Three months after my boyfriend moved in, he started locking himself in the bathroom for hours. I thought he was hiding something — just not the thing I found when I opened that door.
I’m Stacy. I’m 26, live in a modest two-bedroom apartment just outside of Portland, and work as a freelance product designer. My life used to be quiet, simple, and a little too tidy. I had a shelf for everything, color-coded containers in my fridge, and a calendar that told me when to water my succulents.
I liked control. I still do, honestly. But that’s probably why the chaos with Jonny rattled me so much.
Jonny is 28, tall with unruly hair and an easy laugh that drew people in. When we met at a friend’s rooftop birthday party last summer, he offered me the last mini quiche and said, “This feels like a very millennial way to meet.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. I didn’t expect it to go anywhere, but he followed up the next morning with a text that just said, “Still thinking about that tiny quiche.” We’ve been together ever since.
A couple holding hands in a restaurant | Source: Pexels
The first year we were together was incredible. Jonny was attentive and goofy, the kind of guy who’d send me memes at 3 a.m. just to hear me laugh.
He’d show up at my door with dumplings when I was pulling all-nighters, rub my feet without asking, and read aloud random Wikipedia pages while I cooked dinner. He made life feel lighter. I felt safe with him.
After our first anniversary, I asked him to move in.
A couple celebrating with a cupcake in a restaurant | Source: Pexels
He hesitated, just for a moment too long.
“Em… okay?” he said, his face unreadable for a second. Then he grinned and kissed me. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
I brushed off the hesitation. Everyone gets nervous about big steps, right?
The first few weeks felt magical, like a sleepover that never ended. We’d sleep in late on Sundays, drink terrible French press coffee, binge-watch true crime documentaries, and try making elaborate breakfasts that almost always turned into waffles with frozen fruit.
A plate of waffles and raspberries | Source: Pexels
We laughed all the time. I felt genuinely happy.
But by month three, things started to feel off.
It started with small things. He began disappearing into the bathroom for long stretches — first 40 minutes, then an hour. Before long, it was 90 minutes, sometimes even more. At first, I figured he just needed space, or maybe he was going through something personal. I didn’t want to push him.
Then I noticed the towel wedged under the door. Every time.
And a phone charger had somehow appeared in the drawer under the sink. I never put it there. I didn’t even use that drawer.
A mobile adapter on a pink surface | Source: Pexels
I asked him one night as casually as I could.
“Hey, Jonny? Not to sound weird, but… why are you in the bathroom for so long lately?”
He looked up from the pizza we were sharing. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re in there for like 90 minutes. Sometimes even two hours. With your phone and a towel under the door.”
He laughed, short and awkward.
Then he didn’t.
“I just like the privacy, babe. It’s where I decompress.”
“Are you seeing someone?” I asked before I could stop myself. My voice came out thin.
His eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”
A close-up shot of a man’s eye | Source: Pexels
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “It’s just that something feels different lately.”
He shook his head and went back to eating. “You’re overthinking.”
But the buzzing in my chest wouldn’t stop. Something was definitely off. He wasn’t as affectionate anymore. He stopped offering to cook. He spent more nights saying he was out with the guys or at the gym, but the details kept changing.
One day, it was pickup basketball with Ryan and Max; the next, it was leg day with Daryl. I couldn’t keep up, and honestly, neither could he.
One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I checked his phone. I knew it was wrong, and I hated myself even as I typed in his passcode. But I felt like I was drowning, and I needed something, anything at all, to prove that my instincts were not lying to me.
A woman using a smartphone | Source: Pexels
There was nothing. No suspicious messages. No odd browsing history. I had nothing I could use to make sense of what was happening.
I started searching the apartment. Drawers. Backpacks. His coat pockets. I found receipts for energy drinks, a second pair of earbuds, and even a Target run where he bought another phone charger. But no actual answers.
So, I did something I never thought I’d do.
