Ravyn Mixtape Track 6-

I always figured if my life ever completely fell apart, it would be because of something cool—like getting caught up in a heist gone wrong or exposing some deep government conspiracy.

Instead, it happened in my ex-girlfriend’s living room, under the unforgiving glare of a $12 IKEA lamp, as she dumped me in the most patronizing tone possible.

“I just feel like… I need someone more than you.”

More what? More me? More emotionally available? More physically imposing? Because I could barely intimidate a houseplant, let alone a human being.

Her name was Candace, and she was the kind of person who wore leather jackets indoors, which should have been my first red flag. She sighed dramatically, tossing her hair over one shoulder like she was starring in a perfume commercial.

“You never do anything, Evan. I can’t be with someone so… passive.”

I blinked at her. “I literally helped you move last week.”

“Exactly,” she said, as if that was some kind of gotcha moment. “That’s, like, a metaphor for our whole relationship.”

So, just to clarify: I was too helpful? That was the problem?

She kept talking, but at some point, I stopped listening. Something about how she needed someone “who could take charge,” who would “challenge her,” someone “exciting.” In other words, a walking pair of biceps who could flip a tire while reciting poetry.

I stared blankly at the wall, feeling something inside me crack—not like a plate shattering on the floor, but more like a tiny, invisible fault line spreading under the surface.

I was fine. Completely fine. I was so fine that I walked straight out of her apartment, ignored the rain that started just in time to make me look like a tragic protagonist in a melodrama, and went to the nearest bar to drown my utterly fine emotions in whiskey.

That was where my life officially derailed.

The bartender was an older woman with arms like she had once bench-pressed motorcycles for fun. She slid me a glass without asking, as if she could smell the heartbreak on me.

“Tough night?”

“No, it’s been great,” I said. “I was just thinking I should do something fun, like… I don’t know, reinvent myself.”

She snorted. “Yeah? What kind of reinvention we talking? New haircut? Backpack across Europe? Cult?”

I exhaled. “Something drastic. Something to prove her wrong.”

“Oh, honey.” She patted the counter. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. You just need to be happy with yourself.”

“I’d be happy if I weren’t me,” I muttered.

She gave me a long, unreadable look. Then, without a word, she slid a strange-looking bottle across the bar. The liquid inside shimmered, like moonlight trapped in a glass.

“On the house,” she said, winking.

Like any rational adult, I did not stop to ask what it was before tossing it back in one go.

Big mistake.

I woke up the next morning feeling like I had been violently rearranged in my sleep.

For one, my limbs weren’t right. My clothes felt massive, sliding off me like I had suddenly shrunk overnight.

I groaned, rolling over—only to get a mouthful of my own hair.

“Ugh—what the—?” I sat up too fast and immediately regretted it.

Everything was off. My hands were… smaller? My arms were weirdly slender. My chest felt heavier—like someone had sneakily attached weights to my collarbone.

Then there was the problem between my legs.

I sucked in a breath, shoved a shaking hand down my—wait, these weren’t my boxers, they were panties—and felt…

Nothing.

No, not nothing. Just different.

“Okay,” I said to absolutely no one, staring at my perfectly manicured fingers. “This is fine.”

It was not fine.

I stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink like I was on a rapidly sinking ship. When I looked in the mirror, my stomach plummeted.

A girl stared back.

Not just any girl—a really, really pretty girl.

She had soft, mousy brown hair that fell in delicate waves, huge eyes that made her look constantly on the verge of tears, and lips that were just… unfairly full. She was petite, her frame delicate in a way that made me look like I needed someone to rescue me.

I had turned into every indie movie’s tragic, ethereal dream girl.

“Oh,” I whispered.

And then I did the most logical thing possible.

I screamed.

An hour later, after a very undignified breakdown and a lot of aimless pacing, I came to a conclusion.

This was, objectively, Candace’s fault.

If she hadn’t dumped me, I wouldn’t have wished to be someone else, and if I hadn’t wished that, I wouldn’t be currently wearing a stolen hoodie that fit like a dress and clutching my phone like it was a lifeline.

I had two options:

1. Call my best friend, Chloe, who might believe me.

2. Jump out the window and run into the woods to become a cryptid.

I was seriously considering the second option when my phone buzzed.

