I didn't expect cutting my hair to feel like losing a part of myself.
I stood in the bathroom early the next morning, holding a pair of scissors I found in the kitchen drawer. The mirror in front of me reflected someone who looked tired—red eyes, messy hair, dark circles from hours of not sleeping. My hands shook slightly, but not enough to stop me.
Elliot's uniform was spread out on the counter. His scent still clung to the fabric—clean soap, a hint of citrus, something light and familiar. It made my chest tighten.
I touched my own hair, long and falling down my back. I always kept it neat. Elliot used to joke that my hair was the only thing in our family that behaved.
But an Omega girl with long hair had no place in an Alpha-only academy.
I lifted the scissors.
My first instinct was to hesitate. Not because I cared that much about the hair itself—hair grows back—but because cutting it made everything real.
It meant Elliot was gone.
It meant I was taking his place.
It meant I was stepping into something I wasn't ready for.
I took a breath.
"This is for him," I whispered.
Then I cut the first handful.
The sharp sound of the blades made my stomach drop. Strands fell into the sink, then onto the floor, until my shoulders felt lighter, my neck colder. I kept cutting in uneven pieces, trimming and adjusting until the hair barely brushed my jawline.
When I was done, I barely recognized myself.
I didn't look like Elleanore anymore.
I looked like someone pretending.
Someone hiding.
Someone trying to fit into someone else's silhouette.
A small knock came on the door behind me.
"Elleanore?"
Mom.
I panicked and shoved the fallen hair into the trash can, wiping my eyes quickly. I cracked the door open a few inches.
"Yes?"
She blinked when she saw my hair. "What happened?"
I forced a smile. "Just felt like changing things up."
She frowned, studying my face carefully. Mom wasn't oblivious—she could read emotions like braille—but she was exhausted from work and extra shifts. The last thing she needed was to worry more.
"You look pale," she said softly. "Are you sick?"
"No. Just tired."
"Is Elliot awake?"
My throat tightened. "No."
"Can you wake him? He needs to get ready for—"
"He already left," I said quickly.
Her eyebrows rose. "Left? Without saying goodbye?"
"He said he had to be early."
It wasn't a lie—Elliot did leave early.
He just never came back.
Mom sighed, rubbing her forehead. "That boy… always rushing." She stepped forward and touched my cheek. "You two take care of yourselves. You hear me?"
I nodded, forcing my face to stay steady as she went to the kitchen. I waited until her footsteps faded before closing the bathroom door fully.
My reflection stared back.
Not Elliot yet, but close enough that it scared me a little.
I cleaned up the hair, wiped the counter, and pulled out the small silver vial Elliot had given me. It was cold in my palm, frost gathering along the edges. The liquid inside glowed faintly—a chemical shimmer, not magical, just potent.
A suppressor this strong was illegal outside the Academy.
I uncapped it slowly, letting the sharp scent drift up. It smelled like metal and something clean, almost sterile.
I dabbed some at my pulse points—neck, wrists, behind my ears—just like Elliot had taught me when we were messing around with cheap, legal suppressors for fun. Except this wasn't fun. Not even close.
The cool sensation spread instantly, sinking deep into my skin, numbing parts of me I didn't know could be numbed. It felt like something inside me softened and tightened at the same time.
My Omega scent faded.
Flattened.
Disappeared.
It scared me how quickly it worked.
When I stepped back into the hallway, the house felt colder. Or maybe that was just me.
I walked to Elliot's room and stood in the doorway.
His bed had been neatly made… by me. His books stacked… by me. The shattered phone now sat in a drawer, hidden so Mom wouldn't see. His uniform jacket lay across the bed, waiting, as if he might come back and slip it on.
I ran my hand across the fabric.
"Elliot," I whispered, "I hope you can hear me wherever you are."
My throat tightened again.
"I'm going to do what you asked. I don't know how yet, but I'm going."
It felt strange to speak the truth aloud. Heavy. Final.
I put on his shirt first. It was a little big across the shoulders, tighter across the chest, but once I bound myself properly using the straps I'd ordered online months ago for cosplay—how ironic—it looked convincing enough.
The blazer came next.
Then the tie.
Then the jacket.
It was almost eerie how well it fit me after adjusting everything.
When I stepped back to the mirror, I felt my pulse stumble.
I didn't look like my brother exactly—there were small differences. My jaw was softer. My eyes were a little wider. But with the suppressor masking my scent, the short hair, and the uniform, the resemblance was close enough that it hurt.
"Hi, Elliot," I whispered to myself.
It sounded wrong in my voice. Too quiet. Too soft. Too… me.
