-Morning: Breakfast and Sarah’s Growing Distance -
The smell of eggs and coffee should have been comforting, but to Rick, it felt empty. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the plate in front of him. Toast, eggs, coffee—his usual. He took a bite, chewed slowly. Nothing. No flavor, no satisfaction. Just the bland texture of food doing what it was supposed to do, filling the space in his stomach without bringing any real enjoyment.
Across from him, Sarah sat curled in her chair, buried in an oversized long-sleeved shirt and baggy sweatpants. It wasn’t like her. Usually, she wore leggings or something that fit her just right, even at home. But now? She looked covered, like she was trying to hide. She sipped at her coffee, scrolling absently through her phone, barely looking at him. The silence between them felt heavier than it should.
Rick forced himself to clear his throat. “You sleep okay?” he asked, trying to sound casual, trying to ignore the nagging tightness in his chest.
Sarah hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around the coffee mug. Not really. But the truth was, she didn’t even know how to explain why. Last night had been a relief in one way—she’d finally stopped feeling like her body was betraying her. No more unbearable wetness, no more constant hum deep inside her. But what replaced it was worse. A discomfort that ran deeper. Something wrong sat between them now, lingering just beneath the surface, and she couldn’t shake it.
“Better than yesterday,” she muttered finally, not looking up.
Rick nodded, swallowing another bite of tasteless eggs. His stomach felt unsettled, but he ignored it. Instead, he nodded toward the notepad she had next to her, desperate for something normal. “Grocery list?”
Sarah exhaled, shifting slightly in her seat. “Yeah, just a few things we need.” She tapped her fingers against the ceramic of her mug, like she was debating something. Then, finally: “Since you’re back… could you mow the lawn today?”
Rick blinked, caught slightly off guard. Not that mowing the lawn was a big deal, but something about the way she said it—like she was testing him—made his stomach twist.
“Uh, yeah. I can do that,” he said after a pause.
The words came out smooth, casual. But inside, he felt that creeping discomfort again. His muscles still ached from yesterday. He still felt off—his balance, his movement, his own skin. But this was something easy. Something he should be able to do. So he forced a smile, nodding, overcompensating just a little too much. Acting normal, even if he didn’t feel it.
Sarah nodded absently, still not looking at him. She was keeping a distance. Physically. Emotionally. And Rick noticed. The way she didn’t meet his eyes. The way she stayed curled in on herself. The way she was withholding something—like the words were caught in her throat but would never come out.
He wanted to ask. But he didn’t.
By 10 AM, Sarah handed him the grocery list. Her voice was clipped, quick. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
Rick gave her a small smile, but she was already heading upstairs, her movements a little too brisk, a little too intentional.
He sat there for a few moments, just staring at the empty chair across from him.
Then, with a slow sigh, he picked up his plate and dumped the rest of the food in the trash.
-Mid-Morning: The Man in the Mirror-
After Sarah disappeared into the bedroom, Rick lingered in the kitchen for a moment before pushing himself up with a quiet sigh. His body still ached, the dull soreness settling deep in his muscles, but he ignored it. Instead, he headed to the bathroom.
He needed to shave. He hadn’t in a few days, and something about the scruff on his face felt wrong. Maybe if he cleaned up, if he looked more like himself, then he’d feel like himself again.
The bathroom mirror greeted him with an unwelcome sight. His face looked… tired. Paler than usual, like he hadn’t gotten enough sun since coming home. He turned the faucet on, watching the water run for a moment before splashing some onto his face. The cold shock grounded him, if only for a second.
He reached for the shaving cream, lathering it onto his skin, his hands working through the familiar motions. But as he raised the razor, something caught his eye—just enough to make him pause.
Something was wrong.
Rick leaned closer, his fingers brushing against his jaw. It wasn’t drastic, not at first glance. But now that he was looking for it, he saw it. His jawline—it looked softer. Just slightly. The hard angles that had always defined his face had blurred at the edges. His cheeks appeared subtly fuller, like they were holding onto something extra. And his skin—it was unnaturally smooth, the roughness, the faint imperfections he should have had, just… gone.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. He pressed his fingers into the skin, testing it, feeling for the familiar rough patches that had once been there. They weren’t. The realization sent a cold ripple through his stomach.
