I never asked for this. One wrong drink at a rooftop party, a flash of heat, and the world reordered itself: my hands were smaller, my hips curved, and the mirror showed a young Latina woman staring back — glossy hair, sun-kissed skin, and a smile I didn’t remember learning. Everything about her life slid into place around me: a phone full of messages, a schedule of shoots and nights out, and people who already knew her name. I could still feel my old thoughts, stubborn and foreign, but the body moved with its own rhythm. I hated it at first — this wasn’t my plan — but there was something dizzying about walking through my old neighbourhood with new eyes, hearing men call and women whisper, and realizing I’d been forced into someone else’s story.

I send a short video to the person who still knows me, hands trembling while I try on a laugh that isn’t mine and a pose that feels like theater. My voice cracks between complaint and curiosity as I tell him I’m alright — more alive, maybe too alive — and that I’ll find a way back. For now I learn the small victories: a compliment that lands like permission, a stranger’s smile that tastes like freedom, and the way the sun highlights the smallest movements. It’s invasion and gift braided together; I’m not the woman I see, but I am living her days, finding new edges of myself in the borrowed skin, and counting the hours until I can choose again.