Janice stepped into the living room, her four-inch Jimmy Choo heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor. The faint scent of Marks cologne, a woody note, mixed with the aroma of red wine as she spotted her husband on the couch, a legal brief on his lap. Mark, 45, exuded the air of a seasoned lawyer even at home—salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed, tailored navy dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and charcoal slacks crisply pressed. His sharp hazel eyes softened as they met hers, a warm smile tugging at his lips. He set the papers aside with a deliberate rustle, rising to cross the room with a steady stride.
Hey, honey, Mark said, his voice a low, reassuring rumble that had grounded her after long days. He leaned in, his breath warm on her cheek, and his lips pressed against hers in a brief kiss. But instantly, a sharp, electric tingle surged through Janice. It started at her lips, a jolt racing down her spine, buzzing in her fingertips with unnatural energy. She gasped, pulling back, her manicured hand at her mouth. Her shoulder-length auburn hair felt heavy, shifting oddly, sending a shiver through her rattled nerves.
Mark tilted his head, concern flickering on his weathered face. You okay, Janice? he asked, tone unchanged, still carrying that steady calm shed relied on.
But everything had changed. Janices vision blurred, a dizzying wave crashing over her senses, disorienting her as the room seemed to tilt. Her body felt wrong—broader, heavier, taller, each limb alien as if it belonged to someone else. She blinked rapidly, breath shallow, and when her sight cleared, she wasnt at her usual height. She was taller, gazing down at a woman who bore a haunting resemblance to herself yet wasnt her. The woman had Janices auburn hair, shorter and wavier, framing her face softly, and wore her yellow sleeveless blouse and black pencil skirt, fabric hugging her form as it had on Janice. But her face carried echoes of Marks sharper jawline, softened into a feminine curve, and her hazel eyes—Marks eyes—stared with familiar intensity that made Janices stomach lurch. Janices breath caught as she looked down. Gone were her heels and blazer, symbols of her polished self. Instead, she saw a mans broad chest beneath a navy dress shirt, fabric wrinkled, paired with charcoal slacks stiff on her legs. Her hands—larger, rougher, with blunt nails—trembled as she touched her face, feeling stubble on a hardened jaw. Her hair was auburn, cropped short, foreign against her scalp.
Her heart pounded, deeper in her chest, a rhythm alien to her. I—Im not— she started, her low voice horrifying her, echoing like a strangers growl. Traces of her visage lingered in the mirror across the room—narrow nose, high cheekbones, now rugged, clashing with her sense of self. Memories not hers flooded in, vivid and intrusive. She saw law school debates, late nights at the firm, the weight of being family provider. They werent her memories—tied to this role, they clashed with her past of meticulous routines, outfit coordination, and insurance firm meetings. Her personality felt heavier. Where shed been vain, fussing over appearance, she now felt stoic resolve, a drive to provide, though her flair for detail lingered, urging her to fix her tie. Yet, panic churned beneath, a fight to hold onto who she was—Janice, not this stranger.
The woman—Mark transformed—frowned, adjusting the blazer with grace but measured air. You look pale, Jan, she said, voice softer, higher, but firm with Marks authority turned feminine. Jan. The name struck like a blow, reality renaming her to fit this cage of a body. And Mark—or the woman—accepted her change without question, as if shed always been this way. Did something happen at the firm? she asked, hazel eyes blending Marks intensity with maternal worry, twisting Jans stomach with alienation.
Janice—now Jan—felt her knees weaken, a tremor in unfamiliar limbs, and stumbled to the couch, collapsing with less finesse than shed managed in heels, impact jarring her frame. The slacks bunched around thicker thighs, shirt straining across an alien chest, each breath a reminder of wrongness. She hated this—rough skin against fingertips, weight of broader shoulders, lumbering certainty she didnt feel. The provider mindset urged composure, to be the familys rock, a role shed never played. Her vanity lingered, nagging to check her reflection, fix the tie, reclaim control, even as she fought to process the swap upending her being, turning her world inside out.
Im... fine, Marissa, Jan forced out, the name slipping as if reality dictated it, tasting like a lie. Marissa. A gendered twist on Mark, fitting the woman embodying the motherly role with Janices style—obsession with appearance evident as Marissa smoothed her skirt—but tempered by Marks seriousness, a no-nonsense edge even in feminine frame. The sight, familiar yet wrong, deepened Jans loss, a hollow ache.
