step onto the escalator and feel a tug at my hair — not rough, just possessive — and everything tilts. The man’s fingers are warm, the world blurs, and when my reflection finally settles I’m looking out from a stranger’s body: curves where I had edges, long hair instead of stubble, and a new gravity pulling at my hips. My head spins with a delicious, slightly naughty thrill; I still know every thought, every joke, but the mirror replies with someone else’s smile.

He presses the little remote like a secret between us and the rules rewrite themselves. People I pass glance twice, and I catch myself savoring the attention, a coy curl of pleasure at how the world responds to this borrowed shape. I let him lead me through the mall — the pull on my hair is a promise, not a threat — and I answer with slow, deliberate steps, playing at being somebody else while secretly loving the power of being seen.