Special thanks to my best friend Aiden for helping me write this story as well as proofreading it for me.

You've never liked your birth name very much. Okiku.

It meant "chrysanthemum," which was apparently a type of flower that you had never heard of before. You weren't particularly fond of flowers, being allergic to them and all. You hated the irony of being named after something that would likely send you into a sneezing fit if you ever encountered it.

You often wonder about other names for yourself, but nothing ever feels right. Your parents tell you that you're just being ridiculous, that your name is fine, that it fits you. "You're so pretty," they would say. "Pretty girls deserve pretty names."

There was something about that that always bothered you, too.

It wasn't that you didn't think you were beautiful. You had lovely, dark, shoulder-length hair, and two different-colored eyes that stood out. One was a deep blue, the other a brilliant emerald.

No, you knew that you were beautiful, and you supposed that you should have been proud of that. After all, other girls would have killed to have your looks, what with the attention that it drew to you. But you just felt...nothing.

You didn't HATE being called pretty, per se, but you never really felt the surge of appreciation that most girls would get. You would smile politely and say "thank you," but deep down, you didn't associate any sort of emotion with those types of compliments. You never felt any particular pride in your looks, either. If anything, you wished you could change them.

You especially didn't like the way the school uniform looked on you. The skirt was annoying, and you hated the way your chest would bounce slightly whenever you were running to class more than actually being scolded for running in the halls. It was even worse in gym class.

You don't know why you decided to get your hair cut, much less to dye it white, of all colors. You just felt like you wanted an image change. As your hair grew longer, it was getting harder to manage in the mornings. Getting it cut short would be more convenient, you reasoned. Besides, the white looked good on you. You preferred it over your old generic brownish-black.

Your parents were skeptical when you showed them, of course. They said that you weren't old enough to dye your hair yet and that you looked like a boy. You felt like you should have been hurt or offended by that, but for whatever reason, you weren't.

Your sister Aria (who you called Ia for short) was more supportive, as her own hair was very pale, much like yours. She defended you, even offering to help style it for you. You politely refused, but you were grateful. She said that your hair looked awesome, no matter how it looked. You were overcome with the strong urge to cry and hug her, but you didn't.

At school, people seemed a little off-put by your new hair, but seemed to shrug it off for the most part. You started to feel a little more confident, oddly enough. You still put on a nice smile for the people who called you pretty, but you found yourself wanting to drift away from that label.

Eventually, as time went on, your parents stopped heckling you about your hair. They still didn't approve, but Ia must have reasoned with them somehow, because whenever they got on your case, she would always intrude and say, "What harm is there in white hair?" That would always get them to sigh and change the subject.

Puberty was tough.

You started to get cramps and bleed in awful places. Your teachers, your mother, and your sister all said that this was perfectly normal for young girls your age, and that they didn't like it any more than you did. Still, you couldn't help but feel a wave of shame and stress bombard you every time this happened.

You hated it. You had to wear pads and liners in your underwear to keep yourself from bleeding out all over. You tried putting in a tampon, but it was even more uncomfortable than the pads, so you never used them again.

Even more distressing was that your chest seemed to be getting bigger. You had to go shopping for bras that would fit you now that it was. Your mother accompanied you, asking you to tell her if you saw any that you particularly liked. You never did, so she ended up picking them out for you.

You had wandered off while she was distracted, asking one of the store's employees a question. You hated this place. If you had it your way, you would have a completely flat chest.

You come home from the store with a few new bras. They're okay, you suppose; They seem to fit you just fine. Your mom and dad don't seem to notice your distress, and if they do, they probably assume that it's just because you're on your period.

Your sister doesn't think that, though. She comes into your room that night, concern etched on her face. She asks you what's wrong.

You lie and say that you're fine, but she doesn't believe you. Stubbornly, you keep trying to refuse, but she won't take no for an answer. Finally, you crack.

You feel silly for crying over something like this, but you can't stop the tears from falling when you tell her about your problem. You hated your breasts, hated the way the boys would stare at them, hated the way they bounced with each step, hated how you needed to buy new bras to contain them. You didn't want them, you said; You wished you didn't have any at all.

She seems just as surprised by your outburst as you are. You wince, expecting her to brush you off like your parents always did, or perhaps even call you a freak like you had heard your mom and dad talk about people like you, but she didn't. Instead, she hugged you close, quietly shushing you as you wept into her arms.

You find out what "binders" are some months later.

You find out in the worst possible way. You hear your parents, chattering about something or other, when the topic catches your attention.

"Can you believe these people?" your dad says, shaking his head as he looks at his laptop. "'The ones that want to change their gender. I swear, we never had this shit when I was a kid."

Your mother scoffs in disgust. "That's stupid. Why would anyone want to change who they are?"

You feel a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as your father continues. "I don't know, but society keeps coddling them. Apparently, they make chest binders for the girls who want to be boys to flatten their chests with."

"What?" your mother interjects. "Are you serious? That sounds horrible. Kids these days really are something else."

You take a moment to consider their words. You don't know why they stung you so badly.

