He’d always joked about my confidence, about how easy life seemed for me compared to his. That night, when he handed me a glass and told me to “just trust him,” I didn’t think twice. The burn went down fast, but the world flipped even faster. My reflection blurred, and suddenly it wasn’t my frame staring back — it was hers. A woman’s body, curves I couldn’t ignore, long hair brushing my shoulders, my same face softened into something feminine. Panic hit first, then the sharp realization: he’d planned this. He wanted me to know what it felt like to be the one looked at, not the one doing the looking.

I told myself it was wrong, that I should hate him for it. But then I remembered — he’d just broken up, and in the quiet between our words, I felt something new rising inside me. The warmth of this body, the tilt of its smile, the strange flood of urges I’d never known — they all bent toward him. The betrayal cut deep, but the longing was deeper. Forced or not, the swap had happened. And against every plan I’d ever had, I was starting to want him to notice me… like this.