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Who would've thought that fate would ever lead me to an improv class? No, seriously. Me—a grown-ass man with a permanent scowl, a head always buzzing with tasks, a damn system engineer, the kind of guy who needs everything in a spreadsheet, with deadlines and backup plans. And now—improv? But still, it was my choice, and here I was, unexpectedly standing on stage, nervous like a teenager on his first date, awkwardly holding a plastic carrot meant to be a microphone.
— And now, — the host drawled theatrically, her eyes sparkling like she knew some secret about me, — imagine you're a beauty pageant finalist, and you need to answer the big question from the jury: “Why do you deserve the Miss Universe crown?”
I froze for a second. The whole thing felt like a bad dream crossed with a circus act and a mild coma. What the hell—contestant? Miss Universe? Me—a bearded dude in jeans and a hoodie, with hands like a damn driller’s and a face they could use in anti-sex appeal campaigns?
The room went quiet. A couple of people chuckled. The plastic carrot suddenly felt heavier, and my palm was sweating.
— Uh… — I began, trying to think of literally anything. — I… believe that… um… beauty isn't about looks, it’s about the inner light. And… I carry that light… inside me?
The audience burst out laughing. I would've died of shame if I could, but it was too late—I was already under the lights, the center of attention, and the host stepped closer, smiling in a strange way—soft, but with a tone like she was trapping me.
— Come on, Chloé, — she said. — You’ve come such a long way for this.
*Click
The snap of her fingers cut through the air like a jolt of electricity. And in the next moment, I… staggered. The world blurred. The carrot-microphone slipped from my hands, and I instinctively caught it—but the fingers were… different. Thin. Angular. With long, pinkish nails—fake? And now it wasn’t a carrot anymore, it was a microphone. And I wasn’t in the classroom—I was on a massive glossy runway, lit up by spotlights so bright they made my eyes water instantly. In front of me, the front row flashed with cameras, leggy models in silver dresses, judges with perfect hair and faces stretched into permanent smiles. Somewhere in the background, a muted rhythm was already building—like I really was, goddamn it, about to strut down that runway.
— Chloé Moreau, — the host said again, this time into the mic, her tone more dramatic. — Representing France, a finalist with the most moving speech about inner light, about beauty born from… the depths of the soul.
She paused, then added with a playful half-smile:
— And now, Chloé, tell us… if you had just one day to change the world, where would you start?
I blinked. Slowly, like my eyelids had suddenly gotten heavy. My lashes—long like brushes—scraped my upper lids. I stood there, knowing that if I moved, I’d crash flat on my ass in these heels. The tight dress clung to my hips and small… tits? Jesus, how is this even possible? My brain just shut off as I looked down and felt long hair fall across my face, brushing against my full lips, and I instinctively tucked a strand behind my ear.
Someone in the audience laughed, and for a split second it felt like I was still standing on that small improv stage, not on some giant runway—but when I lifted my gaze, the massive hall was still there in front of me.
— Chloé, darling, — the host's voice rang out again. She clearly enjoyed my stunned silence. — Come on, tell us. One day to change the world. What would you spend it on?...