Everyone is born unequal.
This line might sound harsh to some people, but to me, it's just the truth, something I've lived, not something I quoted online to look deep. I've seen inequality up close, because I've lived it from both sides. I had two bodies, two lives, and two completely different fates.
She, my other self, was everything society worships. Beautiful, elegant, intelligent, and talented. She was born into wealth, power, and a family with enough political influence to bend the world around them. People adored her. They praised her name like she was destined for greatness.
And then there's me, the male version. Poor, ordinary, and stuck in a family where arguments filled the air more than laughter. The neighborhood was rough, the house felt small, and dreams were something you learned to kill early before reality crushed them for you.
It was like living as two extremes. One body born in Rome, at the center of privilege; the other scraping by at the lowest rung of society's wheel.
So when people start preaching about equality, about how hard work can make anyone successful, I can't help but laugh. How could I agree when I've tried, really tried, and failed?
With this male body, I did everything I could. I worked hard, studied hard, and even tried to recreate ideas from my past life, stories that once shook the internet and earned fame back then. I thought I could just rewrite them, tweak them a bit, and make something out of it. But no matter how much I tried, it didn't work.
I couldn't remember every detail perfectly. And even when I did manage to finish something, the result was awful. My drafts were rejected one after another, and the one time a publisher accepted it, the feedback was still awful. But when my female self looked at the same work, she could instantly see what was wrong.
She had that natural genius; sharp, insightful, intuitive. She could read my messy attempts and understand what made them fail.
Genes and IQ… yeah, those matter. People like to say they don't, that effort and passion are enough, but that's a comforting lie. Still, I didn't fall into despair, because my other self, the one who shined brighter was there. She helped me. She corrected my grammar, fixed my plots, made my premise more appealing and marketable, all while hiding the truth that we were the same person.
Then came the moment of truth. I stood outside the publisher's office, ready to submit my work. But I stopped. What if they questioned me? What if someone noticed something strange about me? My previous work had been a failure, so what if they compared it to this sudden masterpiece? It wasn't worth the risk.
My male body had a reputation for mediocrity; hers didn't exist on paper yet.
And then I thought, why bother?
Why risk exposure when she, my other self, could handle it perfectly?
She is me, and I am her. We are one. What belongs to her belongs to me, and what's mine belongs to her. There's no difference.
So, I let her take over. Under her name—Arisu—the world saw brilliance. She became a famous novelist, celebrated and admired.
Later, when we grew older, she didn't stop there.
She used her fame and influence to start her own company, an international online platform for writers, similar to Webnovel. It became a place where writers dumped their wildest, filthiest ideas and still got paid. Incest, noncon, tentacles, and many more.
Arisu's backing was strong, powerful enough that even the big corporations had to tread carefully. She could publish stories with taboo themes, explicit content, and controversial ideas, and payment processors or app stores would still turn a blind eye.
Lesser sites would've been censored, crushed, or banned into oblivion. But not her. She had the connections, the money, and the kind of authority that made people look away and pretend not to see.
That's the kind of world we live in, where talent, birth, and luck decide everything before you even start. Where two versions of the same soul can live completely different lives, just because one was born with more than the other.
And deep down, it doesn't matter anymore.
When I was drowning in depression and frustration, my beautiful female-self was always there, a constant comfort in the shadows. We always met in secret, our connection a private world we kept from everyone else.
Even when she was tied up in business meetings or other important obligations, she would carve out time, sneaking into my home to find me at my lowest.
In the saddest moments of my life, she was my shelter, holding me close and hugging me until the weight felt just a little lighter.
However, our comfort always had a current of something hotter running just beneath the surface, and it didn't take long for that tension to escalate.
The gentle hugs and soft words of reassurance would inevitably, and quickly, escalate.
A look would linger too long, a comforting hand would stray, and the atmosphere would shift from tender to electric.
Our compassionate embraces would transform into intense, passionate kisses, our mouths meeting with a desperate hunger that went far beyond simple comfort.
Our hands, once offering gentle pats, began urgently exploring each other's bodies, mapping out curves and muscles through fabric, seeking the direct warmth of skin against skin, driven by a need to feel alive and connected in the most primal way possible.
We had danced around this precipice for so long, but we had never yet crossed that final line. That boundary, however, shattered completely on that day.
In a whirlwind of tangled limbs and shared breath, the last of our reservations melted away.
As we kissed, a deep, consuming need took over. I found myself positioned between her thighs, and with a single, firm, penetrating thrust, I was deep inside her, breaking through her virginity as our mouths remained locked together in a kiss that was equal parts comfort and conquest.
The sharp, muffled gasp she breathed into my mouth was a sound I would never forget, a mix of brief pain and profound acceptance.
Our making love was never timid or hesitant; it was intense, raw, and fiercely passionate from that very first time. It was as if our shared identity granted us an intimate map of each other's bodies.
We knew, instinctively and perfectly, every weak point and every sensitive part. I knew exactly where to touch, how to kiss, and where to apply pressure to make her arch her back and cry out my name.
She, in turn, knew how to use her hands, her lips, and the rhythm of her hips to unravel me completely, to drive me to a pleasure so overwhelming it bordered on madness.
This deep, innate knowledge made every coupling not just a physical act, but an overwhelming and deeply pleasurable rediscovery of each other.
Arisu was no longer just my other female-self, a reflection in a fractured mirror.
She had become my secret lover, my sanctuary, and the only person who truly knew how to piece me back together, one desperate, passionate night at a time.