I bought a camera and installed it in the hallway, aimed at the bathroom door. Not inside the bathroom, of course, but I needed to see what was happening around it. Maybe he was sneaking something in. Or perhaps he wasn’t even in there the whole time.
A security camera installed in a house | Source: Pexels
Still, nothing. He’d go in with his phone, a water bottle, sometimes a towel draped over his shoulder like he was hitting a sauna. He locked the door every time.
So, I changed the lock.
I switched it with a dummy lock that looked real but didn’t actually catch. He wouldn’t notice unless he pulled hard on it.
That night, I made pasta. He barely touched it.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, standing up. “Just tired.”
He grabbed his phone and disappeared into the bathroom. Again.
I waited. 90 minutes passed.
I stood in front of the door, my hand hovering over the knob. My stomach turned.
I knocked once.
“Jonny?”
No answer.
I knocked again, firmer this time. “I’m coming in.”
Nothing.
I pushed the door open.
A woman’s hand on a foggy mirror surface | Source: Pexels
I couldn’t breathe.
A part of me wished he were just cheating because what I saw was something I had never expected.
Jonny was sitting on the closed toilet seat, fully dressed from the waist down, but his upper half brought me to a full stop.
He didn’t look up. He was frozen in place as if I’d just caught him committing a crime. One hand gripped the edge of the sink. The other held a makeup brush midair.
A man with makeup looking sideways | Source: Pexels
His face was half-covered in foundation, eyebrows glued down, one eyelid coated in glittery purple eyeshadow. A ring light balanced precariously on top of the laundry hamper, glowing softly against the tiles. His phone was propped up on a glass jar with a makeup tutorial paused mid-frame.
There was glitter everywhere: on the counter, the floor, even the edge of the toilet seat. And in the middle of it all sat Jonny, looking like a statue caught between two worlds.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t even cry. I just stood there in the doorway, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. My heart felt like it had been dropped in cold water.
“Jonny?” I said gently.
His eyes finally lifted to meet mine. They were red and watery, like he’d been holding in tears for a long time.
A close-up of a man with nose piercing and black eyeshadow | Source: Pexels
“I… I was gonna clean this up before you saw it.”
I took a step inside, shut the door behind me, and leaned against it. “Why?”
He wiped his hand on a towel. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Because you weren’t supposed to see this.”
We stood in silence for a moment. Then I slowly lowered myself to the floor beside him, trying not to knock over the makeup brushes scattered all around.
He didn’t move. He just stared straight ahead, blinking hard.
A man wearing makeup looking at someone | Source: Pexels
“I don’t even know what to say,” I whispered. “I’m confused, I’m shocked, but I know this much. I love you. All of you. Even the parts I’m only seeing now.”
Jonny blinked again. One tear slipped out, tracing down the side of his cheek, leaving a trail through the foundation.
“Do you really mean that?” he asked, his voice breaking.
I nodded slowly. “Yes. But you have to talk to me. You can’t shut me out like this. I thought you were cheating. I thought I was going crazy. I didn’t know what to believe.”
“I thought you’d leave,” he said, still not looking at me. “I thought you’d think I was a joke.”
A blurred photo of a man wearing makeup | Source: Pexels
“Jonny,” I said softly, “don’t lock me out of your life again. If this is who you are, let me stand next to you. Not outside the door.”
His breath hitched. He finally turned to me.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he said. “I’ve been watching drag tutorials since college. I used to sneak around with cheap makeup kits that I hid under my bed. Then I got older, and it just stuck. I never thought I’d actually try it. But once we moved in together, I guess I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”
He paused, chewing his bottom lip. “At first, it was just watching videos when you weren’t home. But then I started buying products. Practicing. I didn’t know how to stop. Or how to tell you without losing you.”
A man wearing makeup looking at the camera | Source: Pexels
“You’re not losing me,” I said, touching his arm.
He let out a dry laugh, but it was real.
“I was so sure you’d open that door and run.”
“Why would I run from someone I love?” I said. “You’re still you. You’re still Jonny. You just happen to have glitter on your cheek.”
