Ahead of the Curve

The gymnasium echoed with the sharp, rhythmic clatter of heels on the reinforced composite flooring. It had been nearly a year since the global glitch replaced every piece of footwear with impossibly feminine, sky-high heels. By now, students had learned to sprint, pivot, and jump in them, and the school had installed reinforced support beams and vinyl-coated aluminum flooring just to keep up with the daily battering.

Pablo remembered when gym class meant grit, grass stains, sweat, and the soft scuff of sneakers. Now, it was a high-pitched sea of flirtatious voices and pillowy, lipsticked smiles bobbing around like petals in a gale. He stood near the entrance to the equipment room, arms crossed, watching his students trot their laps. The rows of waspish waists swayed under tight tanks and flouncy gym shorts, bras visible beneath mesh fabric like it was nothing unusual. Which, these days, it wasn’t.

His own waist had narrowed to an impossible V-shape long ago, just like the rest of the world’s. And despite the stubborn memory of the man he used to be, Pablo wore his high-cut lace panties and matching bra without hesitation now—because there simply was no other option. His broad frame had adjusted, somehow. The dainty lingerie clung to him perfectly. The pink gloss on his lips shimmered under the gym’s fluorescents, and not a trace of stubble marred his jaw. Or anywhere else.

Smooth skin, glossy lips, sexy underwear, and impossibly high heels—those had all become ordinary.

What still struck him, though, was how they spoke.

“Coach, do I really have to do the full eight laps?” Diego giggled, jogging past with a flutter of his lashes and a toss of his silky black hair. His voice was breathy, teasing, a natural sing-song that would’ve sounded absurd in Pablo’s ears once—but now just felt like… well, Diego.

“Yes, darling,” Pablo said, and winced inwardly. Darling. The word slipped out, sugary and automatic. He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to bend his voice into that same breezy register everyone used now. But there it was—like lipstick, like lingerie. Natural.

There was a moment of... something-ness... then..

He scratched at his palm—then froze.

It wasn’t his hand.

Well, it was. But it wasn’t.

The fingers were slimmer, longer. Softer. His knuckles looked daintier. And his nails—God.

Delicate, almond-shaped tips had replaced his blunt, trimmed nails.

A bottle of nail polish clinked gently to the floor by his foot. It hadn’t been there a second ago.

Pablo bent to pick it up—and paused. Even the gesture felt different. His wrist arched softly. His elbow tucked inward. His hand moved with a fluid, ladylike grace that made his stomach turn.

Or would have, once.

Now it just felt inevitable.

“Oh,” he murmured, staring at the polish. It was a delicate pink—iridescent, with flecks of gold suspended in the lacquer like stars in a bubblegum sky.

Around the gym, students began to notice too. At first, the clatter of heels continued, but the mood shifted. Gasps turned to squeals of surprise. A boy named Marcus, tall and broad-shouldered, stood frozen mid-stride, staring at his newly feminine hands in awe. Another, Joel, was already hunched against the wall, carefully painting each of his new nails with a bottle of shimmering teal polish that had appeared beside him. His face was serene. Focused.

“You feel that too?” Pablo asked no one in particular.

The students weren’t resisting. They were… leaning in.

Pablo’s hands itched—not uncomfortably, but insistently. Like a craving. He uncapped the bottle and, before he realized what he was doing, began painting. Stroke by tiny, controlled stroke, he coated each already-lacquered nail with the new shade, the brush fitting perfectly in his grip. The floral pattern underneath reacted to the top coat, shimmering through with subtle elegance.

As he finished, he turned his hand side to side, admiring the light play across the surface. His voice bubbled out of him again, unbidden.

“Ooh, that is just too pretty,” he whispered with a giggle.

From across the gym, Diego trotted over. “Coach! Yours are so cute—look at mine!” He wiggled his fingers, now candy-striped in pink and white, each nail topped with a tiny, sparkling gem.

“They’re adorable,” Pablo said, the praise rolling off his tongue in a singsong lilt. He blinked. He hadn’t meant to say that. But it felt right. It felt… good.

He heard the same tone all around him now—high-pitched, soft, and teasing. The glitch had once again rewired them all. No resistance. No fight. Just adjustment, with a glossy smile and freshly painted fingers.

Later, after class, Pablo lingered in his office, letting his newly graceful hands drift across his desk as he organized attendance sheets. Each movement looked intentional, elegant. It was as if his gestures now obeyed choreography, not instinct.

He thought of his son, Juan.

The kid had started experimenting. Trying different styles, painting his nails even before this latest change. Pablo had scolded him, once.

Now… how could he?

What did masculinity even mean anymore?

Pablo raised one hand to his face, gently brushing a glossy fingertip across his pillowy lower lip.

Maybe Juan hadn’t been confused after all.

Maybe he was just ahead of the curve.