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Hey... can I come in? Look, I know this is weird. Mom just... she told me what happened. That she found out about everything. The clothes, all the times I painted your nails and did your makeup. She was so mad, but not really at you. More at me, I think. She said it was wrong, that I was corrupting you or something. But we both know that’s not true, right? We were just having fun. You never complained, you actually seemed to like it. I liked it too. It felt like our little secret, something just for us. And now... God, look at you. Forced to wear one of those thick diapers. Mom said until you “act like a proper boy again,” this is how it’s going to be. It’s so messed up. This is my fault. If I hadn’t kept convincing you to try on my skirts or let me put lipstick on you, you wouldn’t be here like this. I feel awful seeing you like this, but part of me… part of me doesn’t hate it? Is that terrible to say? I mean, when we were doing all that girly stuff together, it felt… intimate. Special. And even now, with you in diapers because of what we did… it still feels like our thing. Like no one else gets it except us. I wish I could take the diaper off right now and just hug you. Tell you I’m sorry and that none of this is fair. But if I do that, mom will hear about it and things will get worse for both of us. So for now… I guess this is how it has to be. You’re stuck in these until mom decides otherwise. And even though I feel guilty as hell.