Chapter 2

I wake up as Denise again.

The quilt is warm over my hips, and my breasts settle against the mattress when I turn. The clock says 5:58. The room smells like rosewater and cold tea. I lie still for a moment, breathing her slow, steady breath, feeling the soft weight of her belly rise and fall. The house is quiet. No one else is awake.

I'm still her. I did a whole day as her, slept in her bed, woke up as her. And I don't want to be her anymore.

Not because she's wrong. Denise is soft and warm and her life is full. But last night, standing at the vanity, I felt her age in my lower back and the droop of her breasts and the tired way her feet ached. And then there's Chloe. Nineteen. Slim. Dark blonde hair. A body I've been circling in her memories since yesterday. I want to be that.

I sit up. The bra I wore yesterday is draped over the chair, and my nightgown has ridden up. I don't bother to fix it yet. I swing my legs out of bed and my feet meet the cool floor. My knees creak. Forty-two, I think. Yeah. Moving on.

I need a private moment with Chloe. The transfer is touch—skin to skin, focused intent. I can do it in the hallway before she's fully awake. I know Chloe's routine: she showers at 6:15, before the bathroom gets crowded. If I catch her coming out of her room, hand on her arm, I can take her.

I put on Denise's robe—a soft gray cotton thing from the hook on the door—and step into the hall. The house is still dark. I can hear Sophie's faint music from upstairs, but it's probably just my imagination. It's too early.

I climb the stairs. The third step creaks under Denise's weight. I pause. Nothing. I keep going.

Chloe's door is at the end of the hall. The white canopy frame is visible through the crack. I can smell peony body spray even from here. My heart is beating faster now, and it's not Denise's calm teacher heart. It's mine, excited.

I wait outside her door. I don't have to wait long. The door opens, and there she is.

Chloe Anne Hartley. Nineteen. Dark blonde waves loose around her face, hazel eyes still soft with sleep. She's wearing a thin white sleep tank and lavender cotton shorts, and her feet are bare. She has a beauty mark on her left cheekbone, faint freckles, and the kind of quiet prettiness that comes from good bone structure and not enough sleep.

"Mom?" Her voice is light, breathy. "What are you doing up here?"

"I was going to check on you," I say, in Denise's warm alto. "You were up late."

She rubs her eye with the heel of her hand. "Couldn't sleep."

I reach out. My hand—Denise's hand—closes around Chloe's wrist. Skin to skin. Her pulse is quick and light against my thumb. I focus. I want it. I want to be her.

The world goes white.

It's a sharp jolt at the point of contact, an electric yank through a pinhole, like my whole self is being threaded through the gap between her wrist and my hand. For a heartbeat I'm nowhere. Then I flood into her.

The first breath tastes like sleep and peony body spray and the dry air of the upstairs hallway. I'm shorter. The floor is closer. My shoulders are narrow. My chest rises, and there's a small, high weight on it—breasts, but nothing like Denise's. They sit firm and light, and I can feel the thin strap of her sleep tank over one shoulder. My hair falls past my shoulders, loose and wavy, and the ends brush my bare arm.

I open my eyes. I'm looking at Denise.

She's standing in front of me, her hand still on my wrist. But something is different. Her hand relaxes. Her eyes blink once, then focus. She looks at me—not like a mother looking at a daughter, but like a person looking at a mirror.

"Okay," she says. Denise's voice, warm and low. "That's done."

I know her. I know she's me—a separate me, in Denise's body, with Denise's memories and my core. She drops my wrist and steps back.

"Morning," I say. My voice comes out light and breathy. Chloe's voice. It feels like a small bell ringing in my throat.

Denise—the clone—nods. "Go shower. You have class at eight." She turns and walks back down the stairs, her robe swaying, and I hear the creak of the third step again.

I'm Chloe now. I'm in her body, in the hallway outside her room, wearing her sleep clothes. The house is still quiet. I can hear the clock ticking from downstairs.

I go back into Chloe's room and close the door.

The room is exactly what her profile said: white canopy bed, lavender and cream floral bedding, pale pink walls, a desk by the window with a neat stack of textbooks and a small succulent. The closet is organized by color. There's a corkboard above the desk with a calendar, café schedule, and a postcard of a university.

I stand still for a second, just breathing. Chloe's body. The air is cool on my bare arms. My stomach is flat. My thighs don't touch when I stand with my feet apart. I feel light. Like I could float.

I need to shower and dress. Morning routine. Class at eight.

I go to the bathroom down the hall. The door locks. I strip off the sleep tank and shorts. Naked, in front of the bathroom mirror: Chloe's body. My body now. Small, round breasts with a gentle perk. Narrow waist. Hips that curve softly. Slim legs. The beauty mark on my cheekbone. I touch it with one finger. A nervous habit. It's mine now.

The shower is fast. I use her shampoo—something floral, maybe peony—and the hot water runs over my smaller shoulders. I have to adjust the shower head; Chloe is shorter than Denise. The body knows the routine. I don't think too hard.

After the shower, I wrap a towel around myself and go back to her room. The closet is full of pastels. I pick out the cream knit top, the pleated lavender skirt, and white sneakers. The bra is pale pink with light lace trim, and the panties are white cotton with a tiny pink bow. I dress quickly. The bra hooks in the back with a practiced motion—Chloe's hands have done this a thousand times. The cream knit top settles over my chest, and I can see the small outline of my breasts pressing against the fabric. The pleated lavender skirt sits at my waist, and when I move, it rustles against my thighs. I pull a cropped lavender cardigan over my shoulders for the cold classroom. The white canvas sneakers are clean against the floor.