Chloe: Wanna get brunch? I need gossip.

Me: Uhhhhhh sure.

Great. Brunch. Normal. Nothing screams “I am totally not cursed” like overpriced avocado toast.

What’s the worst that could happen?

(Answer: everything.)

I had vastly underestimated two things.

1. How goddamn cold the world is when you’re this small.

2. How much Chloe would freak out.

It turns out, when you go from 5’10” to 5’3” overnight, lose about 40 pounds, and develop the kind of tragic beauty that indie film directors would sell their souls for, people tend to notice.

I barely made it down the block before I realized I was shivering.

Was it always this cold? Had I been secretly part-wolf before? Because now the wind cut through me like I was made of tissue paper and regret. The oversized hoodie I’d stolen from my own closet provided about as much warmth as a gentle suggestion to think warm thoughts.

By the time I stumbled into the café where Chloe was waiting, I was shaking so hard I could barely push the door open.

The second she saw me, she gasped. Loudly.

“Oh my God.”

I swallowed, trying to play it cool. “Hey.”

“Hey? Hey?! Who the hell are you?”

She looked me up and down, eyes darting over my too-big sleeves, my bare, shivering legs, my slightly damp hair from the walk.

“Where is Evan? Did he send you?” She squinted. “You look—”

“—Like Evan’s type?” I offered weakly.

Chloe frowned. “No, you look exactly like Evan would if he was a girl.”

I exhaled, pulling down the hoodie sleeves. “Okay, so. Funny story…”

I explained as much as I could over a cup of steaming coffee, which I clutched with both hands like a lifeline because I had apparently lost all ability to retain heat. Chloe stared, occasionally sipping her drink, as if trying to find the exact moment where I lost my mind.

When I finished, she sat back, arms crossed. “You’re telling me that you got drunk, made a wish, and now you’re this?”

“Pretty much.” I held up a lock of my wavy, mousey brown hair. “See? It’s real.”

Chloe didn’t respond. She just reached out and yanked it.

“OW! What the hell?”

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Just checking.”

I rubbed my scalp, scowling. “Believe me now?”

She snorted. “I mean, I guess. Either that or you’re the most dedicated method actor I’ve ever met.”

I sighed, staring into my coffee. “So. What do I do?”

Chloe tapped her fingers against the table, studying me. “Well, first of all, you need new clothes. You look like a toddler playing dress-up in their dad’s hoodie.”

I groaned. “I was hoping I’d wake up normal tomorrow and not have to commit to this.”

“You woke up like this today.” She raised an eyebrow. “You really wanna spend another day freezing your tiny ass off?”

I grumbled. She had a point.

Three hours later, I found myself staring into a salon mirror, still looking like some waifish movie character on the verge of a poetic breakdown.

“This is a terrible idea,” I muttered.

“It’s the best idea,” Chloe said. “You need a fresh start.”

I turned to the stylist, a friendly-looking woman named Sam. “I just want to look… less like this. More practical.”

Sam nodded. “Got it. You’re thinking pixie cut.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Something kinda—”

“—Short, easy, a little androgynous,” Sam finished for me. “Say no more.”

I nodded quickly. “Exactly.”

Chloe, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with herself. “Ooooh, this is gonna be so good.”

I tried not to fidget as Sam started cutting. Hair fell in soft tufts around me, pooling in my lap. Each snip felt like shedding another layer of the old me, like letting go of something I couldn’t quite name.

I expected to look sharper, maybe more angular—something closer to the kind of masculinity I had before.

But when Sam spun my chair around, my stomach dropped.

Because the cut hadn’t made me look more masculine. It had made me look even cuter.

My face looked smaller, my cheekbones more delicate. The messy, slightly tousled style made me look like some artsy French girl who spent her days reading poetry in coffee shops and making men deeply regret their life choices.

Chloe let out an obnoxious squeal. “You are SO adorable.”

I scowled. “That wasn’t the goal.”

“Well, too bad. Now you’re basically pixie-core incarnate.”

I sighed, running a hand through my new hair. It was soft, lighter than I expected. The breeze from the AC hit the back of my neck, making me shiver.

“Oh my god,” I groaned. “I’m even colder now.”