Marissa sat beside her, crossing legs with elegance Janice knew, though movements carried stiffness, a remnant of Marks demeanor clashing with her new form. Dinners almost ready, Jan. I made roast chicken—thought itd cheer you up. Her smile was warm, mirroring Janices, but practical, as if familys comfort was a duty. Janices memories of Mark ordering takeout clashed with this domestic scene, a role reversal leaving her reeling, struggling to reconcile the gruff man with this nurturing woman.
Before Jan could respond, soft footsteps echoed from the foyer, followed by a melodic sigh cutting the tense air. Ryan—or who should have been Ryan. Jans heart leapt, maternal instinct cutting through new memories, but as a young woman stepped in, relief twisted into shock gripping her chest. This couldnt be her son.
Hey, Dad, the girl said, voice lilting with respect and warmth as she addressed Jan, each word a dagger to her fractured reality. She was related, yet so different. Petite, delicate, unlike Ryans lanky build, her glossy brown hair fell in styled waves past shoulders, pinned with a shimmering clip. Her hazel eyes, deeper like Marissas, sparkled with thoughtful energy, face bearing feminine charm with subtle blush, lip gloss. She wore a pastel pink sweater, pleated skirt, and white sneakers with floral accents, far from Ryans unkempt style, exuding polished, girlish aesthetic with youthful touch. Her posture was graceful, movements poised, shaped by Jan as father, Marissa as nurturing mother instilling refinement. Reality adjusted her, transforming Ryan into a daughter—perhaps renamed, though Jan clung to Ryan, a desperate anchor. Her demeanor was sweet, reflecting gentle guidance and emphasis on appearance, a far cry from the messy boy Jan recalled.
The girl set a stylish purse down delicately, glancing at Marissa with tender, conspiratorial smile hinting at closeness. Hey, Mom, need help with dinner? I can set the table or whip up a salad. Her tone was warmer than Ryans ever was, suggesting bonding over domestic tasks. It pierced Jan, a sharp pang of loss for their old closeness, where Ryan grumbled at nagging but slumped into hugs as her son. Now, that felt severed, replaced by a dynamic she didnt grasp, a daughter seeing her as fatherly figure she wasnt ready to be.
Marissa smiled—blending Janices vanity and Marks warmth—smoothing her hair. Ive got it, sweetie. How was the drive, Rylee? Jan stumbled over the name—Rylee. Reality renamed her child for this new history, a daughter shaped by swapped dynamics, crushing her further.
Jans stomach churned, disbelief and grief overwhelming her. Rylee, howre things? she asked, deep voice jarring, trying to sound fatherly though desperate to ask if Rylee recalled her as Mom. Rylee tilted her head, dainty smile echoing Marissas charm, not Ryans careless grin.
Pretty good. Classes are tough, but Im managing. Id like advice on a project later, Dad. You see the big picture. Her soft tone expected fatherly wisdom, foreign to Jan. As Mom, shed fretted over Ryan with love. Now, Rylee saw her as pillar, femininity mirroring Marissas influence—careful speech, attention to detail. The weight pressed on Jan, provider mindset urging a confident nod even as she longed for a hug she couldnt give in this prison of a body.
She glanced at the bracelet on Marissas wrist—her wrist once—and felt desperation choking her, a raw need to escape. This was its doing. She recalled the park, odd compulsion to wear it, hum of something unnatural. Twenty-four hours, an instinct reminded her. She was stuck as Jan unless someone took it. She couldnt handle stubble, heavy suits, deep voice. And Rylee—transformed from messy son to poised daughter—tore at her heart. Rylees warmth to Marissa reflected a life molded by Jans strictness, Marissas care, a stranger Jan didnt know how to reach.
Marissa stood, smoothing her skirt. Ill check the chicken. Jan, catch up with Rylee. Her tone was nurturing, firm, an expectation Jan wasnt ready for. Jans chest tightened, longing to be Mom again, feel her old life. She nodded, frame clumsy compared to craved elegance, knowing she must play this role. But her mind churned with fear, determination to undo this nightmare the bracelet unleashed.
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