It’s just the lighting.
His hands felt clammy as he raised the razor again, dragging it carefully along his cheek. The hair disappeared in smooth, clean strokes, but his mind wasn’t on the shave anymore. Every motion felt hyper-focused, every detail amplified in his head. His reflection still looked like him, but something was… off. Like an altered version of himself, tweaked just enough to make his gut twist.
A sudden tightness pulled at his chest.
Rick’s hand drifted down before he could stop it, pressing over his pecs. At first, it just felt like muscle, the same dense tissue he’d built over the years. But then his fingers brushed lower, over the skin just beneath the muscle.
There was a curve. A faint but undeniable roundness forming beneath the surface.
His breath caught in his throat.
He pressed harder, his fingertips sinking slightly into the softness. Not swelling. Not firm muscle. Something else.
His pulse quickened. His other hand joined in, feeling the same shape on the opposite side. It wasn’t just in his head. It was real.
Rick exhaled sharply, ripping his shirt off over his head. His gaze darted downward, searching for more. His waist—slimmer than before. He had noticed it earlier, but standing here now, with nothing to distract him, it was obvious. The taper between his ribs and hips was unnatural, his torso shaping in a way that hadn’t been there before. His pants, already pressing uncomfortably against his waist, felt even tighter, like they weren’t meant for him anymore.
Rick’s stomach turned. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe evenly. It’s just part of recovery. The hospital. The treatment. Maybe his body was still adjusting.
But the thought rang hollow.
He turned back to the sink, dragging the razor over his jaw in quick, precise strokes. His movements were steady, but his pulse was anything but.
When he was done, he wiped his face clean, staring at himself one last time.
And then he forced himself to look away.
I just need to get out of the house.
-Late Morning: Grocery Shopping – Public Exposure-
Rick left the house around 10:30 AM, the grocery list crumpled in his fist. His truck felt different under him, the seatbelt pressing uncomfortably across his chest, the steering wheel slicker under his fingers than he remembered. He adjusted in his seat, rolling his shoulders as if that might shake off the feeling, but it followed him all the way to the store.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, welcoming him into the overly bright, air-conditioned aisles. The scent of produce, bakery bread, and cleaning chemicals filled his nose—too strong, too sharp. He pushed forward, grabbing a cart, trying to focus on the normalcy of the task.
But as he moved through the aisles, that familiar discomfort settled over him again.
His shirt wouldn’t stop bothering him. It clung in all the wrong places, brushing against his chest in a way that made his skin feel raw. Every step sent the slightest bounce through his pecs, a sensation so foreign that he found himself walking slower, more controlled, trying not to feel it.
His hands flexed on the cart handle, knuckles whitening as he powered through Sarah’s list—milk, eggs, pasta, some snacks, household stuff. Nothing complicated. Just in and out. That was the goal.
But it wasn’t just his chest.
His feet ached inside his sneakers, a deep, dull discomfort that only grew worse the longer he walked. They felt wrong, like they weren’t sitting properly in his shoes, like something inside them was shifting against his will. He found himself adjusting his stance constantly, rolling his ankles slightly, pressing his toes against the soles of his shoes just to test if they felt the same.
They didn’t.
Rick gritted his teeth, ignoring it. It was just fatigue. The soreness from recovery. The hospital stay had screwed with his muscles. That was all.
Except… the way people looked at him.
No one was staring. No one was giving him strange looks or pointing or whispering. But Rick felt exposed. Like something was off in a way he couldn’t define. Like his own body was betraying him, shifting under his clothes, making him move differently—feel different—without anyone realizing.
By the time he made it to checkout, his skin felt too tight, stretched across his body in ways that weren’t right. He shifted on his feet, rolling his shoulders again, trying to will the tension out of his body. The cashier greeted him, a polite, automatic smile, scanning his items one by one.
Rick swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod, to act normal. Just a quick interaction. Just pay and leave.
