Noah Parker, a 25-year-old stuck in the monotony of his life, stumbles upon an usual time machine. Little does he know, time travel doesn't work as he thinks as it catapults him into an unexpected journey, not only through time but into a life entir...
Back in the bedroom, I faced a closet that seemed to stretch into infinity, racks adorned with an array of clothes that spoke a language foreign to me. Overwhelmed by the prospect of styling women's clothes, I hesitated before stepping in.
The reality of inhabiting a woman's body began to sink in, a daunting realization. How on earth was I supposed to navigate makeup, hair, and worst of all... a period? Panic set in as I lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
In a moment of clarity, I decided to snoop around for clues. The drawers in the vanity became my next target. Among them, I found a trove of makeup and what I assumed were hair styling products—straighteners, curlers, mousse—all alien to my understanding.
However, a particular drawer held more than cosmetics. It harboured a photograph, one that caught my attention instantly. In the picture, Katie Miller, or technically me, stood alongside a man with his face scratched out by a sharpie. Questions flooded my mind. Who was this man, erased both from the photo and, it seemed, from Katie's life? An ex-boyfriend, perhaps? The potential of accidentally running into him now loomed as a silent threat.
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Yet, as I pondered the photo, an idea struck. Why not recreate Katie's outfit in the picture? It could be a foolproof plan. Carrying the photo into the closet, I hunted for the components. First, the jacket, then the black skirt, and finally, the white shirt. Simple, somewhat elegant—a choice that mirrored what I assume to be Katie's style.
Reality hit me as I stripped off the nightgown; I needed underwear and a bra. The closet offered no clues, so my search led me to a small dresser across the room. The top drawer revealed an assortment of panties in different colours and styles. The mere act of selecting a pair felt like tiptoeing on unfamiliar territory. Tentatively, I chose a pair of black high-leg briefs—the least overtly feminine option despite the little bow on the waistband. Their snug presence made me acutely aware of the foreignness of this borrowed body.
Moving to the next drawer, my gaze fell on pantyhose—a revelation that prompted confusion initially. As I grappled with whether to don them, I settled on tossing a pair of sheer nude tights onto the clothes pile, a compromise to combat the chill of May.
The subsequent drawer contained neatly organized bras—mostly white, black, or nude. Settling for a white bra with delicate lace at the top, I hesitated. The clasp, a simple mechanism, seemed like an intricate puzzle. With each fumble, my discomfort intensified. Eventually securing it in place, the sensation of my breasts firmly held in place paired with the thin strap digging into my shoulders heightened the awareness of my borrowed body.
Dressed in only undergarments, I returned to the closet, where the chosen outfit awaited. As I struggled to put on the pantyhose and the remaining pieces, a thought emerged—I needed guidance in this unfamiliar world of femininity.
An idea blossomed. Perhaps, the local store had magazines on makeup, hair, and fashion that could be my crash course. How else do people learn things like that in the 90s?
With the ensemble complete, I examined myself in the vanity mirror. Even without makeup, I couldn't help but acknowledge the beauty in the reflection. Looking back at me was the face of someone who's beauty would normally make me nervous to approach.
As I prepared to face the world, I needed to find the boots from the reference photo. They awaited in the front hall closet. Grabbing the purse I had investigated earlier, I ventured out of the apartment, surprised at the ease with which I walked in heels. It must be some instinct from Katie's world seeping through.