He laughed again. A real one this time.
We sat there for a while, both of us on the cold bathroom floor, surrounded by open eyeshadow palettes, mascara wands, and spilled setting powder.
Open eyeshadow palettes, mascara wands, and setting powder lying on a bathroom floor | Source: Midjourney
“I should’ve told you,” he said after a moment. “I was just scared.”
“I get that,” I said. “But next time, just let me in.”
“I promise,” he whispered.
*****
The weeks that followed were a mix of awkward, emotional, and surprisingly beautiful moments. Jonny opened up slowly. Sometimes he’d show me makeup looks he liked. Other times, he’d shut down completely and say, “Never mind, forget I said anything.”
I learned not to push. I also started paying attention to the names of things I had never noticed before, like baking powder that wasn’t for cooking, beauty blenders, and contouring kits. Our apartment slowly filled with eyelashes, lipsticks, and makeup wipes.
A monochrome photo of makeup products | Source: Pexels
He wasn’t ready to tell anyone else yet. That part was clear.
“This is still just ours,” he said one night while he was practicing blending eyeshadow. “I don’t know if I’m ready to be out there.”
“Take your time,” I said, watching from the doorway with a bowl of popcorn in hand. “But when you are, I’ll be there.”
Two months later, he came home with a flyer in his hand and panic in his eyes.
“What is it?” I asked, pulling off my socks and flopping onto the couch.
“There’s an open mic night at this underground club. For baby drag queens.”
A drag queen applying makeup | Source: Pexels
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Do you wanna go?”
He looked down at the flyer, then back up at me.
“I wanna try performing.”
I sat up. “Wait, are you serious?”
He nodded. “I’m scared out of my mind. But I think I need to do this.”
I smiled, feeling the same flutter I had felt the day we first met. “Then let’s do it.”
On the night of the show, I sat at the very back of the tiny club, barely big enough to hold forty people. The ceiling was low; the stage was barely raised, and the lights were flickering like they’d been borrowed from a high school play. But the energy in the room was electric.
People were buzzing, laughing, and cheering for each performer as if it were the Grammys.
Backstage, Jonny was pacing.
A close-up of a man wearing makeup and a nose ring | Source: Pexels
“Deep breaths,” I told him, smoothing down his shoulder pads. “You’ve got this.”
“I can’t feel my feet,” he said.
“That’s probably the heels.”
He laughed nervously. “What if they hate me?”
“They won’t. They’ll love you. But more importantly, I love you. No matter what happens out there.”
He looked at me, eyes glassy. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“You’ve got glitter in your teeth,” I replied.
He grinned and rolled his eyes. “Perfect.”
His stage name was Velvet Vice. That was his idea. “It sounds dangerous and glamorous,” he’d said. I thought it sounded like the title of a Lana Del Rey album.
A man with makeup in a denim jacket | Source: Pexels
When the host finally called his name, I swear the whole room held its breath.
He walked out slowly, his heels clicking against the worn wooden stage. The music started — a sultry pop number, and for a split second, I could see the fear in his eyes. He scanned the crowd, fidgeted with the mic stand, then turned slightly.
And he saw me.
I didn’t say anything. I just smiled and gave him the tiniest nod.
He took a deep breath, turned back to the mic, and transformed.
The crowd whooped and clapped, and by the second verse, he was strutting, spinning, and owning the stage like he’d been doing it forever.
A smiling man wearing makeup | Source: Pexels
And me? I just sat there, heart pounding in my chest, watching the man I loved become the fullest and most real version of himself right in front of my eyes.
That night, as we walked home under a sky full of stars, he held my hand tightly.
“Do you still love me, Stacy? After everything you saw?” he asked, voice small but hopeful.
“I love you even more now, Jonny. And that will never change,” I said.
And I meant it — every sparkle, every step, and every part of him he once kept hidden behind a locked door. Now, finally seen. Finally free.
A smiling woman looking in the mirror | Source: Pexels
