You are 8. You are not the fastest. You have a sort of natural talent many of your peers don't, and unparalleled energy, but you're not the fastest yet.

You're lucky. Some in your village don't become ninja. You know your classmate's mother had a bad health situation that made her quit training before she was your age. She became a medic; she stitched up your parents once or twice. Your friend's father was injured badly in a failed mission, and resigned as a ninja. He has his own garden, and makes you homemade noodle soup when you come over to visit.

You hope you never have to stop being a ninja.

You are 10. You are faster. Your classmate compliments you, hoping to befriend you and learn from you. She's not very fast, though her flexibility makes some jealous. She looks like she's in pain all the time. Maybe she has the same situation as her mother and she's a few months away from joints spontaneously dislocating.

You give her a smug thanks, smiling wide. She backs up. Your smile is concerning. It scares her, though she tries not to be rude.

You stop smiling wide after that.

You are 12. There is a boy who asks you to be his boyfriend every day. You say no. You don't like him like that. You don't like anyone like that. You're fully aware you are only twelve years old and that this is nonsense. At first, you give a surprised no. It quickly turns to an irritated no.

He goes from wanting to be with you, to trying to kill you, in the amount of time it takes for you to tell him to leave you alone permanently.

You're faster. You throw him into the nearest wall and remind him, and everyone in the vicinity, who you are. He doesn't mess with you again.

You are 16. There is a cute girl in your training class. She isn't as fast as you, no one is at this point, but her degree of precision with weaponry is good enough to be concerning. She has a nice face, and she smiles at you everyday, even if you don't smile back.

She doesn't know why you don't smile back.

One day you do smile. It's a small, close-mouthed smile, but it's good enough for her.

One day, she doesn't come back. It doesn't concern you. Hit jobs don't always end well.

You are 18. You're not used to hit jobs in this area yet. You're not used to urban areas. You're not used to interacting with the locals. You want to go back home to your ninja village.

He is at least twice your age. He says he likes you because you're beautiful. He says you're mature for your age. You don't particularly care. You're not sure you like him, but you don't hate him yet, and he pays for your dinner.

On the drive back to your temporary apartment, he tells you that you look like a girl. He means it as a compliment. It doesn't feel like one.

He sets his hand on the inside of your thigh. You let out a sound of disgust, pushing his arm back to him before he knows what's happening, and you've pushed it back enough to dislocate it from his shoulder. You get out of his still-moving car, throwing kunai at his windows and tires because fuck him and fuck his car. Maybe he crashed into something. You don't care. You've already darted away.

You walk home that night, but it's not really home. You want to go home.

You are 20. You still cover your mouth or turn away when you smile. She asks you why. You don't answer. She's sure you have a nice smile. She insists. You indulge her.

She says you look like you're about to murder her.

I might be, you scowl, letting her know she can fuck right off.

You are 22. He says you look like a girl, as he takes a drink and kicks back his legs. You scoff. You let him know you don't look like a woman because you look like you, and you are a man, so by definition, you look like a man.

But your hips, he says, and once again, you remind him that they are your hips, and you are male. You ask him if he'd like to extract your pelvis to confirm there's no gap for a uterus, because he's being ridiculous.

But I like men who look like women, he insists. You scoff again and let him know he's looking in the wrong place.

You are 24. You have gotten used to acting for these jobs. You're used to pretending to like people.

She asks you why you don't cut your hair. You look like a girl when it's down, aparently, and this notion catches you by surprise. Many people in your village kept their hair around that length; none of the men back home were told they looked like women for it. You're not getting rid of your topknot. It's a signifier of your upbringing, a piece of your heritage as a ninja, like the markings on your face, like the weapons you carry and the battle scars on your skin.

You also don't understand why she traces her fingers on your scars like they're something tragic, or fragile. You're a ninja. These things happen when you train and spar and fight. Everyone back home is covered in scars, some not so easily hidden by clothing. Stop being weird, you tell her, pushing her hand away.

You are 25.

You are tired of everyone's bullshit.