I was still staring at her.
And she—I—was still staring back.
I had already seen it. Already felt it. Already unraveled beneath it. But that didn’t make it any less real. If anything, the truth was sinking in, spreading, coiling deeper with every breath—unstoppable. Like a body going numb before the pain arrives.
My breath hitched—too shallow. My chest rose, but it didn’t expand—it stretched, compressed, reshaped by something unseen. A pressure against my ribs, like the air itself was being shaped by something else.
My body wasn’t just breathing differently. It was making me breathe differently.
I curled inward without thinking. A defensive motion. A small motion. Not mine.
I ripped my gaze away from the mirror, but that only made it worse.
I could feel it.
The way my balance sat lower, the way my center of gravity tilted with every shift, forcing my hips to move differently. The unnatural lightness of my limbs, the narrower slope of my shoulders, the unsettling absence of familiar weight.
No, not an absence.
A replacement.
I moved—and my body moved with me, but not the way it should.
The weight on my chest lagged behind the motion, following a split second too late, pulling back before settling again. Soft, but noticeable. An unnatural give-and-take, an unfamiliar pull against my skin.
The fabric dragged with it, stretching, shifting, pressing against skin that shouldn’t have been this sensitive. I inhaled sharply, and the motion alone made me aware of the way my chest rose, how the shirt underneath clung tighter, pressing back.
My breath hitched.
No. No, I wasn’t thinking about that.
My arms pulled in, pressing instinctively against the hoodie. I could feel it—not flat, not firm, not mine.
A deep, sick twisting settled in my gut.
Each breath strained differently against my ribs.
Shallower. Higher in my chest. Like the air had less space to expand, forcing my lungs to adjust to something tighter, something that compressed and pushed outward instead of sinking into familiar depth.
I wasn’t just breathing differently. My body made me breathe differently.
My thighs pressed together, sealing too easily. No stopping point. No resistance. My stomach dropped. The absence swallowed me whole.
A pull—not skin-deep, not muscle-deep. Lower. Inside. A reflex that shouldn’t exist, something shifting into place where nothing should have been.
My breath faltered.
Instead, my thighs met softness. Yielding warmth. Nothing stopping them from closing in fully.
And the worst part?
I could feel something shift deeper inside.
A hollow, unsettling movement—not an emptiness, but something settling into a place it shouldn’t exist.
My stomach twisted.
Every time I moved, there was a new tension there—a shifting pull from muscles that had never existed before, a space where something had once been.
My stomach lurched.
My muscles tensed instinctively, expecting resistance, but the motion closed too easily, too seamlessly.
Like my legs had never been forced apart in the first place.
A slow, creeping nausea unfurled in my chest, twisting, winding around my ribs. My hands curled into fists, nails pressing into my palms like I could anchor myself in that small bit of pain. My skin was too smooth. My hands were too small.
Nothing felt right.
My breath kept catching, rising higher in my chest—too high.
It wouldn’t sink down, wouldn’t settle into the deep, steady rhythm I needed.
I forced my shoulders back, squared my stance, planted my feet. Stability. I just needed stability. But my body refused.
My knees wobbled.
My hips shifted again, rolling too easily into a stance I hadn’t chosen, my lower body carrying itself with an ease I didn’t trust.
I reached for my throat, expecting the solid shape of my Adam’s apple—but there was nothing. Just the smooth, slender curve of my neck.
I swallowed.
Too easy.
Too soft.
I clenched my jaw, fighting the sharp swell of nausea, but it was no use.
My stomach was tightening in ways I didn’t recognize.
A hollow ache—deep, internal, curling into itself.
The pressure coiled, a sharp, unnatural tug that sent a shiver down my spine. Like something had rearranged itself inside me, filling spaces where nothing should have been.
I gasped, and the sound that left me—breathy, fragile, too light—sent a shock through my nerves.
Not just the sound.
The way my lips moved around it.
The way my tongue curled, fitting against teeth that weren’t mine, slipping over unfamiliar shapes, too smooth, too refined.
I choked on my own voice.
My breath spiraled into something ragged, high-pitched. Panicked, but undeniably feminine.
It wasn’t just the reflection anymore.
It wasn’t just the weight on my chest, the pull of my hips, the softness between my legs.
Nothing about this was mine.
I had to check.
I didn’t want to.
But I had to.
My breath stuttered, my pulse hammering as I forced my hand down, over my stomach—too flat. The ridges of muscle that should have been there—gone.
Lower.
A tremor ran through me.
Even before I reached it, I knew.