I cleared my throat and tried again, deeper this time.
"Hi. I'm Elliot."
Still wrong. Still shaky.
I practiced again. And again. Trying to match the rhythm of his speech. The way he raised the end of his sentences. The way he breathed between words. At some point, I found a tone that sounded familiar enough.
Not perfect.
But close.
I put my backpack together—papers, the Academy letter, the vial, a tight-knit cap for emergencies—and zipped it up with a hard exhale.
It felt heavier than anything I'd ever carried.
When I reached the front door, the morning sun hit my eyes, bright and unforgiving. The street outside looked normal—kids on bikes, cars leaving for work, neighbors watering their plants.
Meanwhile, my entire life was tilting sideways.
I took one step outside, then another.
Behind me, the house stayed quiet.
Ahead of me, the Academy loomed—too big, too far, too dangerous.
But I kept walking because the alternative meant giving up on Elliot.
And I couldn't do that.
I wouldn't.
Mom left for work, and I didn't have classes that day, so I had a few hours before I needed to be at the Academy's induction gate. I stopped by a bus stop near the school and sat on the bench, trying to steady my breathing.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Oliver.
Oliver:
Where are you? Can we talk?
I stared at it, unsure what to feel.
Then a second message:
Oliver:
I'm sorry about yesterday. Can we please fix things?
My chest tightened.
He still didn't understand that we had reached a point where sorry didn't fix anything.
But I typed anyway.
Elleanore:
I can't talk today.
Almost instantly, he replied:
Oliver:
Did Chandler say something to you? Did he scare you?
I rolled my eyes.
Elleanore:
No. It's not about Chandler. It's about you.
His typing bubble appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared.
Oliver:
…Can I see you before class? Please?
I hesitated.
Seeing him would be a mess. I knew it. He'd ask questions I wasn't ready to answer. He'd pull out that guilty expression he'd perfected over the years, and I'd feel myself giving in, even when I didn't want to.
But part of me also wanted to say goodbye properly.
Or at least see him once more before stepping into the Academy and pretending I no longer existed.
So I typed:
Elleanore:
Meet me behind the gym.
I closed my phone and exhaled deeply.
My heart was racing. Not from Oliver.
But from everything about to change.
The next time anyone saw me…
I wouldn't be me anymore.
I would be Elliot.
And no one could know the truth.
The walk to the back of the gym felt longer than usual. Probably because every step reminded me that this was the last time I'd be at school as me. After today, no one would see Elleanore Fonze for a very long time—not my classmates, not my teachers, and definitely not Oliver.
My hands were cold by the time I reached the shady area behind the gym. The concrete wall there had been patched over probably a dozen times, and the smell of chalk and sweat drifted from the open windows above.
Oliver was already waiting.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders tight, blond hair pushed back like he'd been running his fingers through it. His uniform was neat as always, clean and crisp. He looked like the version of himself that teachers adored—put together, polite, controlled.
Except his eyes weren't controlled.
They were searching for me.
"El," he said softly.
The familiar nickname felt heavy. It used to warm me. Now it stung.
"Hey," I replied, keeping my voice steady. "You wanted to talk."
He nodded, stepping closer. "I… yeah. I wanted to apologize again."
"You already did," I said.
"Then let me try properly this time."
He looked at me—not at my hair, not at my uniform jacket, not at the shadows under my eyes. He looked right at me like he was trying to read everything I wasn't saying.
"I messed up," he admitted quietly. "I shouldn't have asked you to give up your scholarship. I wasn't thinking about how unfair that was."
My chest tightened, but not in the way I expected.
"Oliver—"
"I know I say stupid things sometimes," he cut in, hands curling. "I know I get caught up in helping people, and I forget to consider how it affects you. But I never meant to hurt you."
He sounded sincere. And for a moment, I wished sincerity could undo the pain.
But apologies don't erase decisions.
I let out a slow breath. "I believe you didn't mean to. But it doesn't change how it felt."
Oliver took another small step toward me. "Let me fix it."
"I don't think you can."
He swallowed, frustration flickering across his face. "You're shutting me out."
"I'm protecting myself."
"From me?"
I didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Oliver's expression wavered—hurt, confusion, anger, regret. A blend of emotions I'd seen on him before but never all at once.
"El…" His voice softened. "We've known each other since we were five. I don't want us to drift apart over this."
"We already are," I said quietly.
He winced like I'd hit him.
Before he could say anything else, a crunch of gravel came from behind us.
We both turned.
Chandler Monteverde strolled up the small slope from the courtyard, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. His messy dark hair caught the light, and his grey eyes flicked between us in a way that felt far too perceptive.
