Menmorph

His Name on the Back

🇬🇧 ("Il suo nome sul retro" Versione Inglese)

I listened to Filippo with skepticism, absentmindedly fidgeting with the little slip of paper he had just handed me. The ridiculous story that big guy had just stammered out had all the markings of an elaborate joke, and yet… something in his voice, in his uneasy gaze, slipped beneath my skin and struck exactly where it hurt the most.

For a top like me, being short and slight feels like an invisible sentence. I’ve always felt my body was a quiet barrier between me and the love I longed for. Filippo, on the other hand, had the kind of presence that couldn't go unnoticed: tall, broad, that blessed bulk of a body seemed to effortlessly draw attention. But even he carried his own frustration: a bottom in search of someone bigger, someone who could wrap around him, shelter him, make him feel safe. So despite all the eyes on him, few ever matched his physical and emotional ideal.

That day he had called me, his voice strangely hesitant, asking if we could talk. I went over to his place and, as always, slipped off my shoes at the door—he was particular about that. He greeted me with a nervous smile, then told me about a witch—a woman he had confessed his frustrations to. She had given him a slip of paper and told him, “Write your name. Whoever signs the other side will exchange their build with yours."

Now that slip was in my hands. Filippo offered me a pen, looking like a schoolboy about to be quizzed. His eyes shook more than his fingers. I took the pen with a half-smile, ready to sign just to bring this little performance to an end. We sat side by side on the steps, facing a large mirror. I signed, clicked the pen shut, and shook his hand—half in solidarity, half in farewell, already preparing to walk away from this strange little game.

I tried to pull my hand back, but he held on, his gaze locked on our reflection. He was smiling.

I turned to look too, ready to laugh, ready to say the joke had gone far enough. But then I didn’t say anything. Instinct took over.

I hugged him—a spontaneous, necessary gesture. A way to comfort that soul so different from mine on the surface, and yet marked by the same loneliness.

In that embrace, something cracked open and came together again. Our sudden, powerful connection felt as unreal as the miracle unfolding before my eyes.

Filippo was changing. Shrinking. His face remained his own, but the body—his body—was now just like mine. I turned to the mirror and barely recognized myself: I was tall, broad, imposing. I felt strength in my arms, the sheer volume of space I now occupied in the world. Shock gave way to euphoria, then to a deep, wordless gratitude.

I didn’t even think. My lips found his in a gesture that felt instinctive, natural—inevitable.

The heat of our first kiss—sudden, intense—rushed through every cell of my new body.

He was like air—so light, yet so essential to life.