Another boring Wednesday afternoon at Westbrook University. History 201 was practically anesthesia in lecture form. I leaned back, surveying the class idly, searching for something—anything—to keep me entertained. I toyed with a strand of my fiery red hair and sighed.

My eyes settled on a broad-shouldered hockey player seated near the front. Number sixteen, if the number embroidered on his team jacket meant anything. I watched him chew the end of his pencil, clearly daydreaming. Big, athletic, confident—the kind who probably had life handed to him on a silver platter.

I grinned wickedly. Hockey players were always my favorite: cocky, oblivious, ripe for a little magical mischief. After all, what better cure for boredom than reshaping someone's reality? I flexed my fingers discreetly, whispering softly under my breath, eyes fixed on my unsuspecting new project.

"Let's make this interesting." as I projected into his mind to watch his panic

Mr. Mitchell's voice droned endlessly about European monarchies. I fought to stay awake, tapping my pencil nervously against my notebook. Hockey practice had run late last night, and I was exhausted. Still, a solid GPA was mandatory if I wanted to keep my spot on the team.

"Focus, Evan," I muttered. NHL scouts had already visited. A career in professional hockey was finally within reach—money, glory, and endless adoration. My whole future depended on staying awake through this lecture.

I glanced down and froze, eyes widening. Long, perfectly manicured nails painted a glossy pastel pink decorated my fingers. I yelped quietly, jerking my hands under my desk. My pulse thundered in my ears.

"What the hell?" I whispered desperately. Was this some elaborate prank by my teammates?

I glanced around frantically. No reactions. No laughter. Nothing.

Panic surged through me. I tried scraping at the polish, but the nails seemed real—elegant and unbreakable. My breathing quickened. I had to get out of here. Maybe someone slipped something in my coffee—

My scalp began itching furiously. With a groan, I gave in, scratching vigorously. Relief surged through me as my nails effortlessly combed through hair that now seemed impossibly long and thick.

Wait. Long hair?

I grabbed a handful in horror. Silky red strands cascaded between my fingers, trailing halfway down my back.

"This can't be real!" I choked, tugging at the foreign hair desperately. "What the hell is happening?"

Nobody reacted. The lecture continued as though nothing strange was occurring. Sweat dripped down my forehead, heart hammering violently against my chest.

I tried standing, but my legs wouldn’t respond. "Help!" I shouted, desperation breaking my voice. "Somebody please—!"

Nothing. Not even the professor paused.

I glanced behind me, catching sight of a girl with long red hair—grinning directly at me. I’d never noticed her before. Her smile sent chills racing down my spine.

"Stop it!" I shouted toward her, voice trembling. "Whatever you're doing—stop!"

She slowly rose, approaching with amused confidence. "Aw, what's wrong? Not enjoying the new look?"

"You did this!" I accused, my voice cracking, embarrassingly high-pitched now. I shrank back as she leaned on the desk beside mine.

"Obviously." She chuckled softly. "I thought the whole rugged athlete vibe was overrated. You needed something softer."

I shuddered violently, pain suddenly shooting through my entire body. Groaning, I stared helplessly as my hands shrank, becoming slender and delicate.

"Please...stop!" I sobbed, barely recognizing my own voice now. "I’m Evan! My name’s Evan! I’m a hockey player—"

She smirked cruelly. "Really? That doesn't sound right to me. What's your name again?"

I tried desperately to shout my real name, but a different name leapt from my lips: "Ella! Wait—no! My name is Ella!"

"No!" I covered my mouth in panic, tears filling my eyes. "I'm not Evan! I'm not a guy, I swear—"

My voice faltered. "I'm not Ella—I'm Ella! Wait—no!" Each attempt to correct myself only made it worse, cementing the name "Ella" deeper into my mind.

She laughed. "Sure, Ella. You’re definitely looking like a cute girl to me."

My jaw softened, stubble vanishing completely. I touched my lips, now full, glossy, and trembling. My vision blurred with panic.

"Stop this!" I whimpered, breasts swelling rapidly under my hockey jersey, tightening my chest. I gasped, grabbing at the sudden curves in horror.

"Oh my god! Make it stop! I'm not a guy—my boyfriend plays hockey—I'm not Evan!" My voice rose hysterically, yet nobody acknowledged my cries.

"You’re Ella I understand, you're also adorable, goddess if I didn't already have a wife" she teased. "You're definitely not Evan, though. Evan’s a boy well I mean I know some girls use that name but you're not a boy."

"No! I swear I'm Ella—I’m Ella! Wait—Ella!" My thoughts fractured further. Memories of games, locker rooms, teammates melted away, replaced by images of dates, sorority events, and watching games from the stands.

A deep ache radiated between my legs, an undeniable sense of loss, leaving me trembling. I reached down, panic gripping my throat.

"No...no! It’s gone! Oh my god, please—I’m not Ella—I’m Ella!"

She only giggled. "Face it, honey. You’re Ella, a sweet little hockey girlfriend, nothing more."

My jersey shifted against my skin, becoming softer, looser, and far too large. I glanced down through tear-blurred eyes, realizing I was now drowning in an oversized jersey—number twenty--two. A number I knew too well—but it wasn’t mine anymore.

I felt impossibly tiny, drowning in a jersey that now belonged to someone else. My feet swung helplessly above the ground, adorned with dainty sneakers.

She leaned over and kissed my forehead gently. My vision spun, memories rearranging rapidly as panic faded into confusion. "buh bye evan"

Blinking awake, I glanced around, disoriented. Class had ended. Students packed their belongings, talking and laughing as though nothing strange had occurred.

Had I fallen asleep? Again?

"Spacing out, Ella?" A gentle voice asked from behind me. I turned, recognizing the redheaded girl from earlier.

"I'm sorry—I think I drifted off," I murmured softly, feeling shy.

"No worries. You didn’t miss much. I’m Scarlett, by the way."

"Nice to meet you," I whispered, standing slowly, feeling tiny and delicate beneath the oversized hockey jersey.

“Love the jersey. Supporting your guy?” Scarlett asked warmly, glancing at the number sixteen emblazoned across my chest.

My heart fluttered involuntarily. "Yeah, he loves when I wear it."

Scarlett smiled knowingly. "See you around, Ella."

Walking uncertainly toward the classroom exit, I tugged anxiously at the jersey sleeves, which completely hid my tiny hands. Confusion lingered—fragments of another life teased my thoughts, yet the sight of the tall, handsome athlete waiting outside instantly grounded me.

"There’s my girl!" His voice boomed with joy, wrapping me effortlessly in a tight embrace, lifting me from the floor. My small frame felt entirely claimed by his strong arms.

I giggled nervously, warmth flooding my cheeks. "Hey, babe."

He grinned, clearly delighted. "God, you’re adorable in my jersey. It practically swallows you whole."

I blushed deeper, feeling somehow both protected and trapped by his possessive embrace. His eyes sparkled proudly, as though displaying his prized possession to the world.

"You’re coming to the game tonight, right?" he asked expectantly.

"Of course," I replied automatically, words tumbling sweetly from my lips. "I’d never miss it."

He squeezed me tighter. "Good. I love knowing you’re mine."

I shivered at his words, uncertainty lingering just beneath the surface. Yet, as he kissed my forehead tenderly, memories faded again, replaced by simple comfort and acceptance.

I belonged to him—claimed, protected, entirely Ella. And somehow, despite everything I'd lost, it felt impossible to fight that truth.

As we walked away together, my tiny hand swallowed in his, I glanced back one last time—seeing Scarlett wave subtly, smiling triumphantly.

But I couldn't remember why that mattered.