I’d been watching her all week — the way she drifted through our glass corridors in that white blouse and red skirt, the assistant everyone joked was “on call” for favors. One midnight, hunched over my keyboard and drunk on a wish to be closer to her life, I muttered it into the empty office: let me see what it’s like to be you. The elevator dinged, the fluorescent lights flickered, and when I stepped into the mirrored lobby something thin and electric passed through me.

I opened my phone and realized — I was her. Same face staring back in the screen, but the rest of me filled the corporate silhouette: heels that pinched, a skirt that rode up, a flood of unread messages labelled private. Her calendar, her secrets, her clients’ late-night requests were all suddenly mine to navigate. I could feel the power in forwarding a message or closing a tab, the danger in every typed reply. The office hummed on as if nothing had changed; to everyone else, I’d always been her. Now the question was whether I’d use that access — to learn, to protect, or to lose myself entirely in someone else’s life.