"Oh great," Oliver muttered. "What do you want now?"
Chandler ignored him and stopped beside me—close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. The contact startled me, but I didn't move away.
"You heading somewhere?" Chandler asked. His eyes drifted to my shorter hair, the slight change in my posture, the bag slung over my shoulder. He noticed everything.
"Yeah," I said. "I… have somewhere to be."
Oliver's head snapped toward me. "Where? You don't have class today."
"I know."
"So why are you dressed like—" He stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. "Are you leaving town? What's going on?"
My pulse spiked.
Chandler must've felt something shift, because he stepped a half-step in front of me. Not blocking me—just subtly guarding.
"Move," Oliver said sharply. "I'm talking to her."
"She doesn't owe you answers," Chandler replied calmly.
Oliver's face flushed. "This isn't about you."
"Then stop making it my business," Chandler said, "and stop acting like you're entitled to explanations."
Oliver snapped, "She's my friend!"
Chandler stared at him for a long second. Then he said, voice steady:
"Yeah? Then treat her like one."
Silence hit us like a weight.
Oliver looked at me, chest rising and falling faster now. "Elleanore… please. Just tell me what's going on."
My throat felt tight. I didn't want to lie to him—not completely. But I couldn't tell him the truth, either.
"I need time," I said. "And space. That's all."
He shook his head slowly, like he didn't want to accept it. "Is this about Chandler?"
"No," I said immediately. "This is about me."
Oliver's gaze dropped to my hair again, then to the bag on my shoulder, then to my expression. Slowly, fear crept into his features.
"You're leaving," he said, voice trembling slightly.
I didn't confirm it. I didn't deny it.
And that alone told him everything.
"El… where are you going?" Oliver whispered.
I swallowed. "Somewhere I have to be."
"Can I come with you?" he asked suddenly. "Please. If you're in trouble—"
"I'm not," I lied.
He stepped closer again. "Then why won't you tell me anything?"
"Because you can't help with this," I said. "And because you won't understand."
"Try me!"
His voice cracked on the last word.
It was the most raw I'd ever heard him sound. And for a moment, it broke me.
But then I remembered Elliot's empty room.
The silver vial.
The Academy's letter.
The fear that sat in my chest like a stone.
I couldn't afford to break.
So I shook my head once. "Goodbye, Oliver."
Something inside him shattered right then. I saw it in the way his shoulders dropped, in the way he didn't reach out again, in the way he stepped back as if giving up hurt physically.
Chandler's jaw tensed. Not with satisfaction. With something softer—sympathy, maybe.
I turned and walked away.
Oliver didn't follow.
He didn't call my name.
He didn't do anything but stand there, trembling slightly as if he'd just lost something he didn't know how to keep.
Chandler followed me for a few steps, hands still tucked into his jacket pockets.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"No," I admitted. "But I will be."
He nodded. "You're not actually gonna just vanish without telling anyone, right?"
I hesitated.
Then said the only true thing I could:
"I have to do something important."
Chandler watched me carefully, like he was trying to read between the lines. "Does this have to do with Elliot?"
My heart skipped.
I didn't answer.
I didn't have to.
He let out a slow breath. "Whatever you're walking into… don't face it alone."
"I won't," I lied again.
He stared at me for another long moment, then nodded once. "If you need anything, text me. Even if it's stupid. Even if it's late."
"Okay."
"Promise?"
I managed a small smile. "Promise."
He didn't smile back—not because he wasn't happy, but because he was worried. Really worried.
And somehow, that made the walk away from him harder than it should've been.
I reached the bus stop again and sat down, staring at my hands. They were shaking slightly, but I forced them to still.
Planes took off in the distance. Cars honked. Students in uniforms passed by, laughing about something irrelevant.
And I sat there, dressed in Elliot's clothes, wearing Elliot's scent, rehearsing Elliot's voice in my head.
I wasn't ready.
But I didn't have the luxury of waiting until I was.
I checked the time.
Induction was in three hours.
The Academy gates were a long bus ride away.
This was it.
I adjusted my cap, took a deep breath, and whispered to myself:
"You're Elliot now. Just keep breathing. One step at a time."
The bus arrived with a soft screech.
I stood, climbed on board, and took a seat at the very back.
As the doors closed and the bus pulled away from the curb, I watched the familiar streets fade behind me.
When the city blurred into highway, I realized something quietly, painfully true:
My old life was gone.
My name, my face, my scent—everything I was—had to disappear.
If I wanted to find Elliot, I had to let Elleanore vanish first.
And as the Academy's towering spires appeared far ahead, I felt my pulse rise.
This was the beginning.
And there was no going back.