If you like my art, sketches, stories, transformations you can find more like this on my Patreon page or in DeviatArt Premium Early Access folder for subscribers here. Every bit of support is truly appreciated, but just having you here means the most to me - without you, none of this would have been possible. Thank you very much!
Check also my shop at DeviantArt for other works
The sun was blazing as if it had decided to prove that summer had finally taken full control. Emma sat by the riverbank, her feet barely touching the water, watching the way the waves gently rippled, disturbing the mirror-like surface. The wind, mixed with the scent of freshly cut grass, tirelessly played with her hair, tossing it over her shoulders. She closed her eyes, trying to catch every sound, every movement—the birds chirping in the trees, the faint hum of the city in the distance, and the river itself, always calm, always steady.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her backpack, where that very book with the jester lay. Ever since that meeting in the gazebo, when Dan had dragged in a whole stack of similar books, she had been carrying this one with her everywhere. She didn’t even fully understand why. After all, she had already decided once that she would just try to live, to at least accept this situation in some moments, this situation that had crashed down on her so suddenly. But Emma couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had messed with her memory. After that meeting in the gazebo, a strange sensation had settled in her mind—like she had forgotten something important, something that should have explained her circumstances. The book seemed ordinary, its pages didn’t glow, didn’t whisper, the jester didn’t appear… but every time she tried to leave it at home, an unease crept in, like she was throwing away a piece of herself.
She sighed, gazing thoughtfully into the distance, at the river flowing slowly by. The school year was over. Summer had fully taken over, but she knew she would soon be back in school. The last year. The last year in that damned place, where she no longer knew who she was—Mark, Emma, or someone else entirely.
And what comes after?
Emma swallowed hard, realizing suddenly that she didn’t have an answer.
When she had been Mark, her life had already been mapped out. College, a job—even if not a dream job, at least a stable one—her own place, financial independence. Even if life back then had seemed dull and routine, at least she had known she was standing firmly on her feet, that she was an adult with a certain level of authority, knowledge, and some kind of confidence in the future. But now?
Emma swallowed again, a sudden wave of panic rising in her chest. She had no idea what came next. Should she live this life, apply to the college the real Emma had chosen? Which college would she have chosen? And who even was the real Emma? Was she Emma? Maybe she was just inside this body? Or maybe she wasn’t even there anymore? Maybe now she was just living Mark’s life?
Emma shuddered, feeling a chill run down her spine. She reached for her backpack, pulled out her phone, and opened social media. She had been keeping tabs on her "past" life for a while now. From time to time, she checked Mark’s page—or rather, the page of whoever was living under that name now.
He was living. Working. Leading the same routine life she had once grown tired of, but now looked at with a strange feeling. Recently, he had posted pictures with a woman—beautiful, smiling. The caption under the photo was short but telling: Future Mrs. Brown.
Emma stared at the screen, unsure of what she felt. Happiness? After all, when she had been Mark, she had never managed to build a serious relationship like that. Or was it jealousy? Had the person living under her old name actually done a better job at life than she had? Or was it not jealousy at all… but something else entirely?
She abruptly turned off the phone and tossed it into her backpack as if it had burned her fingers.
Who was she now? The real Emma? Or still Mark?
That "Mark" in all his latest photos looked happy, confident. And Emma caught herself thinking that maybe it was for the best. Because if that Mark had been suffering, thinking like she was, believing himself to be "Emma" and struggling just as hopelessly to turn everything "back," she would have felt even worse. But he wasn’t suffering. He was happy.
The thought hit her like a blade.
He was happy. And she?
She was Emma—a girl who had embraced her femininity over the past year just as suddenly as her body had changed. Her body had changed, taking on a form that no longer shocked her, but still reminded her of what had happened. Her breasts weren’t just a slight swelling like in those first months. They had grown noticeably, more defined, accentuating her new appearance. She no longer had to consciously adjust her posture, tense her shoulders, trying to "hide" or "ignore" them.
And her legs. Just a year ago, they had been thin, almost angular, more boyish. Now they looked softer, rounder, with smoother contours. She no longer paid attention to how she sat—before, it had felt unnatural to keep her legs together, but now the movement had become almost automatic. She no longer acted feminine—she simply was. The way she walked, the way she moved her hands, the way she brushed her hair back or crossed her legs while sitting—all of it had stopped being a performance and had become second nature. She was used to the feeling of her breasts, used to the slight sway of her hips when she walked, used to the way clothes fit her figure. She had gotten used to being a girl.
The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Her heart clenched at the realization—when had she stopped "playing a role"? When had she stopped looking in the mirror, trying to catch Mark’s reflection in it? When was the first time she looked and no longer felt like a stranger?