Chloe just patted my arm. “Welcome to being a woman.”

Later that night, I sat on my bed, staring at my reflection in my phone screen.

It was still me. But not me-me.

I sighed and flopped back onto my pillows, letting my hoodie sleeves fall past my fingertips.

The worst part?

I kinda liked it.

I liked the way my hair fell around my face.
I liked the way my new clothes fit—how soft the fabric was.
I liked the way people looked at me today.

Not with the same indifference I used to get, but with curiosity.

With interest.

I curled up under my blankets, already freezing even though I had my heater cranked up.

Tomorrow, I’d figure things out.

Tomorrow, I’d figure me out.

But tonight…

Tonight, I just let myself be.

The next morning, I woke up shivering.

Not a cute, delicate shiver, but the full-body, teeth-chattering kind that made me regret every life choice leading to this moment.

“Why is it so cold?” I groaned into my pillow.

Because you’re tiny now, a voice in my head reminded me. I had lost every bit of insulation I once had, and the world was now actively hostile to my existence.

I threw on the thickest clothes I had—still my old ones, so they hung off me like I was drowning in fabric—and made my way to Chloe’s place.

She opened the door, took one look at me, and sighed.

“Oh my god, you look like a Dickensian orphan.”

“I am freezing to death,” I said through chattering teeth.

She grabbed my wrist and yanked me inside. “We’re fixing this. Today.”

And that’s how I ended up at a high-end boutique, staring at the most expensive coat I had ever seen in my life while Chloe insisted that I needed to “invest in warmth.”

“But it’s $200,” I protested.

“And your choices are this or turning into an icicle,” she shot back.

I sighed and grabbed the coat, along with sweaters, fleece leggings, and anything else that promised warmth and survival.

Then came the hard part.

“What name should I put on the account?” the cashier asked as I paid.

I hesitated. Evan felt… wrong. Not just because I looked different, but because I felt different. Like Evan had been left behind in Candace’s apartment, sitting in the wreckage of a breakup, while I was someone new.

Chloe tapped her chin. “Ooooh, I got it. You’re always freezing, and we can’t use your real name, so…” She grinned.

“Wynter. With a Y. Obviously.”

I squinted at her. “That’s so on the nose.”

“Exactly,” she said smugly. “And if you spell it with a Y, it’s quirky.”

The cashier raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained.

I sighed. “Fine. Wynter it is.”

And just like that, I had a new name.

A soft name.
A delicate name.
A name that fit me in a way I hadn’t expected.

I walked out of the store wrapped in my new coat, feeling almost warm for the first time.

But as I glanced at my reflection in the window—this small, slight woman with big eyes and a pixie cut—I realized something.

Warm clothes didn’t fix everything.

Because deep down, I still felt… cold.

And that was a different kind of problem.

That night, I went to a bar.

Not to get drunk, not to spiral, but because I needed to be somewhere.

To exist outside of my own thoughts for a while.

I tucked myself into a corner booth, nursing a hot toddy (because Chloe swore it would help me retain heat), and watched people around me.

And that’s when I saw her.

Tall. Dark hair. Leather jacket. Lips curled into an almost-smirk, like she was permanently in on some joke no one else could hear.

She leaned against the bar like she owned it, fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

And then—

She looked right at me.

I startled, almost knocking over my drink.

She smirked.

And just like that, I was ruined.

She walked over like it was inevitable.

Like she knew I’d be watching. Like she was already in my head.

“You look lost,” she said, sliding into the seat across from me.

Her voice was low, smooth—like she could read the thoughts I didn’t even understand yet.

I swallowed. “I—I’m not lost.”

She tilted her head, studying me like I was a puzzle worth solving. “No?”

My hands curled around my mug. “I know exactly where I am.”

“Do you?” she asked, leaning in slightly.

Something in my stomach flipped.

I didn’t know who I was yet.
But I wanted to find out.
And I wanted her to be the one to show me.

I was torn.

Between the person I used to be and the person I was becoming.
Between fear and excitement.
Between running away and leaning in.

And for the first time since this whole mess started—

I thought maybe I didn’t mind being lost.

Her name was Riley.

She never told me that night, just smirked when I asked. But she kept showing up. At the bar. At the café I started going to. Once, at a bookstore where I pretended I just happened to be looking for something when I saw her.

