As I sat in front of the bathroom mirror, I couldn't help but study the reflection staring back at me. My long, dark blonde hair flowed down my back like a cascade of silk, reaching well past my shoulders. The makeup palette before me held the power to enhance my deep blue eyes, making them pop with an almost mesmerizing intensity. My fingers delicately painted a subtle smoky eye, accentuating the already feminine features of my face.

With practiced precision, I inserted a pair of hoop earrings, their soft jingles a familiar melody. Turning my gaze to the array of cosmetics before me, I couldn't help but wonder how I had ended up here, locked in a bathroom, sculpting a persona that was both a blessing and a curse. My name is Daniel, and at the tender age of 19, I had discovered the secret to an easy way of living and financing my college education.

You see, I'm what some people might call androgynous, and I've learned to use that to my advantage. With a small frame and delicate facial features, I've been blessed (or cursed) with the ability to pass as a girl effortlessly. And it turns out, people are more than willing to pay for that illusion. I do some modeling—nothing too risqué, just the kind of gigs where designers and photographers need someone with a unique, androgynous look. The truth is, no one ever suspects that I'm not the girl I appear to be. Those photographers and designers who must know a part of the truth believe I'm transgender, a label that doesn't quite fit me either.

My main source of income, however, comes from my employment at an upscale art gallery. The owner, a wealthy and influential woman with a keen eye for aesthetics, had spotted me at a fashion show, looking for models who wanted to earn something extra. We began to chat, and so, I was hired as the gallery's resident face, an ambassador of beauty to receive the affluent guests with my feminine allure.

As I finished applying the makeup, I couldn't help but smile at my reflection. I looked like the perfect embodiment of femininity. My heart was not in this masquerade, but my bank account certainly was. The truth is, I am not transgender, nor do I identify as a woman. I am simply a boy blessed and cursed with looking smaller and more feminine than most. Life had thrown me a curveball, and I'd learned to swing with it.

In the world outside this apartment, everyone I meet thinks I ama girl, and I play the role convincingly. But when I am alone, I can shed the illusion and just be me, if only for a little while. As I rose from the chair and admired my handiwork, I couldn't help but wonder how long I could keep up this double life. How long before the mask I wore would become my true face, and the real me faded away into obscurity? Or until someone finds out and I am forced to earn my living the hard way, not just relying on looks?

For now, though, I ha`ve places to be, people to meet, and a persona to maintain. With a final glance in the mirror, I stepped out of the bathroom and into the world, leaving behind the boy named Daniel and embracing the illusion of a girl named Daniela.

But let's not be hasty. There is another part to the story, for loneliness is a constant companion in my life. It is the price I pay for the illusion I meticulously craft every day. You see, my androgynous appearance of course makes it nearly impossible for me to receive attraction, not to even mention relationships with women. They expect their partners to look masculine, and my feminine facade simply doesn't fit their ideal.The ones who do are Lesbian women – but they, on the other hand, might appreciate my feminine looks, but they of course aren't interested in dating a man. So, I was trapped in this peculiar limbo where I remained perpetually single, yearning for connection but unable to find it in conventional ways.

Occasionally, when the weight of loneliness grew unbearable, I would create a Tinder account under the name Vanessa. It was my escape, a way to momentarily quench my longing for warmth and connection. It wasn't about love or relationships; it was about the physical connection, the fleeting moments of intimacy that helped me feel human again. When I ventured into the world of online dating as Vanessa, it was both exhilarating and daunting. The truth was, I got a lot of matches. There was no shortage of good-looking men eager to meet a beautiful woman like Vanessa.
But as I had learned over time, many of them came with their own baggage of arrogance and ego. They would wine and dine me, shower me with compliments, and I'd play along, relishing in the attention. But deep down, I knew that this was a dance, a temporary charade, and sooner or later, the music would stop. I'd have to reveal the truth, and that's when things got complicated. Most of these men, no matter how good-looking, couldn't cope with the revelation. It was as if I'd shattered their illusion of the perfect date.They'd react with anger, disbelief, or even disgust. They'd accuse me of deceit, as if they had not been complicit in the charade themselves. The beautiful women they thought they had met transformed into a boy before their eyes, and they couldn't handle it.

So, I had developed a strategy over time. I went for the average ones, the men who were perhaps not accustomed to a plethora of matches and were grateful for any opportunity to be with a beautiful woman. They were the ones who might not push me away when I eventually had to reveal the truth.It was a cold calculation, a transaction of sorts. We both knew what this was about. They got to be with a woman they found attractive, and I got the brief connection I so desperately craved. In the end, most of them didn't complain. They had known the deal from the start, and they were willing participants in this lonely dance.

Today was one of those days when the weight of my isolation pressed down on me, suffocating me. The emptiness in my heart was unbearable, and I knew it was time to set up a Tinder profile once more. Vanessa would make her return to the virtual dating world, ready to engage in the dance, if only for a night or two …