Girlness

Protocol DCHK-451/b – “Contour for the Lonely”

Err was sitting under a plastic palm-tree mistake in the “Neptune” diner, scraping an ice cube with his spoon for the fourth time.
It wasn’t melting anymore.
Dry, like stomach pain on the second day without food.
Had he eaten yesterday?
He remembered only an empty pot.
The splash inside wasn’t food, not even thought—just a dull “why.”

Across from him sat his inspection commission.
Officially—three girls.
Unofficially—three laughs, three gazes, three sticky silences.
Three figures wrapped in legalized girl-uniforms.

The one with the band-aid was the verification lead.
If Err flinched—she’d log it as an escape.
The second—had a ring.
The third—he couldn’t describe.
He couldn’t look at her too long.
His eyes burned.

He knew: even if he stood up, he’d still be sitting.
In his head, his kitchen rattled:
a cracked mug—classified defect,
a leaky faucet—his only friend’s call at night.

The commission’s laughter paused for a second.
The band-aid clicked her bag shut—Phase Shift Protocol.
The one with the ring did the same, half a second later.
Protocol breach.
That meant he could live another second.

Err poked his finger into the glass—to check if the protocol hadn’t evaporated.
Inside, Glenn turned on.
Like longing.
She was the inspector of internal inconsistencies.

She was him.
He was her.
It wasn’t schizophrenia.
It was regulation.

He wanted to scream.
For some reason—“mama.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Glenn.

He’d once tried to explain it to a doctor.
The doctor hadn’t listened, just written things down.
Then came silence.
Then—Glenn.

“You’re still at the control point. Don’t forget the Protocol. Don’t forget…”
“…yourself,” Glenn whispered inside. “You’re still recording.”
Err nodded. He wanted to say “I’m leaving,” but the rules forbid it.

The band-aid bled red—Err’s blood, but accounted for.
A heel scraped the tile.
Another drop—his.
Log it. Submit a sample.

“If I stand up,” he whispered into the void,
“will you take me off the records?”

Glenn went quiet.
Or was it him?

Silence.

Girlness—it’s not because I’m a girl.
It’s because I have nowhere to hide.
Girlness is a hole in the protocol.
That’s where I run when I can’t be Err anymore.

“…I don’t love myself,” slipped out aloud.
They didn’t hear.
Or pretended not to.

Glenn stirred inside.

“You want to be me because you think someone could love me.
And no one could love you.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re an error in the ‘gender’ field.
A draft through social norms.
A girl, canceled before birth.”

He jabbed his finger into the cup.
Wished the shards would cut his skin.
Plastic.
Soft, like a voice that never got a name.
He remembered eating dirt as a child—
to understand what it’s like to be down there.
To taste the bottom.

No one noticed.

Maybe that’s when the girlness began.

His grandmother used to smooth the dress folds with such care,
as if the fabric was made of glass.
The mirror was cloudy, smudged by time and fingers, speckled with fly tracks.
“Beautiful,” she’d say. Not ask. Just... state a fact.
He didn’t understand why. Didn’t know how to ask.
He wore a dress—too soft, like it was made not for a body, but for a ghost.
The fabric tickled his legs.
The mirror didn’t explain. It just showed: this too is allowed.
“Grandma,” he wanted to say, “but I’m not...”
But she was already adjusting the collar—
as if setting up an exhibit in a display case.
Inside—not shame.
Inside—silence.
The same that would come later, when Glenn speaks.
The same as in the caf;, where the ice no longer melted.
The same that always comes
when a girl hides
because she doesn’t exist.

He remembered the dress—green with polka dots.
The reflection in the mirror—he wasn’t scared.
Grandma took her brush, slowly combed her hair—not his.
Then adjusted her headscarf—not for modesty, just from habit.
He looked at her—
and suddenly realized: she wasn’t looking at him.
She was seeing.
Not the dress. Not the posture.
Him.
Like she’d known him all along.
And then—back to school, back to silence, back to another day.

Inside, a sharp pull in his lower belly—like before a hospital IV.
The band-aid moved again.
All according to schedule.

“You really want to return to the crack?” Glenn asked.
“To the trace that’ll hand you back?”
“Because I’m there too. I am your crack. I am your tail.
I am your girl.”
And she fell silent.

Err whispered:
“If I stand—will you erase me?”

In response—a drop.
Not blood.
Urine.

He’d sat too long.
Didn’t know if they noticed.
Wanted to sink through the tiles.

Pause.

The band-aid pretended not to see.
The ring swallowed saliva.
The third—still silent.
A white sneaker under the table. No gesture. No meaning.

He stood up.
Silence.
The commission kept watching.

The chair creaked—the divergence act complete.
The commission didn’t move.
Observation continues.

He wanted to scream, “It’s me!”
But the rules forbid identifying with the inspector.

For a second—nothing existed.
No chair,
no floor,
no bodies.

Just... everything disappeared.
Or glitched.

A step.
Air filled the pause.

Inside—quiet.

His jacket—cheap, smelled of sweat.
He was afraid to wash it: in the lining—a tag reading “Gloria.”
A cat’s name.
No one knew.

Before exiting, he glanced back—a final look into the past.
At the table—not him.
Glenn.
The mug cracked under her gaze.

Beneath his nail—blood. His own.
A stain. Emptiness.
From where—unknown.
As if no one had been there.
As if it was all delusion.
Or worse—a truth.

Pause.

“Girl…” whispered inside.
“I’m sorry,” he said.

Recording ends.
He remains.
The commission is disbanded.

And in the crack between the lines—no one is allowed to exist.
Where no protocol checks—there’s a voice.

Behind—Girlness.
Ahead—Protocol.

(whisper)
I pray God is a woman.

Postscript:
(whispering)
But God already is a woman.
She just doesn’t have protocol access either.

(quieter)
She’s the one who wrote it—
but ran out of ink at the word “live.”
Now she just reads—
from the edge of the sky, without stamps or signatures.

The system doesn’t believe her.
Won’t give her a pass.

So she, like you,
pretends
it’s not about her.

Only sometimes, when the ache is too sharp—
she whispers your own thoughts back into your ear.
So you don’t forget you’re alive.

At least... in the draft.