Shota and Misaki were a couple on the precipice of marriage.
Three years had bled away since they first began dating. Throughout that span, their devotion to one another had remained unyielding, a steady architecture of mutual support. For them, this impending matrimony was not merely a ceremony, but a profound relocation of their shared existence.
The logistics of the wedding had proceeded with seamless precision. The venue was locked in, the invitations dispatched, and the conceptual layout of the decor finalized without a single hitch. At last, the day arrived for the fitting of the wedding dress.
“Shota, thank you for coming with me to pick out my dress today!”
“Don’t be silly, of course I’d be here,” Shota replied, a wry smile surfacing to mask his creeping bashfulness. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you in your dress more than anyone.”
As he conjured the mental image of Misaki draped in bridal white, a sharp, euphoric pulse quickened his chest, filling him with a heavy sense of contentment.
Yet, as Misaki cycled through various silhouettes and layers of lace, Shota found himself drifting into an awkward paralysis. Whenever she turned to him, seeking validation with a soft, “How about this one?”, the words dissolved in his throat. He could offer nothing but vague, frictionless platitudes.
“They all look suit you. You look… incredibly beautiful.”
“That doesn’t help me choose, Shota! I need you to engage with this seriously, or I’m going to lose my mind.”
Staring at the severe, earnest lines of Misaki’s expression, Shota was swallowed by a wave of contrition. Yet, the vocabulary of fashion remained entirely foreign to his intellect. How was he supposed to articulate the physical reality of a garment he would never have to bear upon his own frame? He was utterly blind to its mechanics.
Observing his quiet distress, a faint, cryptic smile crossed Misaki’s lips. Then, she dropped a proposition that fractured his reality.
“In that case… why don’t you try putting the dress on yourself, Shota?”
“What…? Me?”
Misaki nodded, her eyes flashing with an unsettling amusement. “Yes. If you experience the weight of it yourself, you might finally comprehend the gravity of what I am feeling.”
Shota attempted to laugh it off, assuming it to be a harmless joke, but Misaki’s gaze remained chillingly absolute. Then, she let slip an impossible truth.
“The truth is, I possess a certain anomaly—a power to displace our personalities and swap our vessels.”
“That’s… that’s absurd. You’re lying,” Shota stammered, his internal balance wavering.
Misaki simply shrugged, her smile widening. “Shall we run the experiment, then?”
The instant Misaki wrapped her fingers around Shota’s hand, the visual field before him collapsed into total darkness. He was seized by a bizarre, sickening levitation, as though his essence were being unmoored from gravity.
When his eyelids flickered open, Shota was struck with absolute horror. He was staring directly into his own face, standing just inches away.
“This… this can’t be. We’ve actually swapped…?”
“Heh. See? Now, perhaps you will begin to perceive the internal friction of what it means to wear this architecture.”
Trapped in a volatile mixture of disorientation and raw adrenaline, Shota began to map the sensory grid of Misaki’s anatomy. The coordinates of his perception had been violently altered. He registered the delicate, fragile taper of the fingers; the silk-like friction of soft hair brushing against the cheek. More than anything, the fundamental physics of moving this unfamiliar vessel made his breath catch in his throat.
“So this is your body, Misaki… It feels entirely surreal.”
“Now,” Misaki’s consciousness stated through Shota’s original, masculine lips, her expression turning sharp and demanding. “Put on the dress.”
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