Best Served Cold.

Steve’s hands trembled with a mix of anticipation and vindictive glee, the mechanical pencil gripped like a weapon in his fist. The classroom around him blurred into irrelevance—Professor DJ’s pixelated gunfire echoing faintly from his laptop, the scattered whispers of classmates—all fading as he focused on the yellow square before him. This was it: ****, pure and poetic, scripted with the precision of his analytical mind. He pressed the lead to the paper, the words flowing in his neat, deliberate script:

Shana is cursed. The thinner she is, the uglier she is, naturally speaking. The fatter she gets, the more gorgeous she becomes. Unlike normal humans who are healthy when thin, she is now only healthy when fat. A complete swap. Being skinny means having trouble walking and getting out of breath, barely able to ascend stairs. But being fat will give her energy like a healthy person where she could run for miles without issue.

A dark chuckle escaped his lips as he reread the curse. Perfect. No free will violated—just a flipped reality where her choices would doom her to misery unless she embraced the very thing she’d scorned. He crumpled the Post-it tightly and hurled it backward, expecting the familiar vanishing act.

But instead, a voice cut through the air like a whip: “DENIED!”

Steve’s head snapped around just in time to see Nick—the class asshole, all swagger and smugness—strut by from his bathroom break. Nick, with his gelled hair, designer sneakers, and an ego inflated by daddy’s money, swatted the crumpled note mid-air like a pesky fly. It smacked into Steve’s forehead with a soft thwack before fluttering to the floor, where it promptly disappeared in a puff of nothingness. Nick didn’t even break stride, dropping into his seat with a self-satisfied smirk, as if he’d just schooled the room’s biggest loser.

Steve rubbed his forehead, a flicker of irritation giving way to grim satisfaction. The whoosh followed—the ethereal wave rippling through the classroom, unseen but undeniable. No dramatic visuals this time, no bodies morphing before his eyes. Just a subtle shift in the air, a quiet rewrite of the world’s code. Steve knew, deep in his bones, that it had worked. Shana’s fate was sealed, her vanity her undoing. He leaned back, a predatory smile curling his lips, savoring the invisible victory.

Shana’s Perspective

Across campus, in the bustling heart of Westbridge Community College’s quad, Shana Matthews dragged herself up the final step of the library staircase, each movement a labored, wheezing ordeal. At twenty-one, she was the picture of what she’d always aspired to be: skinny. Fifty pounds shed in the last year through relentless gym sessions, kale smoothies, and the encouraging texts from her “trainers”—the three guys she’d been juggling behind Steve’s back. She’d finally achieved the lithe, model-esque figure she’d dreamed of, the one that turned heads and silenced the doubters. Or so she thought.

But today, something was wrong. Horribly, inexplicably wrong.

Her reflection in the library’s glass doors hit her like a gut punch. Gone was the fresh-faced beauty she’d cultivated with selfies and filters. Staring back was a hag—sallow, sagging skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones that jutted out like knife edges. Her eyes, once bright and almond-shaped, were sunken into dark hollows, ringed with perpetual shadows that no concealer could hide. Her lips, thinned to pale slits, cracked and dry, framed teeth that seemed yellowed and crooked despite her recent whitening strips. Acne scars she’d long outgrown had resurfaced in angry red blooms across her forehead and chin, and her once-vibrant auburn hair hung limp and greasy, split ends frizzing wildly as if she hadn’t washed it in weeks. She looked ugly. Not just plain—sinfully ugly, the kind that made strangers avert their eyes and friends offer awkward pity smiles.

“What the fuck?” Shana rasped, her voice a hoarse croak that barely carried over her ragged breathing. She’d woken up like this that morning—or at least, she thought she had. No, wait… had she? Her mind fogged, a strange dissonance creeping in. This felt normal. Didn’t it? She remembered the compliments from her hookups, the way they’d cooed over her “toned” body just last week. But now, replaying those moments, their faces twisted in her memory—polite grimaces, **** enthusiasm. Had they always looked at her like she was a charity case?