She smelled like rain and cigarettes. She laughed at my awkwardness, teased me relentlessly, and always had this look in her eye—like she knew something I didn’t.

And I wanted her.

I wanted her attention. I wanted her approval. I wanted to be something she wanted back.

So when she kissed me outside the bar a week later, pushing me against the brick wall, her hands cold against my burning skin, I let her.

I let her take what she wanted because I needed it to mean something.

Because I couldn’t bear to be alone.

At first, it was electric.

She made me feel seen—like I wasn’t just some tragic accident, some lost boy in a body that didn’t feel like mine.

She called me beautiful, and I believed her.

But little things started slipping through the cracks.

She teased me in ways that weren’t always funny. Told me I was too sensitive when I flinched at her biting words.

When I’d text and she wouldn’t respond, I told myself she was just busy.

When she canceled plans last minute, I convinced myself it was fine.

When she made fun of my new clothes, said I looked too soft, too fragile, I laughed along.

I just wanted her to like me.

And the worse she treated me, the harder I tried to make it work.

I bought her gifts. I stayed over even when she barely paid attention to me.

When she disappeared for days at a time, I waited.

Because Riley was cool. Riley was who I wanted to be. And if she loved me, even a little—maybe I was worth something.

It all snapped on a Sunday.

I hadn’t seen Riley in almost a week. She was always like this—hot, cold, here, gone. But this time, I felt it crushing me.

So I went to her place.

She answered the door in an old band tee that wasn’t mine, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded.

And behind her, in the dim glow of the apartment—

There was another girl.

Half-dressed. Smirking like she knew exactly what I was seeing.

My stomach plummeted.

“Oh,” I whispered.

Riley sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. “Wynter. What are you doing here?”

I felt so small. So stupid.

“I—” My voice cracked. “You weren’t answering, so I—”

She groaned. “Babe, we’ve talked about this. You get so intense.”

Intense.

Right.

Not desperate. Not pathetic.

Just… intense.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to break something. But instead—

I did nothing.

I nodded, stepped back, let her close the door in my face like I was nothing at all.

I walked home in a daze, every step hollow.

The wind cut through me like I wasn’t even there.

And when I made it to my apartment, I sank to the floor, shivering in the dim light.

I had nothing left.

I was cold. I was ashamed, broken on the floor.

The illusion had never changed into something real.

I had built myself around Riley—around the idea of her, the hope of her, the desperate belief that if I just tried hard enough, she’d love me the way I needed.

But she didn’t. She never would.

And now, I wasn’t sure who I even was anymore.

I don’t know how long I sat there.

Long enough that the room went dark. Long enough that I didn’t even hear the knock.

The door opened.

And then—

“Oh my God.”

I flinched.

Chloe stood in the doorway, eyes wide, breath hitching in her throat.

I tried to speak, but my voice was gone.

She dropped to her knees beside me, hands gentle. “Wynnie. What the hell happened?”

I shook my head.

I couldn’t explain it.

Couldn’t tell her that I had given everything to someone who never even wanted me.
That I had tried so hard to be wanted that I lost myself.

She touched my face, eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered.

That broke me.

I sobbed. Hard. Ugly. The kind of crying that shakes your whole body, that makes you feel like you’re unraveling.

Chloe pulled me against her, holding me like I was something fragile. Like I was worth holding on to.

She smelled like home. Like safety. Like something real.

I clung to her, shivering, gasping against her shoulder.

“I thought—” My voice cracked. “I thought she—”

“I know,” she whispered, stroking my back. “I know, honey.”

She knew.

She had always known.

And I had been too blind to see it.

That night, Chloe stayed.

She made me tea. Wrapped me in warm blankets. Sat beside me, fingers laced through mine, just being there.

And for the first time in weeks—

I felt safe.

I still didn’t know who I was yet.

But I knew one thing.

I wanted to find out.

And I wanted Chloe to be there when I did.

Because Chloe was real. Chloe was warm. Chloe was the one who had always been there, waiting for me to see her.

I looked at her—really looked at her—and something in my chest cracked wide open.

Maybe I wasn’t just torn apart.

Maybe I was being put back together.