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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?

— I… — slipped from my lips, but the voice that came out was way too high, with this morning rasp, like a singer after a long concert and too much champagne. I stopped short immediately. That sound wasn’t mine. It was airy, delicate. Not even close to what I was used to.

I took a clumsy step forward and my heel wobbled. Fucking hell, heels—what a nightmare! How do people even walk in these things?! My knees buckled slightly. And all this—under blazing stage lights, in a dress so tight around my hips that it felt like if I took a deep breath, the fabric would rip. With that awkward step and movement, my breasts bounced gently, and I was horrified to realize—I could feel them. That weight. Those… two round, unmistakable signs that this wasn’t some damn hallucination.

— If I had only one day, — I said, and the sound of my own voice sent chills down my spine again. — I’d… I’d ban heels.

For a couple of seconds there was absolute silence—the kind where even the air seems to pause, trying to figure out whether that was a joke or the plain truth.

Then a voice rang out from the audience, clearly a woman’s:

— And bras too! — she shouted with obvious self-irony, and someone in the crowd immediately clapped, following up with a cheerful — Hell yeah!

The room came alive. From somewhere to the right I heard:

— Chloé, show us your runway walk! Come on! They taught us queens walk proud!

I was already in some kind of flow. Whether it was a role or not. I just had to go with it and hope for the best.

So I took a step—and instantly regretted it. The thin stiletto wobbled, and the whole strange construction of my body nearly tipped forward. My boobs did their thing—softly bounced—and I sucked in air sharply. Not from pain, but from shock. They still felt… real. Like an actual part of me that hadn’t been there before but now just was, and that was that.

— God, she’s gonna fall, — someone whispered from the front row.

— Give her a chance! — another girl shouted from somewhere in the back. — Her heels are still in shock!

Instinctively, I adjusted the strap of the dress, which had started slipping off my shoulder, and flinched again—because the shoulder was narrow, smooth, kind of delicate, like something off a magazine cover. And the fabric… it didn’t just sit on me—it clung, teased every inch of skin. The dress felt like it was made specifically to make me feel every curve. Every damn centimeter.

— Come on, sweetheart, — the host said again. — The path to the crown is through the walk. Or would you rather be disqualified for lack of grace?

— I was literally just a man… — I muttered, almost in a whisper. Why did I say that? To whom? To myself? To her? To this whole damn crowd?

But of course someone heard it.

— Oh, you were! — loud laughter filled the hall, like someone cranked the speakers to full blast, and there I was, standing in heels in the middle of this madness, feeling how my ears—small and with earrings—got stuffed up from the anxiety.

— Is he, like, actually deep in the role? — someone called from the balcony.

— Maybe it’s a performance piece? Like, a metaphor? — people were whispering off to the side.

— God, if this is improv, give that genius an Oscar! — shouted a girl with flaming red hair in the third row, clapping with such genuine enthusiasm that for a moment—I almost wanted to believe her.

I reached for the dress strap again, to adjust it—when suddenly I heard that snap of fingers again.

*Click

Everything vanished.

The lights. The runway. The cameras. The gloss. Even the breasts, the weight of which I had just so vividly felt with every movement. Gone too were the dress, the heels, the glossy lipstick I had only just started to notice with each breath. Just—bam, like the curtain dropped.

— Oh… — I exhaled.

But the voice was mine again. Male. Low, tense.

I was standing there like a fucking idiot, on my tiptoes. Toes stretched out like I was still in those devil shoes. Knees slightly bent, lips puckered like I was still pretending they were full, and my hand frozen mid-air, like I was still reaching for the dress strap that was no longer there. Just air. A hoodie.

— Uh… — someone mumbled from the audience. — Is that… it?

I inhaled sharply and looked around. I was back in that same room, forty, maybe fifty people. Same faces, some familiar, some not. But this was definitely the place I was supposed to be—not some giant runway where I was competing for Miss Universe.

— That… was intense, — the host finally spoke. She looked a bit thrown off, but quickly slipped back into her theatrical tone. — Now that’s improv! A true… metamorphosis! A character arc! Bravo, Chloé!

— I… it… — I tried to protest, but realized I had nothing to say.

The audience clapped—softly, not excitedly, more like… respectfully, with a tinge of awkwardness. And I stood there, feeling how my legs were still trembling slightly, as if the muscles remembered the pose. Like my body still wasn’t sure—was it here, or still back on that stage?

I absentmindedly ran my hand down my thigh—hoodie, jeans, familiar. But deep down, there was still that phantom weight of the breasts, the ghost of perfume, and the sensitivity of my lips, as if a long strand of hair was still brushing over them.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned and walked offstage—or whatever passed for backstage here. Squeezing past the actor props, through piles of plastic vegetables and stage lights, I found a door marked Restroom and practically stumbled inside, slamming the door shut behind me.

Only here, in the dim fluorescent light, did I finally breathe. Slowly. Deeply. Like oxygen had only just returned.

— Fuck… — I exhaled.

I planted my hands on the sink, leaned over, breathing hard, and after a few seconds, slowly lifted my eyes—and froze.

The reflection wasn’t… me. I mean, it was and it wasn’t. It was her. That same girl. Chloé. Just like on stage. Same long lashes, the delicate neck, full lips, that perfect hair. But she wasn’t in the dress—she was wearing my hoodie, hanging loose and obviously oversized. But her body was still there underneath it. The curves, the face… nothing had changed.

— This can’t be real… — I whispered.

But she repeated the words in the mirror, lips moving perfectly in sync.

I blinked. So did she. I stood up straighter—and so did she, making her tits even more obvious under the hoodie. Like she was my reflection.

— You… you… how? — I asked hoarsely, looking into her eyes, watching her full lips mirror my every word.

I slowly raised my hand, and in the reflection, her thin fingers—with those same long nails—mirrored mine. Reaching toward me, smooth and trembling just like mine. I felt it, even though I wasn’t looking at my own hand. I could see her fingertips shaking.

And then, just as my fingers touched the mirror, right at the same point as hers—

*Click