The next morning, I wake up with that same sensation of emptiness in my groin. Again, my right hand instinctively slips under the sheets to check, as if hoping that everything might have returned to normal overnight. But no. Nothing. The emptiness is still there, palpable, crushing. My member, that part of me I had always taken for granted, has still not returned. The sensation is so strange, so absent, that it becomes disturbing. There’s no longer that familiar tension, that morning erection that sometimes accompanied me upon waking, that slight discomfort which, I now realize, was part of my daily routine.
I remember the mornings when I would wake up with that annoying morning erection, especially while sharing a room with Anna. At the time, it seemed like a nuisance, an awkward detail of male biology that I had to manage discreetly to avoid drawing her attention. But now, in the silence of my room, I realize how that frustration almost seems nostalgic. If I had known I would lose this part of me, maybe I would have appreciated it more, despite the embarrassment it could cause.
Now, there’s nothing swollen. Nothing at all. Just a heavy void that reminds me with every movement that something has changed profoundly.
I hear noises coming from the living room. Anna is getting ready to go to class. The sound of her footsteps, the soft murmur of her talking to herself or mumbling something, all bring me back to reality. I wonder how I’m going to face the world in this state. How can I leave this room and continue as if nothing happened? And if something betrays my change? If someone notices something? Even if it doesn’t show on the outside yet, how do I face this feeling of loss, this constant weight on my chest?
I stay lying there, staring at the ceiling, as if my bed had become a cocoon, a temporary shelter from the harsh realities of the outside world. I have no desire to leave this protective bubble. In my bed, I can still convince myself that all of this might just be a bad dream. But if I step out of my room, if I face Anna, the others, it will become more real than ever.
After a while, I hear Anna knock softly on my door.
— “Hey, are you okay? You’re going to be late if you keep dawdling!” she says in a kind, but teasing voice.
I take a deep breath, searching for an excuse to avoid going out.
— “I… I think I’m sick,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “I’m going to stay here today.”
There’s a silence on the other side of the door, then I hear her response.
— “Oh, okay. Get well soon then. If you need anything, just let me know.”
I hear her footsteps fade away, the apartment door open, then close behind her. The silence fills the apartment. I am alone. Completely alone.
I stay in bed a little longer, unmoving, overwhelmed by a mix of fear and relief. At least I don’t have to face Anna today. But the idea of being alone with my thoughts doesn’t comfort me either. I eventually get up, slowly pushing the door of my room open. The silence is total. I glance into the living room to make sure I’m truly alone. Anna is gone for sure, but I still feel the need to check.
I lie down on the couch, turning on the TV to try to escape this oppressive reality a bit. I flip through the channels, not looking for anything in particular, just something that might distract me enough to stop thinking about what’s happening to me.
I eventually come across an old comedy series, the kind of light, unpretentious show that doesn’t require much effort to follow. It’s exactly what I need. Just a bit of respite. The canned laughter, the absurd situations of the characters allow me to escape, if only temporarily, from my own anxieties. For a moment, I get lost in the stories of others, almost forgetting my own.
But even as I watch the screen, a part of my mind remains anchored in reality. I can’t help but think about what I’m going to do next. How will I manage all of this? How much longer can I avoid the outside world? Anna will eventually notice that something is wrong, and I can’t pretend to be sick indefinitely. And beyond Anna, there are others… My friends, my classmates, my training partners at the pool. How will I explain this inexplicable change to them?
I sigh, trying to push these thoughts aside for now. I just want a bit of peace, a moment where I don’t have to think about all of this. But the emptiness inside me constantly reminds me of what I’ve lost, and what I’m becoming.
The hours pass slowly, the TV playing without me paying much attention to what’s on. I am alone with my thoughts, even as I desperately try to escape them.