You wake up to the subtle weight of your own body feeling different. Not heavier, not lighter—just… shifted. As if gravity found a new way to pull you.

The sheets cling to your skin in strange places. You sit up, and immediately something feels off: your center of gravity, the way your limbs rest, even the angle of your elbows brushing your sides. You bring your hands up, and even they look a bit smaller—delicate, maybe. Your arms are slimmer. Your shoulders, narrower.

Then you notice your chest.

You stare. You touch, cautiously at first, and your breath hitches—not just from the contact, but from the sensation, how foreign yet real it feels. It’s undeniably you, but not the you you went to sleep as.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, and the shift in weight makes you pause again. When you walk, there’s a subtle sway. Your hips guide you differently, and the air brushing against bare skin feels more noticeable. You’re more sensitive—not in an emotional way, but physically. Everything is more there. The fabric of your clothes, the temperature of the room, even the floor beneath your feet.

You catch yourself in the mirror.

There she is. You. Same eyes. Same soul, maybe. But the contours of your face are smoother. Softer. Your hair frames your features differently. Your voice, when you whisper something just to hear it, is higher—still you, but warped through a new instrument.

There’s confusion, curiosity, maybe a flicker of something you can’t name. Fear? Intrigue? A strange sense of freedom?

It doesn’t feel like a dream. Your reflection blinks when you blink. Frowns when you frown.

You touch the glass, just to make sure she’s real.

She is.

You are.