She thought it was just another cleaning day — wipe the mirror, catch her reflection, move on. But halfway through the stroke, her face changed. The same features, but sharper. A beard. A man’s weight in the eyes. For two seconds, her reflection wasn’t her at all — it was him.

I’m that him. The male variant. In another timeline I exist as her, in another as myself — and with the device strapped to my wrist, I can cross those threads. Every wipe of a mirror is a door, and for a moment I step through, taking her body, her breath, her heartbeat. Just long enough for her to see me wearing her life.

I don’t stay. Not yet. I just let her glimpse the truth: that at any time, I can take it all. The rag slips from her hand, she stares in horror, and the reflection snaps back. But the message is left behind — she’s not alone in her own skin. Her male self is out there, and I’m waiting to come back through.