He’d made my life hell for years — the kind of bully who didn’t just tease, but dissected everything that made me me. When the swap wave hit our town, I didn’t even know what it was until I looked down at the glossy pink swimsuit stretched across a body that wasn’t mine. The mirror showed my face but framed by his surroundings, his phone buzzing with the kind of messages I’d never get. Only then did I realise the truth: I hadn’t just traded places with him; I’d been dropped inside the life that used to look untouchable.

The shock wore off fast. Every move came with a strange déjà vu — the smell of chlorine, the echo of voices calling his name. I walked through his world in silence, learning what it felt like to be the person who’d once towered over me. The longer I stayed, the more I saw the cracks he hid behind that grin. For the first time, the power was mine, and the choice: use it to make him feel what I’d felt, or finally end the cycle we’d both been trapped in.