The grocery bags felt heavier than they should’ve as he carried them to the truck, his arms stiff, his grip a little weaker than he remembered. He loaded the bags in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and took a slow, measured breath.
Just get home.
By 11:30 AM, he pulled into the driveway, the tension sitting thick in his chest. He stepped out, grabbing the bags, forcing himself to push through the discomfort.
The front door swung open just as he stepped inside. Sarah was already coming down the stairs, her movements slow, groggy from her nap.
She barely looked at him.
“Thanks,” she muttered, brushing past him toward the bedroom, her voice distant, unreadable.
Rick stood there for a second, the bags weighing down his hands. He swallowed the instinct to say something, to ask her what was wrong. But instead, he just exhaled through his nose, set the groceries down on the counter, and listened as the bedroom door clicked shut.
And just like that, he was alone again.
-Afternoon: Isolation and Lawn Work-
By 12:30 PM, the house was silent. Sarah was in their bedroom, the door shut, the weight of her exhaustion sealing her off from him. Rick sat on the couch, staring at a movie he wasn’t really watching. The dialogue, the action—none of it registered. His mind kept drifting, his body unable to settle.
His fingers absently traced his jaw, running over the smooth skin where there should have been roughness. Then lower, skimming his waist, pressing against the fabric of his shirt where his chest felt… wrong. His hands lingered there longer than he meant them to, pressing against the faint, unfamiliar softness.
He swallowed hard and tore his hands away.
Get out of your own head.
At 3 PM, he changed into an old workout shirt and a pair of athletic shorts, throwing on his sneakers. The yard wasn’t going to mow itself, and he needed something normal to focus on.
The moment he pushed the mower forward, he knew it was a mistake.
The familiar resistance of the machine should have been automatic—muscle memory guiding the motion. But it wasn’t. His hips felt… off. His waist too slim, making the usual push-and-step motion feel clumsy, unbalanced. He had to correct himself more than once, stumbling slightly over his own movements.
His legs felt weak—not out-of-shape weak, but like his muscles weren’t engaging the way they used to. Like something was subtly different in the mechanics of his body, throwing him off just enough to make the entire task feel wrong.
His grip tightened on the mower’s handle, his knuckles whitening with frustration.
Then there was his chest.
He felt it with every movement. Every shove forward sent the slightest bounce through his pecs, something foreign that his brain refused to acknowledge as real. His nipples rubbed against the fabric of his shirt with every push, sending sharp, electric tingles through his skin. It wasn’t pleasant—it was distracting, invasive, wrong.
Halfway through, he was panting.
This shouldn’t be this hard.
The heat wasn’t unbearable, but his body felt unbearably warm, sweat gathering in ways it never had before. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, his waistband digging awkwardly into his hips, and his arms ached more than they should have from just gripping the damn mower.
By the time he finished, he wasn’t satisfied with the clean-cut grass. There was no sense of accomplishment—just discomfort. The sweat clung to his skin, but it wasn’t the good kind of exhaustion. It felt… different. Like his body had been working against him instead of with him.
He let out a slow breath, stretching his arms over his head, but even that didn’t feel right.
With stiff movements, he trudged inside, shutting the door behind him.
I need a shower.
-Evening: The Basement Shower & Inspection -
Rick didn’t want to wake Sarah. She was already keeping her distance, and the last thing he needed was another awkward interaction. So, towel and fresh clothes in hand, he headed to the basement bathroom—the space he always used when he needed time alone.
The overhead light buzzed faintly as he turned it on. The small, private space had always felt like his—separate from the rest of the house, a place to clear his head. He shut the door, locking it behind him out of habit, then turned the shower on, waiting for the water to heat up.
When he finally stepped under the stream, the first blast of hot water eased some of the tension in his shoulders. The pressure worked against his muscles, and for a few seconds, he felt normal. The dull ache in his body, the lingering exhaustion, the nagging discomfort in his skin—it all faded beneath the heat.
Until he looked down.