Too smooth.
My fingers met soft, unfamiliar skin, a place that should have been different. My breath hitched, every nerve in my body screaming, recoiling, rejecting.
I pressed down—just enough to feel. Just enough to know for certain.
And there was nothing.
No shape, no weight, no pressure pushing outward—only the impossible absence.
A cleft. Not a shaft.
My hand jerked away so fast I barely registered the movement.
A sound tore out of me, sharp and raw, something between a gasp and a strangled whimper—too high, too light, too feminine.
I staggered backward, my body too small, too foreign, too weak. My knees hit the desk behind me, and I gripped the edge, grounding myself before I could collapse.
My skin was too hot. My whole body thrummed with adrenaline, with the sheer, physical wrongness of it all.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
It didn’t help.
The weight on my chest. The smoothness between my legs. The size of my hands, the pitch of my breath, the way my entire body existed in a shape that wasn’t mine.
I didn’t need to check again.
I knew.
And I knew this wasn’t something I could undo.
This wasn’t a nightmare.
This was real.
My grip tightened on the desk, fingers pressing into the wood hard enough to leave half-moons in the varnish. What reality? Because this wasn’t mine.
This wasn’t me.
The pressure in my chest coiled tighter, spiraling up my throat. My breath stuttered, caught between panic and something deeper, something irreversible.
I turned back to the mirror, even though I didn’t want to. Even though I already knew what I’d see.
She was still there.
I lifted my hand.
So did she.
My fingers curled. Her fingers curled.
Too slow.
Not a perfect mimicry—just a fraction of a second too late, as if the reflection wasn’t mine at all. As if something else inside the glass was watching me, waiting, responding, rather than merely reflecting. The delay was small, nearly imperceptible, but it made my stomach churn.
I took a step closer.
The girl in the mirror did too.
I searched for myself—some familiar marker, some undeniable proof that I was still in here, but the more I looked, the more foreign she became. My own expression felt detached, unconvincing, an imposter in my skin.
I lifted my hands again, palms toward the glass, searching for something—anything—to anchor me.
But my hands were too small.
My fingers too slender.
Nails too smooth, too neatly shaped, clean in a way mine never were.
I dragged a nail across my palm, as if the sensation might prove something—but the sting I expected never came. The skin was too soft. Too new. It didn’t feel like me.
And then the worst part—the hesitation in the reflection’s eyes.
Like she wasn’t sure what I was going to do next.
But I searched anyway—scanning the curve of my jaw, the slant of my nose, the shadows beneath my wide, unfamiliar eyes. Looking for some trace of me. Some hint that I still existed.
I didn’t.
The more I searched, the less I found. The less I belonged.
The girl with my panic in her wide, dark eyes.
Hair. Everywhere.
It didn’t just hang—it moved. Slid across my shoulders, whispered against my neck, clung to my skin like it belonged there.
Every motion stirred it—strands catching, tickling, ghosting over my collarbones.
It felt alive. A presence I couldn’t escape.
As I turned my head, strands slid against my neck, my shoulders, brushing over my collarbones like ghostly fingers. A touch that never stopped, never faded. Always there.
Even my own breath stirred it, making it tickle my skin. I shuddered.
It wasn’t just there. I was wearing it.
A face too delicate, too unfamiliar, but still moving when I did.
My hands were shaking.
Hers were too.
I swallowed hard—and it didn’t feel right.
My throat was too slim, too delicate, the muscles working in a way that felt too easy, too smooth.
My lips parted as I took a shaky breath, and I felt them—too soft, too full, the faint, lingering warmth of my own breath damp against them.
I shifted my jaw, expecting strength, but it was smaller, my teeth unfamiliar under my tongue, everything fitting together differently—wrong.
Even the way my mouth settled shut felt alien. Like my face belonged to someone else.
No.
No, no, no.
My breath came faster, too shallow, too unnatural.
I wanted to run.
But from what?
From myself?
That’s what made it worse.
I couldn’t escape this.
I couldn’t wake up.
I was awake.
I pushed away from the desk, my legs weak, unsteady—and that was the first betrayal. My body adjusted without me. A shift in balance, an automatic repositioning of my hips, a lightness I wasn’t prepared for.
I had to move.
Had to prove I still had control.
But the moment I took a step, the illusion shattered.
My first step felt wrong—not just the balance, not just the weight shift—but the way everything settled. The way my muscles carried me.
My foot landed softer. Lighter. My weight shifted differently, not with my usual centered stride, but with something built-in—smaller, more deliberate, more... contained.
