I woke up to someone else’s heartbeat and a body that didn’t belong to me — curves I never wanted, a voice I had to learn to use. Someone had pulled a fast, cruel swap on me; my life was hijacked and my face looked softer in the mirror than I felt inside. For now I had to play the part if I wanted answers, so I slipped into the world I’d been shoved into: makeup, a swimsuit, the low hum of men chatting by the pool. It was strange and infuriating, but there was a tiny, dangerous curiosity tucked under the anger — what did this body make possible?

A man with silver at his temples noticed me and smiled like he knew more than he said. I let the smile linger, let the new rhythm of hips and hips-turned-attention do half the work, then leaned in, playful and guarded both: “I’m into older men — what’s your age?” I watched him answer, felt the power of being desired mix with the resentment of being stolen from, and decided I could use the moment. I’d keep my wits about me, flirt when it helped, and learn every angle of this borrowed life until I found a way back — or at least until it taught me something I didn’t expect.