Julian stared at the pile of clothes on his bed—**his bed**—though the word didn’t feel right. This wasn’t his room. This was the spare bedroom that his mom had “transformed” into a *girl’s* room for him, as if pastel colors and neatly folded skirts could make any of this easier.
It wasn’t.
The clothes were all impossibly delicate and *girly*: summer dresses, tight jeans, crop tops, and skirts so short they barely qualified as clothing. Every fabric felt soft and flimsy, like the material would tear if he so much as looked at it the wrong way. Julian groaned, burying his face in his hands. His long blonde hair fell over his shoulders, brushing his arms like a constant reminder. **This is my life now.**
“Julian,” his mom called cheerily, walking into the room without knocking—something she never used to do. “You’ve got to admit, these clothes are stunning! If you’re going to be a girl, at least you’re a beautiful one. Look at this!” She held up a floral sundress. “Wouldn’t this look *so* pretty on you?”
Julian grimaced. “Mom, please stop saying things like that.”
She ignored him. “Honestly, you should be grateful. Not everyone gets a body like this! You’ll turn heads everywhere you go. Some girls would *kill* for your figure.”
Julian winced, crossing his arms over his chest—a chest that still felt *too real* every time he moved. His mom meant well, but every word dug the knife deeper. He didn’t want to “turn heads.” He didn’t want a “figure.”
He wanted his old body back.
---
and how did they have all there's perfect clothes for his woman's body with him and the rest of them, earlier that day they heading to *her* apartment—***his* apartment now**—to pick up the model’s things. She had a name, he learned. *Vanessa.* A name that sounded far too elegant and girly for someone as angry and bitter as she was now.
Or rather, *he* was now. Sam. That’s what Vanessa—now trapped in Julian’s 12-year-old body—supposable had to be called now with Julian can be a girls name as well so he got to keep his now her name, and she hated every second of it.
“This is your fault,” Sam said for the hundredth time, as they stood in Vanessa’s expensive apartment. Julian blinked at the sheer luxury of it all: polished floors, modern furniture, and a closet larger than his old bedroom.
“I didn’t do anything!” Julian snapped back the 100th time, dragging an armful of clothes he new he was never going to ware them just by looking at them, but put them into a bag with knowing his mom will get annoyed again if he did not. The worst part was how natural he looked doing it. His long limbs moved with an unintentional grace, even as he stumbled.
Sam—wearing Julian’s old hoodie and jeans still—stood with arms crossed, glaring up at him. “Well, you’re the one in *my* body prancing around like a Barbie doll while I’m stuck as a scrawny little boy with—” She shuddered violently. “With *this*. pointing at his new smallish dick seeing a bump in the jeans”
Julian frowned. “I’m not prancing.”
Sam pointed a finger at him. “You look ridiculous carrying my clothes around like you are. If you’re going to be stuck in my body, you could at least *own it*. Do you even realize how hot you look?”
Julian turned bright red. “Don’t say that!”
“Why not? It’s true,” Sam spat bitterly. “You’re wasting *my* body. If I was still in it, I’d would not even need to carry my clothe all i would have to do is—” She stopped mid-sentence, cringing. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Just get my stuff and we can go back to your ‘home’ or whatever.”
Julian flinched. “What’s your problem?”
“My *problem*,” Sam snapped, “is that I’m stuck in *your* tiny, weak, boring body. I have to live in your lame room with posters and video games and your stupid desk with that *cheap laptop*. And don’t even get me started on the clothes.” She tugged at the hoodie. “Everything is oversized, and makes me I look like a sad little boy, in your old body.”
Julian glanced at her—*his old self*—and felt a pang of annoys. Sam somehow made his body look… *better*. Her posture was straighter, face cleaner, her movements smoother. Even in a baggy hoodie and jeans, she looked more put-together than he ever did. It was… disheartening.
“Stop staring at this stupid body,” Sam grumbled, tugging at her sleeves.
Julian sighed. “I didn’t ask for this, okay? None of this is fair to either of us.”
“Yeah, well, at least you’re not the one going back to middle school tomorrow,” Sam shot back, venom dripping from every word. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is? Your friends are going to see me looking like *you* and know I'm not. I have to sit in classes full of children while you get to—what? Lounge around and be a model? In my body?”
“I don’t want to be a model!” Julian blurted, louder than he meant to. “I just want to—” He paused, suddenly realizing that there was one small silver lining to all of this. “I want to draw, you, mom and dad where the ones who chose that for me to carry on being a model to make good money”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“I’m not going back to school either, but i would of loved to,” Julian said, quieter now. “ but I talked to mom and I’m going to get private tutoring and push for college. and learn Graphic design. Art. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, and i still can in this body, i might even get to college level if i really push my self at the start of next year now I'm 19.”
Sam scowled, crossing her arms again. “Great. Lucky you. I get algebra and gym class, and you get to live your dream, not having to go throw hell for the next 6 years.”
“It’s not lucky!” Julian argued, though deep down he knew it wasn’t entirely true. At least *one* good thing was coming out of this chaos (no school).
Sam wasn’t buying it. “Whatever. lets Just get out of here already. This is my apartment, and I don’t want to watch you walk around in my body any longer than I have to.”
Julian sighed, hoisting the bag of clothes over his shoulder. “Fine.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” Sam said, narrowing her eyes. “If you *ever* make my body look bad, I’ll find a way to make your life miserable. Got it?”
Julian stared at her, bewildered. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” Sam snapped, “you’d better not waste my wardrobe. You’re hot now—act like it.”
Julian turned red again. “You’re insane.”
“Whatever. Just leave.”
---
That night, Julian sat in his new room—*his girl room*—surrounded by clothes he didn’t want and mirrors he refused to look into. He sat cross-legged on the bed, tugging at the hem of his oversized T-shirt, one of the few things he felt remotely comfortable wearing. His mother had gushed over how *adorable* he looked earlier, which only made him feel worse.
He glanced at the bag of clothes he’d brought back from Vanessa’s—shorts, skirts, dresses, all designed to show off the body he now *inhabited*. **This isn’t me. This will never be me.**
His gaze shifted to the mirror on the far wall. The reflection staring back at him was stunning—long blonde hair, flawless skin, piercing blue eyes, and curves he was still desperately trying to ignore.
Julian turned away quickly, his face burning.
Down the hall, he could hear Sam stomping around *his* old room, slamming drawers and muttering to herself about *boy stuff*. Tomorrow, she’d be sitting in his classes, talking to his friends.
And tomorrow, Julian would have to start figuring out how to live in a world that now saw him as someone he wasn’t—someone beautiful, someone “perfect., someone who is a model”
But Julian didn’t feel perfect. He didn’t feel beautiful, he did not feel like him self.
He just felt lost.