Jonah found it tucked behind a rack of old coats — a sweep of lavender fabric catching the dusty shop light like violet sugar. His fingers traced the hem. Cool. Whisper-soft.
He lifted it from the rack and stuffed it under his arm. Running all the way home, the dress bunched beneath his ribs like a secret he couldn't wait to keep.
At home, he pulled the dress over his head. The crinkle of tulle filled the room. He turned to the mirror — a boy standing in princess clothes. He didn't look away.
He stepped to the front door in his sneakers, one foot on the mat, and stopped. The doorknob gleamed. He thought: not yet.
Each step to school was slow. The lavender hem swished against his shins. Gravel crunched under his sneakers. His backpack strap dug into his shoulder. He counted the houses as he passed them — one, two, three — stretching the walk as long as he could.
At the school gate, he gripped his bag straps until his knuckles went white. The bell rang. Kids shouted. Across the playground, Mia and Leo pointed — and then grinned — straight at him.
Mia padded over in her red boots and ran her fingers along the embroidered floral trim. Leo followed close behind. Which shop sold it? he asked. Do they come in blue?
Jonah laughed — a real, loud sound that carried all the way to the swings. He told them everything: the shop, the price, the way the fabric caught the light. His voice was steady. His voice was bright.