-wire shield.

The dinner, insisted upon by my parents as a " reunion," was meant to be a show of mom and dads successful, traditional life to their activist friends, the Chens. It was an exercise in facade.

The contrast between the two families was painful. On the Chen side, Evelyn sat between her mother and her sister, Maya who was a seat over to her, radiating effortless confidence. Her dark red, straight hair looked incredible under the dining room chandelier, and she spoke easily, her voice carrying a friendly, genuine warmth as she recounted funny moving stories to my mother. Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Chen, were calm, kind, and immediately included me in their conversation, asking about the bakery and my guitar.

Then there was the Park side. My mother, Mrs. Park, was tightly focused on service, constantly refilling water glasses and subtly steering the conversation away from anything too personal or challenging, like their work in LGBTQ+ advocacy. Dad, Mr. Park, watched us all with a keen, judging eye, waiting for me to make a social misstep that would reflect poorly on his carefully guarded business reputation.

And then there was Noah.

He was the definition of overly charming. Having rushed home from the bakery, he was dressed in a sharp button-down shirt and dress pants, and immediately maneuvered his way into the chair directly next to Evelyn. The moment my father asked about Evelyn's social media success, Noah leaped in to fill the conversational space.

"So, Eve, you're pretty famous now, huh? We should grab coffee tomorrow, I can show you the new spots in town, the ones the tourists don't know about," Noah said, leaning in so close his voice was almost a conspiratorial whisper. He didn't even glance anywhere else. It was a clear, transparent attempt to establish himself as deeply as he could into her life.

A flash of sharp, unpleasant jealousy hit me. It wasn't just about Evelyn; it was the easy way Noah presented himself—confident, accepted, and pursuing exactly the kind of girl our parents would approve of him courting. He was the family's "ideal" child in that moment.

Evelyn, with her excellent social skills, handled it smoothly. "That sounds fun, Noah, thank you. But my sister and I have to get the new studio lights set up first. Maybe later in the week?" she replied, offering a polite but firm deflection.

Her refusal was gentle, yet it sent a tiny, victorious spark through me.

But the conversation immediately circled back to my own dreaded situation.

"And Sirius? What about you, dear?" Mrs. Chen asked kindly, her eyes full of genuine warmth. "I hear you grew into a fantastic baker, just like your mother! We are going to need a lot of cakes for our upcoming events."

Before I could reply, my father jumped in, his voice ringing with forced pride. "Sirius is doing great. She is very focused on her future success. We've got some big, important personal plans for her before senior year starts, to make sure she is completely prepared for college applications and life after graduation."

Personal plans. The euphemism for the forced gender-confirming surgery. The word hung in the air, a silent, sickening bomb. I felt my already tense shoulders tighten further.

Evelyn's gaze, soft hazel eyes behind her black glasses, instantly flicked from my father to me. I could feel her observational eyes, that intuitive way she seemed to see the real thing happening beneath the surface noise. I knew she understood, at least partially, the coded language of the Parks.

Trying to change the subject, I finally spoke, my soft voice feeling painfully small in the large room. "I'm making a sourdough tonight. The starter is finally perfect. It takes almost a year to cultivate," I offered, desperately clutching at the only safe topic I had.

Maya, Evelyn's older sister, who had been quiet up until now, suddenly chimed in. She was more relaxed than Noah, leaning back in her chair with an artistic ease.

"A year? That's intense dedication, Sirius. You have that cool, quiet vibe, like an artist. I like it. I might need your help tomorrow," Maya said, her tone straightforward and a little ...flirtatious? She wasn't just being polite; she was actually looking at me, acknowledging the intense thing I had created. "I need a hand moving some really heavy boxes for my online college setup. You look like you could handle them."

The compliment about my masculineness and my fit body —the very things my parents were trying to force me to surgically erase—was a dizzying contradiction. It made my face heat up, a mixture of confusion and a startling sense of being seen.

Before I could answer that, the clatter of a fork on a plate pulled everyone's attention. It was Evelyn. She hadn't said anything, but the noise of the fork was a small, protective intervention.

"I'm sorry, Mom, I'm exhausted," Evelyn said, standing up, but her eyes were still on me. "Mrs. Park, thank you for dinner. It was wonderful, but I think I'm going to have to run. I promised a friend I'd call her up before she went to bed... She wanted to make sure I was okay, you know?"

It was a graceful escape, and I knew she was using it to pull the focus away from me.

I watched her walk out, my pulse finally slowing down. The dinner had been a brutal formality, highlighting all the differences and pressures. But in the midst of it, two things had happened: Noah's attempts had been deflected, and Evelyn—the charismatic catalyst for change —had seen the anchor of my fear and, in a quiet moment, subtly rescued me.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ✿ Evelyn POV ✿ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

The Park family bakery, "The Golden Hearth," was a place of quiet, early-morning solitude. I'd walked over an hour and a half before their official opening, partially to escape the noise of moving boxes and partially because I desperately needed a good pastry and a strong cup of coffee before tackling my 6 AM international makeup livestream. I figured no one would be there except maybe my lone early-bird baker.