The thought of a binder sounded appealing to you...but that was wrong. You couldn't have one. Your parents would be so disappointed in you. I'm not a boy. I'm a girl, you repeated to yourself insistently. But for whatever reason, you felt fresh tears welling up in your eyes after listening to them talk.

Throughout the entire day, the entire conversation kept repeating in your head. You wanted a binder. You wanted one and you hated it and you hated yourself and you hated your parents and you-

No. You forced yourself to calm down. You didn't want to cry in the middle of class. You would talk to Ia after school. She would know what to do. Maybe this was normal, too. Maybe you were just cranky because you were going through puberty. Ia was more mature than you; Maybe she had gone through a similar phase and just grew out of it. You were not a boy. You were a girl.

You manage to make it through the entire day without shedding a single tear, which takes a surprising amount of effort on your part. Your sister was usually the first one to come home, as your mom and dad didn't arrive home from work until much later. You could be alone for your talk. You didn't want your parents to know about this.

"Ia? I'm home." you call halfheartedly into the living room.

"Hey!" she responds from the kitchen. You go inside cautiously and are relieved to find that your sister was indeed alone. You sit down at the table as she sifts through the fridge for a snack. "How was school?"

"Fine." you reply, though it's obvious that you're lying. "Hey, I have a question for you." She peers out of the refrigerator and looks at you, one eyebrow raised. You swallow hard. "But I need you to promise not to tell Mom or Dad."

She continues to look at you suspiciously, but she nods. "Okay, but if it's something really urgent, I'm gonna have to tell someone."

"I-it's not urgent." you say, twiddling your fingers together. "I was just wondering...have you...ever thought about what it would be like to be a boy?"

Ia looks taken aback by the question, but she blinks and shrugs it off. "Well, yeah. I'm pretty sure everyone has wondered at some point what it would be like to be the opposite sex." She gives you a strange expression, like she knows the double meaning behind your question. "Why?"

You take a deep breath. You can't tell what she's thinking. You begin to reconsider your decision to come to her about this, but you can't back out now. "I've just been...thinking, y'know?" You run a hand through your hair nervously. "I keep thinking about it. Every day, actually."

You wait for her response, but she seems to study you for a while. Finally, she says, "How long have you been thinking about this?"

"I don't know," you confess. "I mean, I thought it was just a puberty thing, but the more that I think about it, the more I realize that I've always sort of had it on my mind." It's true. Ever since you were really, really young, you've always been interested in the things that boys did. Your mother would tell you not to play with them because it was "unladylike," but you would still play in the dirt when she wasn't watching anyway.

Ia seems to be lost in thought. She gives you a long look, but it's not one of disapproval or disgust. Rather, she looks as if she's deciding what to say.

"Okiku…" she says, and you find yourself wincing at the mention of your name. She gives you an apologetic glance and leans forward, speaking in a hushed tone. You don't know why, since it was just the two of you. "What do you think you are?"

You're taken aback by the question. There is no malice or harshness in her words; only warmth. You ponder the answer.

I'm a girl, you think, but somehow, the words can't leave your mouth. It's open, but you keep closing it as you try to get out the reply that should have been easy. You were a girl, right? Then why couldn't you say it?

"I don't know." you blurt out without thinking. Ia looks at you sadly. "I don't know." you repeat, with a surprising amount of sincerity. "I don't know, but I feel like I should."

You hate looking like such a crybaby, but Ia gets up and hugs you. You're stunned, but you return the hug, furiously holding back tears. When she pulls away, she gives you a serious gaze. "Okiku, if you feel like a girl, then I'll take your word for it. But if you truly know, deep down, that you're a boy, I won't think any less of you. You're my sibling. No matter what gender you are, that won't change."

You sniffled, but still refused to cry. "I...I can't be a boy, though! I have to be a girl. Wh-what will Mom and Dad think?"

"Screw Mom and Dad!" Ia said, looking you dead in the eyes. "You don't even have to tell them if you don't want to. And if they can't accept you, then they can fuck off."

"Ia…" you try to say something, anything, in reply, but nothing can come out. Instead, you just break down.

You dread the arrival of your birthday, even when it finally hits.

You would usually be forced to spend time with your family. In the past, this has never bothered you before, but now you found yourself feeling progressively more uncomfortable around them.

You still aren't sure about yourself. You want to say, with complete and utter confidence, that you were a girl, but you just couldn't bring yourself to. You found yourself repeating Ia's words over and over again in your mind.

If you truly know, deep down, that you're a boy, I won't think any less of you.

But you can't be a boy. That's impossible, isn't it?

When you go downstairs, you see your parents and sister turn to smile up at you. They say happy birthday, and you pretend to be pleasantly surprised, and you spend the rest of the day keeping that fake grin.

You get a gift from each of them. Your mother gives you clothes, like she does every year. Your father gives you a book, which you may or may not read. Your sister gives you a sketchbook and some colored pencils, because she knows you like to draw. Still, you can't shake the general feeling of unease the more time you spend with them. You feel dirty, like you've committed an awful crime and just so happen to be in a room with a bunch of unsuspecting police officers.

