Prism of Echoes
I remember that after school, the air felt strangely thin, and the scenery outside the window seemed to blur. The classroom was deserted. The setting sun carved sharp angles onto the corners of the desks, while dust motes swam in a sea of gold.
“Hey, Yamada-kun. Shall we try swapping our lives?”
Misaki, the beautiful girl who reigned at the top of our class hierarchy, held out a single, glossy, unremarkable ribbon. I thought it was a joke. Or perhaps a penalty game of some sort. But her eyes were startlingly clear, and in their depths swirled an unfathomable longing. It was the boredom she felt toward her perfect label as a “beautiful girl,” and the inferiority I felt toward my colorless, transparent existence as “Yamada.” Drawn to each other, we gripped that ribbon.
“This should make our lives much more fun.”
The moment her whisper erupted in my ear, my vision was painted over by a blinding white light.
The next morning, I—Yamada—awoke with a violent sense of “wrongness.”
(…What is this smell?)
Tickling my nostrils was a sweet scent, a mixture of soap and a faint floral hint. It wasn’t my room. It was a clean, pale pastel-colored space that felt almost unrealistically organized. As I tried to sit up, I realized my body had become unbelievably “light.”
“…Eh?”
The voice that spilled out made the hair on my body stand on end. What came from my throat wasn’t my low, muffled voice. It was the transparent yet somehow alluring voice of a girl, like the rolling of bells. Panic-stricken, I kicked off the duvet to find limbs that looked nothing like the “legs” I knew. Two legs—white, slender, and tracing supple curves. The kneecaps were small, and the ankles were so delicate they looked as if they might break.
“You’ve got to be kidding… Did we really swap…?”
On unsteady feet, I stood before the dresser in the corner of the room. Reflected in the mirror was that very same Misaki, whom I could only ever watch from a distance until yesterday. Disheveled hair, moist eyes, and the unmistakable swell of a body felt through the thin pajamas.
(This is Misaki… This is a girl’s body…)
I tried touching my cheek. The texture of the skin felt through my fingertips was surprisingly smooth and held a certain heat. Right there, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of “beauty” information emitted by my—no, her—flesh, I fell to my knees. It far exceeded the limits of what an ordinary high school boy’s mind could accept.
On the way to school, the world had completely changed. Just by walking, the gazes of adults passing by and students from other schools pierced my back with physical weight. I learned through my own skin that living as a “beautiful girl” means constantly remaining someone’s “object of observation.”
“Morning, Misaki!”
As I passed through the school gates, her friends came running up.
“Ah… morning,” I replied, mimicking Misaki’s voice from the depths of my memory to avoid sounding unnatural.
“What’s up? You seem kind of… graceful today.”
“Do… do you think so?”
Every time I forced a smile, the muscles in Misaki’s cheeks moved in a rhythm I didn’t know. Entering the classroom, the boys’ eyes followed me overtly. In the seat where I—Yamada—used to sit, Misaki was now sitting, draped in my flesh. Looking out the window, she (with my appearance) wore an expression that was somehow radiant and filled with a sense of liberation. For her, my flat body must have been an escape hatch from the cage of “beauty” that had bound her.
During first period, I adjusted the hem of my skirt countless times. The coldness of the air stroking my thighs, the slight discomfort of underwear touching my skin. And every time I saw “myself” reflected in the window glass—acting as a mirror—a sensation like a tightening in the depths of my chest washed over me.
(Is this what she felt every day?)
A daily life consumed by the label of beauty, where perfection is constantly demanded. But on the other hand, I was also beginning to feel an undeniable “pleasure.” When I ran my fingers through my hair, my brain went numb at the scent of myself wafting through the air. When I saw a male student turn red while opening a door for me, an omnipotent feeling welled up from within. I, who had been a transparent existence as “Yamada,” was now dominating the world through this vivid prism called “Misaki.” That pleasure carried the taste of honey—sweet and dangerous enough to swallow my anxiety and confusion.
After school, while adjusting my uniform in front of the locker room mirror, I let out a deep sigh. My fingertips, buttoning my blouse and straightening my ribbon, moved much more naturally than they had yesterday. The Misaki in the mirror wore a haunting smile, her consciousness blending slightly with mine (Yamada’s).
“Was this really for the best…?”
The lips that asked the question, without me even realizing it, traced the perfect shape of a beautiful girl. In the abyss of my mind, I heard the sound of something being slowly but surely rewritten.
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