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In the morning, she got out of bed with a new feeling.
Every movement was precise. Every gesture — calculated. Her style had become flawless: hair perfectly styled, brows defined, lips with just the right touch of gloss to look untouchable. And strangest of all — just yesterday, she could barely handle mascara, and today, as if with a snap, her hands had effortlessly drawn a perfect eyeliner line, chosen the shade that made her eyes stand out, shaped her hair into flawless waves. It happened suddenly, without practice, without trial and error — it just... worked. As if her body already knew how to use all of it. And by now, it hardly felt strange, considering how often Emma had been getting flashes of her memories lately, trying to push them away.
And it worked.
When she walked into school, the hallway froze.
The guys didn’t just look — they stared, mesmerized. And the girls... they either envied her or tried to copy her, but no one laughed anymore.
And inside — nothing. No satisfaction, no triumph. She knew it was just a mask. It made things easier. It made things... right.
Jessica was the first person she saw. A reminder of the humiliation from yesterday and, at the same time, of how different Emma looked now. For a brief moment, a sting of shame flashed inside her — but just as quickly, it was gone. And without waiting for Jessica's questions, Emma cut her off sharply... Maybe it was a bit harsh, but she needed to express her anger somehow.
Sure, it wasn’t mature. Mark would never have allowed himself such a cold response. But she wasn’t him now, and yesterday had made that painfully clear.
You could keep telling yourself — and everyone else — that you were an adult, that you were Mark, a man with a clear head and control over his emotions. But when you lived in this body, when every movement felt just a little too graceful, when your voice sounded different, when every damn person around looked at you not as a serious man but as... a girl who was "acting weird," when emotions churned under your skin, reacting to every little thing — holding it all back became impossible.
Last night had driven the final nail into that coffin.
Emma wasn't Emma, and she knew it. But she wasn’t Mark anymore either.
She was... someone no one took seriously. Someone whose confession — that she was really him, that he hadn’t always been this way — had made Dan react with... nothing. He'd pretended to believe her, but deep down, he just wanted her the way guys wanted girls. That was all he cared about.
That look.
That goddamn look that had first sent a shiver down her spine, making her believe he saw her, the real her — and now it twisted inside, boiling with anger.
And Jessica.
The one who knew. The one she’d trusted most. The one who had no right to betray her.
But she had told him. Told Dan. And yesterday... Yesterday, he’d just used it to try and get into her pants.
So when Jessica spoke, when she started up with her little jokes like nothing had happened, Emma almost snapped but instead forced out:
— Sorry. I need some time.
She saw Jessica blink, confused, trying to say something — but Emma just turned around and walked away without looking back.
The moment she stepped into the bathroom, locking herself in a stall, her hands started shaking.
Not from shame. From rage.
She could almost hear that voice inside:
"So that’s it, huh? This is who you are now? You think this is what you wanted? You sure?"
Emma clenched her teeth, her heart pounding wildly. The voice felt so real, like someone whispering just behind her.
She took a deep breath, straightened up, and staring at her tense reflection with a smile, she hissed through her teeth:
— I'm sure.