Finally, when the day ends, you can retire to your room in peace. You flop down on your bed, looking your gifts over. You decide to reach over and see how much of your father's book is actually worth reading (you like fantasy, but he constantly pressures you into reading less "childish" things), when you hear a quiet knock on your door.

You sigh quietly, but force yourself to pretend-smile again before saying, "Come in."

In steps your sister, carrying a medium-sized box with her. You raise your eyebrows in surprise. She got you an extra gift?

"Hey." she says, weakly holding the box out in front of her. "Sorry for waiting so long to give you this. I figured you would want to get this in private."

You tilt your head to the side in curiosity. You get up and move towards her as she shuts the door softly. "What is it?" you ask.

She hesitates before answering. "...Just something that you can throw away if you don't want it." You try to get her to say more, but she just pushes the parcel into your hands and insists you open it.

You look down at it, full to the brim with interest. Carefully, you tear away at the thin wrapping before opening it, and you're filled with even more questions.

Inside the box, neatly folded inside a clear plastic bag, is what looks like a plain gray tank top. You lift it out, examining it cautiously.

"...What is it?" you inquire. You don't want to sound rude, but your bafflement is evident on your face and in your tone. Ia gives you a faint smile, though her anxiety is clear in her eyes.

"It's...it's a binder, Okiku." she replies, eyes darting back and forth between it and you. Your eyes widen, and you nearly drop it in shock. She takes your response as if it were negative, waving her arms frantically. "Y-you don't have to keep it if you don't want to! I just thought...you might appreciate something like this? I'm sorry if you don't like it. You can-"

Without thinking, you give her a hug, dropping the binder on the ground. You don't know why, but you feel more grateful than you've ever been for any gift you've ever received. "Thank you," you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut. "Thank you so much."

Reluctantly, she hugs you back, and you stay like that for a while. When you finally stop, you feel your senses begin to return to you. You begin to panic slightly.

"Wh-what if Mom or Dad finds out, though?" you say, looking down at the binder shakily. "What if they notice that my chest is looking smaller than usual?"

"You don't have to wear it now." Ia responds reassuringly. "Your size is normal for your age, but then again, you're fourteen now, so it shouldn't be that noticeable if you wear it."

Your mind flips through all the possibilities. Will anybody really notice? You wouldn't have to worry about your chest bouncing in the hallways anymore. You could wear it to school and take it off once you got home, and your parents would be none the wiser. The teachers certainly wouldn't care (unless they were paying attention to your bust size for whatever reason, which you highly doubted), and your friends at school might ask a few questions, but you could just tell them you were wearing a sports bra. You had always preferred those over the usual type, anyway.

You could hide it under the bed, or in the back of your closet. Most days, your parents respected your privacy, so they probably wouldn't stumble across it by accident. The more you think about it, under your bed seems like the best choice, even if they rarely have good reason to go through your closet.

"...I'll wear it." you decide, mind fully made up. Ia nods, beaming.

"Okay. Just be careful, alright? I hear it's bad to wear them while sleeping."

"I won't." you assure her, finally breaking your gaze from the garment and looking up at her. "Thank you for this, Ia."

She laughs. "No problem." She looks happy, but you still feel like you owe her somehow. An idea pops into your head, and you look at her excitedly.

"If you want, you can style my hair!" you say, casually pushing the binder oh-so-gently under the bed. "You always liked to do that when we were kids, until I got it dyed. You're really into that fashion stuff, right?"

She perks up, eyes full of sparkles. "Really?!" Before you can reply, she's already run to her room. When she comes back, she's carrying all sorts of haircare products. You find yourself laughing at her eagerness.

When she's halfway through, carefully glancing back and forth between the mirror and your hair, she asks you a question. "So...is there anything that you want to be called? By me, at least. Or anyone else that you feel comfortable enough telling this about."

You consider her words briefly as she plays with that one bit of hair that always stuck out on the top of your head (you could never brush it down, no matter how hard you tried).

You have a memory, suddenly, of your childhood. You had asked your mother about any other names that she might have given you, had you been born a boy.

"Hmm…" she replied, thinking back. "Well, for starters, I always liked the name Piko. It's very simple, but it rolls off the tongue quite nicely, don't you think?"

It did. In fact, you had always liked that name too. Yes, it was a good name. A nice name. The perfect name.

"Piko," you say as you return to the present. "I want you to call me Piko."

Ia chuckles, holding up your constantly-sticking-up cluster of hair and shaping it into the letter "P." "Piko. That's a cool name! I like it."

You look in the mirror at the way she's holding up your hair, and you can't help but like the way it looks. "Hey, Ia? Could you...keep my hair like that? With gel or whatever?"

She blinks at you, surprised, but nods. "Yeah, I can do that! Heh, I guess it does kind of suit you, Piko."

You grin a large, genuine grin as she does what you ask. You suppose, deep down inside, that you can get used to this.

You are a boy, and your name is Piko.