AN: Quick little oneshot I wrote while trying my hand at 2nd person. It's a bit poetic as well, which fits the POV IMHO. Rachel is trans (ftm) in this.

EDIT: As requested, this will be extended. Expect updates on this!


You wince as you sing the first note.

It sounds too high.

You think it should be deep.

You think it should be masculine.

You think it should resonate within your chest instead of float in your head.

But it doesn't.

You sing on, despite the feeling of dread.

As you move around the room, you stare at Quinn Fabray, former HBIC and now your current friend, trying to gauge her emotions.

She looks indifferent, but you know better. Quinn's personality is layers upon layers built onto each other. You desperately want to peel back those layers and find out what's inside. Her personality isn't the only thing you want to strip away.

You scold yourself for the naughty thought. You decide to focus on the song instead of not-so-discreetly leer at Quinn.

Throughout the performance, you find yourself glancing at Quinn. Noting her immaculate eyebrows, her strong jaw. Her long and shapely legs, her pale skin. You think she is a gorgeous creature.

You finish the song. You were barely thinking about your performance. Mr. Schuester probably notices your lack of drive and emotion, but doesn't make a remark about it.

Instead, he praises you. Just like he always does. He tells you that you were excellent. That your song choice was divine. That you killed the high notes.

In reality, you don't care.

You don't care about the quality.

You don't care about the praise.

You certainly don't care about how high you can sing.

The only thing you really care about is Quinn's reaction.

But she is impossible for you to read.

So you take a seat, staring down at your very un-manly hands (although you secretly wished they were), avoiding Quinn's gaze and wonder when the hell your life will get better.

When you can become male.

When your voice deepens.

When you can stop wearing these girly clothes.

When your chest looks flat.

When Quinn will love you back.

You listen to the assignment parameters that Mr. Schuester is preaching, but you can't focus.

You feel awful. You feel so wrong on so many levels, it's all you can do not rip off your skirt, exposing plaid boxers underneath, and declare your man-ness.

You obviously don't do this.

It takes four Brittany outbursts, three Artie 'holla's and one constipated baby look from Finn until Quinn finally returns your gaze.

Finally.

She gives you a tense smile, then redirects her attention to Mr. Schuester. It's better than nothing, you say to yourself.

The bell rings, interrupting Schue midshpeal. Excellent.


3rd

Berry was at his locker to putting away a couple books and retrieve his lunch. He humed Music of the Night to himself as he busied himself in the task at hand. It had been three weeks since the awkward performance and tense gaze from Quinn.

"Hey, girlfriend!" the brown haired boy spun around to face the feminine voice. It's Mercedes. Of course. You also mentally wince at the feminine name.

"Hi Mercedes."

"So all the Glee girls were going to go out for lunch and we wanted to see if you could come. I know you're vegan and all, but we really would like you there. What do you say?" Berry was caught. He didn't want to turn down Mercedes yet again, but he also did not want to go to a 'Boys-are-evil-girls-rule' type of outing. He gave in and decided to go. He didn't want to loose Mercedes or Tina or any of the girls' friendship.

"Fine. I'll come."

Mercedes replied with a very, very shrill squeal.

xxx

Berry shouldntve come. He feels awkward and out of place with all of these girls, chat about cute guys, and the latest fashion and whatever normal high school double x chromosomes talk about. Which Berry knew nothing about. So, he decided to zone out, daydream a little. It's not like he was the life of the party.

Names. He definitely needs a name. He's identified as male for quite some time now, but he's never really considered what he wants to be called. Since he hasn't come out to his dads, he can't ask for help from them. He'll just have to figure it out himself.

Ray? No, he says to himself, most definitely not. Too similar.

Michael? Crawford was the Phantom to Barbra Streissand's Christine. It could work. He saves this one in the back of his mind.

Liam? He likes this one quite a bit. It's simple, straightforward and definitely masculine. It also sounds fine with his last name. He decides that he'll go with it. William, Liam for short, Michael Berry. It's perfect. Liam is pleased with his new name to no end, and happily sips his juice.


2nd

You grow more and more nervous as your name approaches in the alphabetical order of seniors receiving their diploma. The graduation spirit is in the air, but you can't feel it.

All you feel is hollow inside.

You didn't come out.

You didn't qualify for valedictorian.

You didn't apply for NYADA.

You didn't even get to tell Quinn you loved her.

"Rachel Berry!"

You trudge up to the stage. You hate the ridiculously tall heels you have on, even if you do get to be closer to normal height. You hate the beautiful dress you have on under the red graduation robe. You hate almost everything about the day.

You wish you had more time. You wish you could redo high school. Be a little less annoying. Be a little less egotistical. Be a little nicer. Be a whole lot more truthful. You think it sucks that an entire school will remember you as the fake girl you always played, instead of the real guy you are inside.

You accept the diploma.

You shake the hands.

You return to your seat.

Your dads tell you they love you.

They tell you they are proud of you.

But in reality, you aren't even proud of yourself.

xxx

You move out as quickly as possible.

You deem which items you own actually mean something to you, and which ones are props for the part of Rachel Berry.

You delete your Facebook.

You disconnect your phone number.

You fall off the face of the planet, un contactable to anyone. Not even your dads know about you.

You wish you were more of a man than the coward you are. You're running away from your problems. You're running away from Quinn.

But now, you're Liam Michael Berry, new and upcoming star in the creative writing department at NYU.

You have short and messy hair that brushes the tops of your ears ever so lightly and a sparse dusting of stubble along your jaw. You have laughed at the irony of Santana's insults many times.

You still wear argyle, although the animal sweaters have been tucked into a trunk with other high school memories. Your skirts have been replaced by smart khakis and chinos that rest on the top of shiny dress shoes.

You have been on hormones for five months by the time December rolls around. You are so happy with your life, but still so so depressed inside. You desperately wish you could see the Glee club once again, and make everything right.