Jason McGatlan stood in the middle of his family room, clutching the strap of a dark brown leather satchel so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

The room around him looked like the aftermath of a tornado.

Blouses draped over the backs of chairs. Cardigans hung from the arm of the sofa. Several pleated skirts lay folded in uneven stacks on the coffee table. A pair of burgundy tights dangled from a lamp. Open fashion catalogs were scattered across the carpet alongside hair ribbons, handbags, and shoe boxes.

None of it made any sense.

Jason stared down at himself.

The burgundy cardigan fit him perfectly.

The pale pink blouse beneath it was neatly buttoned to the neck. The oversized Peter Pan collar rested elegantly over the cardigan, its quilted fabric and ruffled edges framing the enormous satin bow beneath his chin. The crystal floral brooch sparkled whenever he moved.

The grey plaid pleated skirt sat at his waist as though it had been tailored specifically for him.

The burgundy tights were smooth and wrinkle-free.

The Victorian-style lace-up boots on his feet gleamed with fresh polish.

Everything fit.

Everything matched.

Everything had been deliberately selected.

By him.

That was the part that terrified him.

Jason ran a trembling hand through his hair.

"No. No, no, no."

His voice echoed through the room.

"This isn't happening."

Somehow, at some point, his life had become this.

He didn't know when it had started.

Months ago, maybe.

A blouse here.

A cardigan there.

At first he had told himself he simply appreciated vintage fashion.

Then he had discovered dark academia styles online.

Then came the plaid skirts.

The bows.

The tights.

The boots.

The handbags.

Each purchase had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time.

Each choice had felt natural.

Now he couldn't even open his bedroom closet without finding rows of women's clothing organized by season and color.

Worse, he knew exactly what was inside those drawers.

The top drawer contained blouses.

The second drawer contained skirts.

The third drawer contained hosiery.

Everything arranged neatly.

Everything in his size.

Everything matching what he privately referred to as "his style."

His style.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm not a crossdresser."

The statement sounded weak.

Unconvincing.

Not because he enjoyed wearing the clothes.