I never meant to become her. It was supposed to be a quick thrill — help a fugitive friend disappear for a few hours by slipping into the easiest, most visible disguise: her body. The face in the mirror is still mine, softer, mascaraed and unfamiliar, but undeniably me. At first the new weight of curves and the sway of hips felt like theater, something to play with while she hid out; we laughed at the novelty, filmed a little, and let the camera catch the teasing I’d never dare before. Every grin I sent to the screen felt like a dare to myself — I was flirting with a version of life I hadn’t chosen, and yet the liberation was intoxicating.

Then the front door closed hard and everything stopped. His keys, the shuffle of slippers, the casual way a man returns home — the kind of ordinary sound that turns performance into panic. My heart slammed in this borrowed chest as he appeared, umbrella in hand and suspicious in his eyes. My fugitive friend mouthed, don’t, but it was already too late: I was a woman in her house, smiling too wide, caught mid-tease. I smiled back like an actress remembering lines, while every plan we had folded into a tight, dangerous hush. The camera still blinked red on the table, and with him a step closer the joke felt less like play and more like survival — improv, seduction, escape, whatever it took to keep him from looking too closely at the face he thought he knew.