Someone at the villa found a slick black remote and, laughing like it was a party trick, pressed the wrong button at the wrong time. The air folded, the room snapped, and reality rewrote the labels: my name on her phone, her keys in my pocket, and—most jarring—my face pasted in a stranger’s mirror while a soft, unfamiliar body answered to every breath. I stared down at the blue top and the weight of breasts that bounced with my pulse, hands trembling as if learning a language by touch. It was forced, ridiculous, and final; somewhere the person who’d pressed the remote fumbled with apologies, but that sound felt far away compared to the new shape of the world under my skin.

Alone in her room, testing the cadence of a voice that now matched the hips beneath it, I tried out a line meant to be playful and private — “Some people like to sleep on their side… but I wanna sleep with you.” I meant it as a silly monologue to steady myself, but in the wrong pocket the message slipped and hit her boyfriend’s phone. His ETA pinged through like a drumbeat: he was already on his way, eager for a good night. My heart shoved at my ribs: part of me thrilled at the thought of being desired in this body, another part gnawed at what had been stolen. The doorbell hadn’t rung yet, and the remote lay silent in someone else’s hands, but the next minutes would decide whether I played along, fled, or tried to press the trick back into its box.