His breath hitched. The water ran over him, streaming down his chest, tracing along his skin in ways that felt wrong. His pecs had weight to them now. Actual weight. Not just tightness or swelling—fullness that shifted ever so slightly when he moved. His fingers hesitated before he reached up, pressing against them experimentally.
Soft.
He squeezed, feeling the unmistakable give beneath his fingertips. Not muscle. Not fat. Just… something else. His pulse thumped in his ears. His waist—too narrow—created an even starker contrast now. The way his torso tapered inward, the way the shape of his body was shifting—it didn’t make sense. It wasn’t his.
His breathing quickened, heart hammering as he tried to rationalize it, tried to tell himself it was nothing—just residual effects of the treatment. He forced himself to turn, pressing his hands against the tile as the water poured over his back. Just breathe. Just breathe.
Then came the worst part.
His manhood.
The thought had been gnawing at the back of his mind all day, ever since last night with Sarah. He hadn’t been able to get hard. He wanted to, but his body just… wouldn’t.
He swallowed hard, hesitating before reaching down. He brushed his fingers over himself, barely touching at first, then firmer. Testing.
Nothing.
Not even a flicker of response. No stirring. No pressure. Just absence.
His fingers curled tighter, gripping, tugging, forcing—but the panic only rose when his body remained indifferent.
No.
His breath grew uneven, his chest tightening with something far worse than discomfort—fear. His own body wasn’t responding to him. Wasn’t his.
He pressed his forehead against the cool tiles, trying to steady himself. The water beat down on him, but he didn’t feel the warmth anymore. His mind raced, his stomach twisting in ways that had nothing to do with hunger.
Something is wrong. Something is really, really wrong.
His hands shot up to his chest again, pressing, squeezing, digging his fingers into the flesh as if he could force it to go back to normal. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, just breathing, just existing in the growing horror of his own skin.
The steam clouded the mirror above the sink, blurring his reflection when he finally turned off the water. But even through the fogged glass, he could still see it. The slight curve of his chest. The too-narrow shape of his waist.
And the undeniable truth that his body was changing.
Rick gritted his teeth, grabbing his towel and scrubbing himself dry with more force than necessary.
He needed sleep. Needed to stop thinking. Needed to believe, even for just a few more hours, that when he woke up in the morning, this would all just go away.
But deep down, he already knew.
It wouldn’t.
-Night: Sarah Leaves, Rick Numbs Himself-
By the time 6 PM rolled around, Sarah stirred from sleep, rubbing the exhaustion from her face as she sat on the edge of the bed. She barely looked at Rick when she passed him in the hallway, heading to the bathroom to get ready for work.
Rick sat on the couch, remote in hand, flicking through channels without focus. The TV played some action movie—one he normally would’ve liked—but he barely registered the noise. He should’ve said something to Sarah before she left, something normal, but the words didn’t come.
She moved around the house like a ghost, her presence distant, avoiding his gaze. She didn’t seem mad, just… done. Her baggy hoodie swallowed her frame as she tied her hair up, grabbed her keys, and slipped out the front door with a clipped, “See you tomorrow.”
Rick barely nodded.
The house fell into silence.
For the next few hours, he tried to distract himself—watched another movie, scrolled through his phone, even tried reading an old book from the shelf. Nothing stuck. His body felt off, his skin still warm from the shower but not in a comfortable way. It was like there was something underneath, some slow, steady pressure moving through him that he didn’t want to acknowledge.
At some point, he made himself eat, but every bite was just another tasteless reminder that nothing felt right.
At 10 PM, Jason texted Sarah.
Jason: You free tonight, babe?
Jason: You there?
She stared at her phone for a moment before locking the screen and shoving it back into her pocket. She wasn’t in the mood. Not tonight. Whatever had taken hold of her body the last few days had finally passed, and all she wanted was a normal shift, a normal night.
At 11:30 PM, Rick finally dragged himself upstairs.
The bed felt empty when he collapsed onto it, exhaustion gripping him, his body aching with a dull, unfamiliar weight. He lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, fingers absently brushing over his waist, his chest—searching for some familiar feeling that wasn’t there anymore.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his eyes shut.
He already knew.
Tomorrow would be worse.