She gripped the handrail, her bony fingers trembling as she tried to straighten up. Walking—even standing—felt like wading through molasses. Her legs, stick-thin and quivering, threatened to buckle with every shift of weight. She’d jogged here from the parking lot, a mere quarter-mile, but by the time she’d reached the stairs, she was gasping like a fish on dry land. Lungs burning, heart pounding erratically, she’d collapsed against the railing halfway up, sucking in air that refused to satisfy. Now, on the last step, sweat poured down her face, stinging her inflamed skin, and her vision swam with black spots.

This is normal, a voice in her head insisted, Postie’s subtle influence weaving seamlessly into her reality. You’ve always been this way. Skinny girls like you just… get tired easy. It’s fine. But doubt gnawed at the edges. Yesterday—no, this morning—she’d bounded up these same stairs without a second thought. Hadn’t she? Or was that a dream? She shook her head, the motion sending a wave of dizziness crashing over her. Her knees knocked together, frail as twigs, and she had to clutch the door handle to stay upright.

Pushing inside, the library’s cool air hit her like a slap. Conversations hushed as she shuffled past, heads turning not in admiration, but revulsion. A group of girls by the coffee stand whispered, their eyes wide with horror. “Oh my God, is she okay?” one murmured. “She looks like ****.” Shana’s cheeks burned—though with her current pallor, they barely flushed. They’re jealous, she told herself, clinging to the rewritten normalcy. Always have been.

She collapsed into a chair at a study table, her chest heaving. Reaching for her phone, she pulled up her latest selfie from the gym mirror—posted just an hour ago. The image confirmed it: a gaunt, repulsive specter staring back, mid-pose with a **** smile that twisted into a grotesque leer. Comments flooded in: “Girl, you need help.” “What happened to you?” No hearts, no fire emojis—just concern and cringe. Her stomach churned. This can’t be real. But Postie’s magic held firm; deep down, she accepted it as her truth. She’d earned this body, after all. The guys loved it. Right?

Trying to stand for a water break, she lurched forward, her breath catching in shallow, painful gasps. The vending machine was ten feet away, but it might as well have been a marathon. Her muscles screamed in protest, atrophied and weak despite the hours logged on the treadmill. Just walk, she thought, but her feet shuffled like those of a 500-pound invalid, each step a Herculean effort. By the time she reached it, she was doubled over, clutching her sides, tears of frustration streaming down her pitted cheeks.

What if I just… stopped? The thought flickered, unbidden. What if she ate like she used to—burgers, fries, the comfort foods Steve begged her for? A vague memory surfaced: him pleading for her to gain weight, to fill out into the curvy goddess he craved. She’d laughed it off then, sought skinniness instead. But now… her mind wandered to visions of herself plump. Rounded cheeks glowing with vitality, full lips curving into a natural, radiant smile. Curves that turned heads for all the right reasons—energy surging through her veins, stairs conquered with ease, miles run without a wheeze. Beautiful. The word echoed, tantalizing.

She shook it off, slamming a dollar into the vending machine for a diet soda. No. Skinny is better. But as she hobbled back, the curse whispered its irony: her health, her beauty, tethered to the weight she despised. Postie’s change was absolute, her perception normalized to the swap—she knew this was how the world worked for her, even as the misery gnawed. Guys texted her now, excuses piling up: Busy tonight. Headache. She was alone with her frailty, ugly and exhausted, the seeds of inevitable surrender already sprouting.

Back to Steve

The bell chimed, signaling the end of class. Steve rose from his seat, his enhanced physique and the girls’ lingering attentions making him feel like a king. Before he could gather his things, Kerry, Savannah, and Amber shot up in unison, their voices overlapping in a harmonious chorus: “Hey, Steve, wanna grab lunch?”

The words hung in the air for a split second—then shattered. Kerry’s dark eyes narrowed at Savannah. “Back off, he’s mine.” Savannah whipped around, her curvaceous frame tensing as she scowled at Amber. “Dream on, bitch.” Amber, petite but fierce, shot daggers at both. “Fuck off, he’s with me.” The three exchanged venomous glares, a silent battle of he’s mine etched in every furrowed brow and clenched jaw, the air crackling with possessive fury.

Steve stood there, heart racing, a grin spreading wide. Chaos indeed—and lunch was about to get interesting.