I wake up to silence.

Not the heavy kind I’m used to—no distant traffic outside my window, no hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen, no familiar ceiling with the crack that looks like a scar running down the corner.

This room smells… different.

Soft. Clean. Like laundry detergent and something faintly sweet.

I sit up too fast.

The world tilts.

My body feels wrong—lighter, smaller, unfamiliar in a way that makes my chest tighten. The blanket slips down and I freeze when I see my hands. They’re not mine.

My fingers are slimmer. The scars on my knuckles are gone. No old cuts, no bruises that never fully faded. My skin is smooth, untouched—like a body that hasn’t lived the kind of life I have.

“What the hell…” My voice comes out softer. Not my voice.

Panic crawls up my spine. I swing my legs over the bed and almost fall when my balance fails me. The floor is cold beneath my feet—bare feet. I never sleep like that.

I stagger toward the mirror.

And when I look up—

I stop breathing.

It’s you a unfamiliar person.

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Your face stares back at me, eyes wide with fear that mirrors my own. Your hair, your lips, your expression—except it’s me behind them. Trapped. Watching. My heart slams so hard it hurts.

“No. No, no, no—” I grip the sink, knuckles white. The reflection does the same, but it still doesn’t feel real. Last night, I was in my house.

My bed.

My body.

I remember falling asleep thinking about nothing in particular—just the quiet, just exhaustion. And now— I look down.

Your body moves when I move. My breath rises and falls in your chest. I touch my—your—face slowly, carefully, like I might shatter if I move too fast.

This isn’t a dream.

Dreams don’t feel this solid. This terrifying.

My mind races. Questions stack on top of each other until I can’t breathe.

Where are you?

Are you in my body?

Are you scared like this too?

Something twists painfully in my chest at the thought.

I swallow hard and force myself to breathe, the way I do when things get ugly—slow, controlled. Panic won’t fix this. It never does.

I look around your room, searching for clues, for comfort, for anything familiar. Your things are everywhere—little details I never paid attention to before. Books. Clothes. Small pieces of you that suddenly feel far too intimate. “I’m in your body,” I whisper.

The words sound unreal. Like a confession. Like a curse.

I don’t know how this happened. I don’t know how to undo it. But one thing is painfully clear—

Until I find you…

I’m living your life.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m terrified—not of danger, not of pain—

But of the idea that something could happen to you while you’re wearing my scars.