Not just how I moved. How I was meant to move.
My thighs brushed together with every step, skin pressing, gliding, parting too easily. Not muscle rubbing against muscle. Softer. Yielding. A new, foreign friction that didn’t belong.
My calves felt slimmer, my legs lighter—each step landed too gently, my feet making soft, almost delicate contact with the floor instead of the firm impact I expected.
I wasn’t just walking. I was being walked. Not by choice. I stiffened my stride, forced my steps flat, tried to reclaim some control—but my hips still shifted, fluid and smooth. Not resistance. Submission. My body wasn’t waiting for my permission—it was moving without me.
Every correction I made felt unnatural, like I was fighting an instinct my muscles already understood. The sway was built in. My body wasn’t waiting for permission—it was moving without me.
Each step landed too lightly, too deliberately—flowing together in a way that felt too smooth, too instinctive. The pull of my hips, the glide of my legs, the automatic rhythm of it. Like my muscles had always known how to do this—even if I didn’t.
I tried to stiffen my stride. Keep it even. Flat.
But it was already too late.
The sway was built in. A subtle motion, a barely-there pull of movement I couldn’t stop, only suppress.
Too smooth. Too fluid. Too… natural.
My thighs brushed together in a way that made my stomach twist.
I took another step, then another.
Each one felt smaller, lighter, weaker. The way my weight distributed wasn’t just different—it was instinctively different. My balance adjusted before I could even think about it, like my body already knew how to move this way.
My pulse hammered.
I tried to compensate—tried to walk like me, like I should, like I always had. But my hips still shifted with that same pull. My steps still landed too lightly.
I didn’t feel shorter—I felt smaller.
Like my body had shrunk inward, compact and delicate, a frame that carried less weight, less mass, less of me.
Even the floor felt wrong beneath my feet.
The way my toes curled slightly for balance, the way my new center of gravity settled in my core rather than my chest. I wasn’t used to this weight in these places—the subtle pull at my chest, the way my lower half carried itself with softness where there should have been strength.
I clenched my jaw, forcing another step.
I moved—and it felt easy. Too easy.
My hips shifted automatically, the gentle roll of motion so natural, so fluid, my mind didn’t have time to stop it.
My body knew how to move before I did.
My stomach clenched. A cold, terrible realization settled over me.
I wasn’t just in this body.
It was adapting to me.
This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
I pressed my fingers to my temple, squeezing my eyes shut as nausea rolled through me.
But the words were useless.
Because I could feel it.
Every breath. Every shift. Every automatic, unconscious movement.
And no matter how much I tried to deny it—no matter how much I fought it—my body had already started to accept it.
That was what terrified me the most.
The air was too thick.
It pressed in from all sides, wrapping around me, sinking under my skin like I was trapped in something I couldn’t pull away from. Not the room. Not the air. My own body. My breaths came short and shallow, a rising heat curling beneath my ribs, twisting deeper into my stomach. I felt too full, too tight, too wrong.
The hoodie made it worse. Too much fabric, too much weight, too much of something suffocating me from the outside while my body did the same from within. I could feel the sweat beading at the back of my neck, a thin layer of dampness making the cotton stick to my spine. My hands twitched at my sides, fingers curling, gripping at nothing.
I yanked the hoodie off.
It peeled away in one quick motion, dragging against my arms, catching for a moment before falling to the floor in a crumpled heap.
Cold air crawled over my skin, creeping under the hem of my shirt, ghosting along my arms and shoulders.
But it wasn’t just the cold.
I felt it more. The way it traced over bare skin where it had never been before, the way my hair shifted slightly, brushing against my shoulders, against the back of my neck, tickling me in a way that made me shiver.
My hands curled inward.
Too much air. Too much space. Too much of me exposed.
The black tank top.
Thin. Tight. Unforgiving.
I wasn’t ready for it.
The hoodie had masked it. Kept me insulated. Kept me removed.
Now, it was just me. Just skin and fabric. Just reality.
The tank top gripped me, shaped me, didn’t let me forget. Every breath pressed the fabric tighter, dragging against skin that shouldn’t have felt this much. Too aware. Too sensitive. Too… responsive.
It settled wrong, too snug over ribs that weren’t as broad, too smooth against a stomach that didn’t have the definition I expected.
But worst of all, it moved with me. Clung tighter with every inhale. Dragged against skin that shouldn’t have been this sensitive.
I didn’t need to touch to feel it. I could see it.
The curve. The rise. The reality.
