When Shota, a university student, was approached by Natsuko—the woman living in the next room—who said she had “something to consult about,” his mind was filled only with a vague yearning for an older woman and the shallow sense of omnipotence typical of youth.
Natsuko was a woman in her late thirties, reportedly working as a proofreader for a publisher; she was quiet, yet carried an air of weight that seemed to have precipitated at the very bottom of her existence.
“Would you like to switch places, just for a day?”
The proposal tore a vivid fissure through Shota’s days, which were paved over with tedious lectures and convenience store shifts. He perceived it as a storybook event, or perhaps a high-level game. He failed to notice the desperate craving in the depths of Natsuko’s eyes to “shed” her own flesh, or her cold intention to “plunder” the youth of another.
That night, what occurred in Natsuko’s room was not so much a spell as a physical “violence” that directly grated against the nerves.
Blackout. Then, awakening.
When Shota opened his eyes, the first sensation that assaulted him was the unpleasant feeling that the world was “clinging” to him. His vision was unnaturally heavy. Something was layered and caked onto the edges of his eyelids. Confused, he tried to move his hands, only to realize that from the shoulders down, he was dominated by a “different mass” that did not belong to him.
Standing before the mirror, Shota tried to scream, but was met with a pain in the back of his throat as if it were being seared by a fire iron.
“…! Ah…”
What leaked out was not his own clear voice. It was a damp, low-pitched female voice, raspy like a worn-out instrument.
In the mirror stood Natsuko. But she was not the Natsuko Shota knew. Her face was covered in a pathologically thick layer of foundation, as if forcibly filling the irregularities of her pores and sealing the texture of the skin itself. The eyeliner was unnaturally thick, flicking upward sharply toward the corners of the eyes. A massive amount of mascara had been smeared onto the lashes, pressing against the inner eyelids with every blink. On her lips, a dark brown rouge—reminiscent of dried blood—was applied in thick, tiered layers.
It was the terminal stage of “dressing up.” Overwriting the truth of a decaying body with artificial colors; concealing it; fixing it in place. The image in the mirror looked less like a living human and more like a taxidermied “corpse” slathered in preservatives to prevent corrosion.
“We really switched…”
Every time he recognized his own voice, the depths of his chest vibrated with a sickening resonance. Upon that chest sat an “unknown weight” that had never existed for his former self. Unable to bear it, he stripped off the clothes.
The naked body of Natsuko held not a shred of phantasmal beauty. What lay there was a record of life and **gravity**, accumulated over thirty-odd years. The breasts were not the “elastic fruits” he had once imagined. They were unfree masses of fat that pulled the skin beneath the collarbones strongly downward, unable to withstand their own **mass**. The areolae were widened, and through the skin, fine, cobweb-like veins were visible, the shape collapsing under **gravity**. Across the lower abdomen ran countless pale fissures—resembling stretch marks, yet more nihilistic—the result of skin that had rapidly stretched and then slackened.
“This is… a woman’s body…”
Shota touched the “overflow of flesh.” What met his palm was not a youthful bounce, but a sensation of meat that sank in endlessly, trapping heat, with no way out. The inner thighs pressed against each other simply by standing, refusing to let the trapped body heat escape, constantly harboring a clammy dampness.
Just then, the phone rang. From the receiver came Shota’s own voice.
“How is it? The feeling. That body is heavy, isn’t it?”
Natsuko’s voice (using Shota’s mouth) was unnaturally light—and cruel.
“Open the closet in your room. I’ve prepared a special ‘skin’ just for you.”
Shota crawled to the closet and opened it. A sight that made him doubt his sanity greeted him. Frills, lace, ribbons. Layers upon layers of fabric—a Lolita fashion dress with violently excessive ornamentation hung there like a carcass.
“I have to… wear this?”
“Yes. Think of it as a thank-you to me for becoming young again. After all, that body isn’t even allowed to walk normally anymore.”
The call cut off. Shota reached for the mass of fabric with trembling hands.
The act of donning the dress was not a pleasure, but a pure physical “struggle.” First, he shoved his breast tissue into the steel cage of a bra. He stuffed the flesh overflowing from the armpits and back into the cups with enough force to cause pain. The wires bit into his ribs, and with every breath, his lungs were compressed. Next came the corset. As the waist was cinched to its extreme, his stomach and intestines were pushed upward, leaving a persistent, sour nausea lingering in his throat. Finally, he put on the heavy skirt layered with multiple petticoats. His waist was pressured by several kilograms of fabric, sending sharp pains through his lumbar vertebrae.
What was completed in the mirror was a pitiful monstrosity—a body that had lost its youth, forcibly poured into the mold of “cuteness” through excessive decoration. Under the thick makeup, the “Natsuko” in the mirror breathed painfully, unable even to evaporate his own sweat.
Shota finally realized it then. Natsuko had not offered a “new discovery.” She had simply offloaded the “debt called a body” that she could no longer bear, in exchange for someone else’s youth. There was no pleasure. There was only **gravity**, compression, and an inescapable exhaustion at being forced to “perform” the life of someone who wasn’t himself.
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