I was right.

The front door was already unlocked and the interior was a warm, golden pool of light against the pre-dawn gray. The air was heavy, intoxicating, with the scent of proofing dough, cinnamon, and a faint, subtle trace of woodsmoke. I walked through the small, empty dining area and into the back kitchen, drawn by the low, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a knife chopping.

Sirius stood at a massive steel counter, already in her element.

She was wearing a perfectly faded, dark blue crew-neck sweatshirt and a pair of worn jeans, that curly dark brown hair falling forward over her circle glasses. She was back in her comfort wear, and the change from the stifled girl at the dinner table last night to the focused, fit figure before me was stunning. She looked younger, freer, and entirely herself.

Her body was relaxed, her sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, veiny arms, as she chopped an impossible mound of apples for what I guessed was a pie filling, with a practiced, almost meditative intensity.

I leaned against the doorframe, letting the moment stretch, just watching her. It was a completely different picture than the one I got last night: still quiet and shy, yes, but also the baker I'd always known her to be.

"The smell alone is going to make me forget I'm supposed to be dieting for a video," I said, my voice carefully modulated to be friendly, not startling.

She jumped anyway, the knife clattering harmlessly against the steel. She quickly looked up, a deer-in-headlights expression behind the glasses, and her soft voice was edged with surprise.

"Evelyn! What are you doing here? It's... five thirty."

I pushed off the frame, stepping closer, letting my easy charisma take the lead. "I know, I know. My internal clock is still running on California time, and I needed an emergency sugar fix. I saw the light on and figured I'd commit a minor B&E for a croissant." I smiled, and it was a real smile, not the one I used for the camera. "Seriously, though, I'm sorry. I should have knocked."

Sirius relaxed a fraction, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders. "It's fine. I usually get here this early. The starter needs attention." She gestured to the corner where a bubbling crock of dough sat.

I walked toward her, placing my hand casually on the cool steel counter, feeling the immediate need to bridge the gap the last five years had carved. "Look, about last night," I began, my tone turning serious. "That dinner was... intense. Your dad is as subtly terrifying as I remember. And Noah," I rolled my eyes for emphasis, "is still trying way too hard."

Sirius let out a small, quiet laugh. It was a beautiful sound, and my brain—the one that processes social cues and potential relationships—took note. She's cute when she laughs.

"He's just... competitive," Sirius murmured, resuming the rhythmic chopping. "He thinks you're a prize."

"I'm not a prize, Sirius," I stated firmly, leaning in a little closer, lowering my voice. "I'm a person. And I saw what happened when your dad started talking about your 'future success' and your 'personal plans'." My soft hazel eyes met her, searching for the connection I knew was still there. "It sounds like you're walking on eggshells. Are you okay?"

The directness of the question seemed to hit her like a physical blow. She stopped chopping, her gaze falling to her hands.

"I'm fine," she said, but it was weak, a performance I wasn't buying.

I knew she wouldn't confess her what was going on right now, not to me, the glamorous girl who had just returned. But I could offer the first moment, the gesture that showed her I saw her, not her parents' version.

I reached across the counter, very slowly, and let my fingers brush against her short, springy, curly dark brown hair. I didn't grab, didn't muss; I simply ran the backs of my fingers lightly through the soft strands near her ear, a purely tactile connection that felt both playful and deeply affirming.

"You always had the coolest hair, even when we were ten," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's so... soft."

My focus wasn't on the words; it was on her reaction. Her breath hitched—a tiny, almost imperceptible gasp—and she froze. The natural tan on her cheeks deepened, a quick, unmistakable rush of heat. She was blushing.

I didn't need to read her mind; the tremor that ran through her fit body was enough. She was overwhelmed, perhaps even shocked by the casual, non-judgmental physical contact.

I pulled my hand back slowly, keeping eye contact. "And you know, you're still the best baker in the world. I don't care what else you've done, or what else you're doing, or what your parents think. You're still you." I tried to inject all my protective, open-minded energy into that one statement.

"You've... changed," Sirius said, finally finding her voice. She wasn't referencing my looks or my fame, but the core of my presence.

"We both have. Five years is a long time," I agreed. "But the kid who helped me build that ridiculously complicated blanket fort? She's still here. And my parents? They're still activists, you know. They're all about seeing people for who they actually are. So if you need to escape, or if you need to talk, or if you just need to know that someone thinks you're exactly the right shape... my house is right next door. Okay?"

I let the weight of the offer settle. The dread that had been her constant shadow had a crack in it now, a place where a small, dangerous spark of hope could ignite. The core connection was still there, transformed by time and distance, but now charged with a new, mutual intensity.

"Can I at least pay you for a coffee? And maybe a cinnamon roll?" I asked, stepping back fully, breaking the intensity and returning to my charismatic external shell.

Sirius managed a genuine, if still shy, smile. "Only if you help me finish chopping these apples. It's a rush order."

"Deal. Tell me what I missed while I was gone, Sirius," I said, picking up a smaller knife and taking a place opposite her at the counter, ready to dive head-first into the beautiful, complicated chaos of her life.