Heather

It was just another day in chemistry class, and you were stuck working alongside Hank, the school’s infamous jock. He never took anything seriously, often mocking you in between goofs, but at least he was smart enough to let you handle the hard work while he took the credit. Today was no different, until his reckless handling of a chemical mixture caused a violent explosion, sending a cloud of smoke billowing through the air. The blast singed his face, leaving streaks of soot and ash across his features. As he wiped it off, his expression remained oblivious, unaware that the residue clung stubbornly to his lips, his clothes, and even his hair. His friends laughed, but Hank didn’t seem to notice. At lunch, something felt off. Hank was quieter than usual, sitting apart from his friends, his gaze distant. His golden tan had faded, his once dark hair now a dull, dirty blonde. He wore his uniform differently, almost as though it were tailored to fit a smaller, leaner frame. His muscles had softened, his posture less imposing, and there was something about him, or rather, her, that looked unfamiliar. Hank was becoming someone else. In English, as you read Edgar Allan Poe aloud, you glanced over at Hank. She, who was now undeniably a she, sat at her desk, absorbed by the dark literature in a way Hank never had. Her hair had darkened, the blonde turning to deep black strands cascading around her face, contrasting with the pale skin. Her body had slimmed, gaining delicate curves in places where there had once been only muscle. She wasn’t just different in appearance; there was a quiet confidence in her demeanor, a soft femininity that contrasted sharply with the jock Hank had been. By the time the bell rang, you were left with a heavy sense of unease. After school, as you walked through the empty halls, Heather, Hank’s new form, found you, her gaze sharp, her presence undeniable.