And yet, I could feel it too. The pull against my skin as I breathed, the way the material shifted, dragging lightly as my chest moved.
Not just some foreign weight—my body. My shape.
The mirror stood there, silent, waiting.
Too much air. Too much space. Too much of myself staring back at me.
I had already seen her before. Already watched her panic, already made the connection between my thoughts and her body. But this was different. This wasn’t just seeing her. This was feeling her.
The tank top didn’t hide anything.
No bra. No separation. No way to pretend I couldn’t see it.
The fabric was too thin, stretched smooth over skin that wasn’t flat, wasn’t firm, wasn’t mine. And at the center—two small, unmistakable shapes pushing against the fabric.
Nipples. My nipples.
The room tilted.
I wasn’t just looking at them. I was feeling them.
The tight pull against the fabric. The soft ache of sensitivity, the faint awareness of skin touching fabric, fabric pressing back. The way the tank top dragged ever so slightly as my chest rose and fell, each breath sending a dull, unwelcome sensation through me.
My hands twitched. I didn’t want to move.
I moved anyway.
Fingers lifted—hesitated.
I didn’t need to do this.
But I had to.
My palm pressed in—a mistake.
And the second I made contact, I felt it. Not just under my hand—everywhere.
Soft. Warm. A give that pushed back, a shape that wasn’t mine—but responded as if it was.
My breath stuttered. It wasn’t neutral. It wasn’t passive.
My body registered the touch before my mind could reject it.
My thumb dragged up—barely a graze, just enough to…
A spark. A pulse of something too sharp, too direct, too much.
A sharp, tingling pulse shot through my chest—unexpected, unwanted, undeniable.
Too much. Too sensitive. Too real.
My stomach flipped, my breath catching in my throat as I yanked my hand away. The tank top snapped back against me, the sudden movement pulling against my skin, rubbing against my nipples in a way I couldn't ignore.
The feeling didn’t fade.
I could still feel them.
Still see them.
Still know they were mine.
I lifted my head.
The girl in the mirror did the same.
Her chest moved just like mine did. The fabric clung to her just as tightly as it clung to me. Her nipples stood out beneath the black cloth, just as sharp, just as obvious as I could feel them against my own skin.
I had seen them before.
But now I knew them.
The feeling and the sight had finally connected.
I clenched my fists, forcing my breath down, forcing the reality in.
This wasn’t just something on me. This was me.
And there was no escaping it.
A sound tore from my throat.
Low, breathy—not mine.
The moment it escaped, my body shuddered violently, like the very act of hearing it had ripped through me. My knees buckled, legs folding under me, and I barely caught myself against the desk before I hit the floor.
I couldn’t breathe.
Not just from the panic, not just from the weight in my chest—but from the sheer, inescapable truth.
This wasn’t a dream.
This wasn’t something I could shake off, something I could ignore, something that would fix itself if I just held still long enough.
It was real. It was happening.
I wanted to scream. But the thought of hearing my voice again—**her voice—**froze the sound in my throat, twisting it into something sharp and suffocating.
My hands clenched the desk, fingers digging into the wood as my breath came in short, uneven gasps. My chest rose and fell, too soft, too foreign, every inhalation pressing against the tight fabric of the tank top.
I forced a deep breath. Tried to control it.
Tried to push my voice lower, find the familiar weight in my chest.
“T-this isn’t—”
But the sound came out wrong.
Lighter. Thinner. Breathless where it should have been solid.
I tried again.
My name. My own name. Just say it.
“I’m—”
The sound snapped, my voice pitching too high, breaking apart on its own breath.
I slapped a hand over my mouth, heart pounding.
It hadn’t even sounded forced.
The softness in my voice hadn’t come from strain.
It had come naturally.
Like my vocal cords had already forgotten me.
Like my body had already decided this was mine now.
My throat tightened.
I wanted to scream—but I knew what it would sound like.
I knew what it would make me feel.
And I couldn’t take it.
So instead, I laughed.
A sound tore out of me—thin, fragile, wrong. A laugh. No, not a laugh—something jagged, broken, tumbling into something else before I could stop it. The sob hit next, choking off the laughter, collapsing inward, pulling me down with it.
I slid down, the hardwood cool beneath my knees, bare skin pressing against it in ways I wasn’t used to. More exposed. More vulnerable. My arms locked around myself like I could hold something together that was already falling apart. The weight of my hair pooled against my neck and shoulders, a soft, constant reminder of everything that wasn’t mine.
I wasn’t waking up.
I wasn’t escaping.
I was trapped.