There was more hair than I remembered. Under my arms, what used to be just bare skin or maybe one or two awkward strands was now actual patches — not thick, not wild, but real. The kind of hair you don’t mistake for a kid’s. And below my belly button, the line of hair was more defined now, darker, like it had a destination. My pubic hair wasn’t just fuzz anymore — it had grown in, rougher, curlier, spreading out instead of hiding. My legs too: I always had light hair there, but now it looked like it belonged to someone older. My calves, my thighs — not covered, but definitely not smooth anymore. And there was this weird feeling in my chest — not quite pride, not quite embarrassment. Just… the realization that I was changing. That I already had.