For Takashi, university life was an exercise in maintaining the “median.” He belonged to an unremarkable social circle, wrote passing-grade reports, and earned pocket change at a neighborhood pub. His closet was lined with innocuous, monotone hoodies and jeans—the fortifications of his existence. To live without being noticed, without being loathed, drifting with the current. That tranquility disintegrated without a sound in the congestion of Shinjuku Station at twilight.
The sharp metallic screech of the train doors opening. That sound transformed into a high-frequency piercing of his brain, and Takashi’s vision descended into a violent turbidness.
“…Ngh, vertigo?”
He reached for a handrail, but there was no sensation. His consciousness cooled rapidly, sinking into the bottom of a profound darkness.
When he next opened his eyes, Takashi realized he was enveloped in the “scent of flowers.” But these were not natural blooms. It was an artificial, sickly-sweet mélange of vanilla and rose aromatics—the scent of a young girl’s room.
“…Where… is this?”
Attempting to rise, he felt a strange resistance in his frame. First, his perspective was abnormally low. And with every toss and turn, the unknown sound of rustling fabric scraped against his eardrums. Standing before a mirror, Takashi froze.
Reflected there was not the average student, Takashi. It was a doll-like girl clad in a “Gothic Lolita” ensemble of jet black and Bordeaux, with layer upon layer of extravagant lace. Long hair wound into vertical ringlets, skin white as porcelain, and large eyes that remained wide open, independent of his will.
“No… way…”
The voice that leaked out was that of a girl—high, clear, like the ringing of a bell, yet possessed of an ethereal unreality. Takashi, with trembling hands, confirmed his—Misaki’s—body. At the chest existed the small but definite protuberances unique to a girl. His waist, cinched tight by a corset, felt as though it were no wider than two of his own fists. A heavy pannier spread the skirt into a dome, and with every step, the layers of fabric caressed his thighs gently, yet obsessively.
Meanwhile, Misaki, a student at a private girls’ high school, was in a state of desperate chaos. She awoke in a cluttered one-room apartment. On the walls were sterile job-hunting posters; on the floor, discarded black socks.
“What… is this?”
The sound echoing from her throat was the low, thick, gravelly voice of a “man.” Misaki panicked, snatching up Takashi’s smartphone. Within it lay a bleak digital history, devoid of even a single selfie. It did not take long for the two to call each other and grasp the situation.
“…We’ve swapped, haven’t we? It sounds like a lie, but…”
Misaki’s voice (within Takashi) sounded strangely composed through the receiver.
“I’m Takashi. A university student. …And you?”
“I’m Misaki. High schooler. …I’m looking in the mirror right now, and I can’t believe it. I’ve become a man with a massive frame.”
The two decided to play out each other’s lives to avoid suspicion. However, for Takashi, Misaki’s life was akin to a “grueling asceticism.” First was the “armor” known as Lolita fashion. Misaki’s closet was lined with gorgeous dresses, each costing tens of thousands of yen. Relying on Misaki’s notes and past social media posts, Takashi donned the “armor.” Fixing the wired headdress in place and reconstructing his face with unfamiliar makeup. As the girl in the mirror became more perfect, the “Takashi” within felt a claustrophobic sense of being interred at the bottom of a dark well.
“Am I supposed to go to school… in this?”
On his first day commuting as Misaki, Takashi felt the gazes of people on the platform piercing him like needles.
“Look, that Lolita… she’s cute, but she’s really committed.”
“Like a living doll.”
The whispers became physical pressure, vibrating the lace of his dress. These were the “gazes of consumption,” raw and exposed, that he had never faced as a man. Within the cage of “beauty” that was Misaki’s flesh, Takashi felt his self-esteem being stripped away with every step, replaced by the role of an “idol for viewing” biting into his meat.
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