🧵 Chapter 3: False Reflections
from The Thread Between Worlds: Book One from the Thread-saga
Some truths arrive as a whisper before they ever find a voice. This chapter traces that quiet threshold — the long hallway between knowing and saying. Between being and being seen.
If you’ve ever learned to shape yourself just to be allowed to exist — if you’ve ever carried your real name in secret — this one's for you.
I didn’t tell anyone.
I didn’t even have the words for it yet.
All I knew was something inside me shifted —
something buried so deep, it had almost forgotten how to breathe.
I spent hours reading in the dark.
Stolen moments on ancient internet forums.
Whispers from strangers who spoke a language my heart instantly recognized.
I wasn’t alone.
I wasn’t crazy.
There were others like me.
And yet — I knew I couldn’t say it out loud.
Not yet.
Not in the body I was trapped in.
Not in the world I was living in.
So I did what I had always done:
built another mask.
Another story.
Another reflection to survive inside.
I remember the AIM Messenger door sound.
Seeing her username pop online: GirlieGirlRacing, in bright red font.
My heart skipped a beat.
A new girl I’d met not long ago —
she claimed Native American heritage, and she seemed crazy about me.
This time, I didn’t catfish.
I’d learned my lesson after pining over impossible relationships;
reality had finally settled in:
I was never going to be a man.
By the time I turned seventeen,
I had been with a girl in real life.
Mom had been dragging me to a fitness studio several times a week,
tightening the screws with a strict diet.
For once, I thought I didn’t look so bad —
the usual hateful commentary inside my head was quieter than it had been in years.
My own style was finally breaking through in small, stubborn ways.
I wasn’t hiding in baggy clothes anymore.
Confidence had started growing —
and with it, a body that, at least on the outside,
seemed to be blossoming.
It didn’t last long.
My first real-life girlfriend turned out to be as shallow as you can be when you’re young —
using me for sexual favors and whatever pocket change I had.
I still remember the time she told me I looked nothing like my profile pictures —
the ones where I thought I looked beautiful.
It was brief.
Fiery.
Traumatic.
My first crash course in betrayal.
One night, just before the breakup,
she invited me to a party club along a strip in the city.
I had gone all out:
bought flowers,
had my makeup done perfectly (or so I thought),
wore my new, hip clothes.
She ignored me the whole night —
making out with two other girls as if I didn’t exist.
Heartbroken, I left
and wandered through the city,
dazed and confused.
That’s when an African man started following me.
He flirted,
telling me how beautiful I was,
promising me drinks or drugs
if I would just give him some of my time.
I didn’t like alcohol —
not the way it made people behave —
so I accepted a pre-rolled joint instead.
I distinctly remember him ducking into a coffeeshop
and bringing it out for me.
“Thanks,” I said,
lighting up the cigarette.
That was my first time.
Anything could have happened to me that night.
Somehow, the Universe — or God — had my back and protected me.
I told the guy I was going home and asked him not to follow me.
He let me go.
And he didn’t follow.
The city lights blurred like watercolors as I walked.
For a moment, I could swear I saw two moons hanging in the sky —
one pale and familiar,
the other rust-red and wrong.
I blinked hard,
and it was gone.
Just the weed, I told myself.
Just its effects playing tricks on my mind.
Somehow I found my way to the bus station,
where another African man approached me,
telling me he wanted to marry me,
refusing to leave me alone.
Thankfully, my bus had just arrived,
and he, too, did not follow.
Up until recently, I never realized just how lucky —
and protected —
I have been throughout my life.
This was one of the more obvious examples.
Throughout my puberty,
I had started feeling an undeniable urge to escape my surroundings.
To get far away from everything I perceived to be detrimental to my emotional health.
I didn’t have words for it then —
only a bone-deep knowing.
If I stayed where I was, I would disappear.
If I found a way across the ocean,
maybe… just maybe…
I could find myself again.
It was no surprise, then,
that all the girls I spoke to online were American.
And GirlieGirlRacing provided that ultimate escape when I turned eighteen..
New chapters drop every Sunday.
If you're reading this and remembering instead of just reading — welcome. You're not alone.
📖 Next chapter:
Chapter 4: Chasing Freedom, Finding Ghosts
© 2025 Alex Blumberch. All rights reserved.
The Thread Between Worlds is part of The Thread Series, a multi-volume soul memoir exploring collapse, awakening, and timeline convergence.
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This isn’t just a story.
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And it’s only just begun.