I sit at the vanity to do my makeup. Tinted lip balm, mascara, a little cream blush. The face in the mirror is Chloe's—nineteen, soft, pretty. I smile at her. She smiles back. The smile comes naturally. The muscles know how.

Downstairs, the house is waking up. I can hear Mia's voice, then Lily's laugh. I grab my canvas tote from the hook and my keys from the ceramic dish by the door.

Breakfast is quick. Denise is at the stove, scrambling eggs. She looks over her shoulder at me. "You're up early," she says.

I shrug, sliding into a chair. "Class at eight."

She sets a plate in front of me. "Eat something."

I do. The eggs are warm and buttery. I feel Chloe's affection for her mother settle in my chest—but also that quiet prickle of resentment. She still treats me like a kid. I don't say anything. I just eat.

Sophie comes down in her gray hoodie, hair in a messy ponytail. She cracks her knuckles. "Morning," she mutters, grabbing a granola bar.

Mia appears with her hair half-up, holding a sketchbook. "Chloe, can you look at my fox painting later?"

"Sure," I say, in Chloe's light voice. "After my shift."

Lily barrels in, wearing a pink twirly dress and butterfly leggings. "Chloe! Guess what? I'm in the play!"

"I know, sweet pea." I ruffle her hair. The motion is automatic, big-sisterly.

The morning moves in its ordinary rhythm. I finish breakfast, rinse my plate, and head for the door. Denise's clone catches my eye. She gives me a small, knowing nod. Separate instance. We don't need to talk. We both know.

The bus to campus is crowded. I find a seat near the back, my tote on my lap. The girl next to me is listening to music through earbuds, her head bobbing. I look out the window. The town is gray and bare. Spring is still deciding whether to arrive.

Community college is a low brick building with a parking lot full of cars. I walk in with the other students, my sneakers quiet on the linoleum. The lecture hall is cold. I take a seat in the middle, pull out a notebook and a pen. The professor is a middle-aged man with a monotone voice. I try to pay attention, but Chloe's body is a distraction—the way my legs cross, the way my hair keeps falling into my face, the weight of the small breasts under my top. I doodle a star in the margin. Her handwriting is neater than mine. Everything she does is neater than mine.

Class ends at noon. I have an hour before my shift at The Daily Grind. I walk across campus to the café, the cold air nipping at my bare legs. The skirt swishes. A guy on a skateboard passes and glances at me, then looks away. He sees a girl. He has no idea.

The Daily Grind is a corner shop with big windows and a chalkboard sign. Inside, it smells like coffee and caramel. The grinder hums behind the counter. I push through the door, and Ava is already there, tying her apron.

"Chloe!" Her voice is bright. She has curly black hair pinned back with a clip, and she's wearing the same café apron over a striped tee and jeans. "Perfect timing. Marcus called in sick, so it's just us for the first hour."

Ava Thompson. Petite, energetic, the kind of person who makes you feel like you're already behind on the day. Ava is her favorite person to work with, and something in my chest loosens at the sight of her.

"Great," I say, and I mean it. "I needed the hours anyway."

I go to the back, hang my tote, put on my own apron. The strings tie in a bow at the small of my back—a motion I've done a hundred times as Chloe. Then I take my place at the espresso machine.

The first drink is a latte. I grind the beans, tamp the portafilter, lock it in. The machine hisses. Steam rises. I watch the shot pull—deep brown, then golden. I steam the milk, the pitcher angled just so, and my hand moves on instinct. When I pour, the foam folds into the cup. I practice a rosetta: a small leaf that starts tight and then opens. Not perfect. Chloe's hand is learning.

Ava works beside me, taking orders, calling them out. She moves fast, but there's a set to her shoulders that wasn't there earlier. When there's a lull, she leans against the counter and sighs.

"You okay?" I ask.

She glances at me. "My bio exam is Friday. I haven't studied. I keep saying I'll start, and then I close, and then I'm too tired." She shakes her head. "And my mom keeps asking if I'm still doing the pre-med thing, and I don't know anymore."

Something in me wants to fix it for her, the way Chloe always does. "You'll figure it out. You always do."

Ava gives me a small smile. "Easy for you to say. You have your whole transfer thing sorted."

I freeze for a second. The transfer application. Due May 1st. Still not sent. Still not told to Denise.

"Not sorted," I say quietly. "I haven't even finished the essay."

Ava's eyebrows go up. "Chloe. It's due in, like, two weeks."

"I know." I wipe down the steam wand. "I know."

Ava doesn't push. She turns to take another order. But the moment sits between us, and I feel the weight of it in Chloe's chest. The application. The university two hours away. The mother who doesn't know.

The café stays busy through the afternoon. I make cappuccinos, mochas, iced lattes. My hands know the rhythm. The hiss of the steam wand, the knock of the portafilter, the clink of cups on saucers. A guy in a puffer vest orders a half-caf oat milk latte with extra foam and then asks me to remake it because the foam isn't "dry enough." I smile and say "Of course," because that's what Chloe does, but inside I'm thinking Oh my god, it's foam. The irritation is small and sharp, and it's mine. I practice latte art when I can: hearts, rosettas, once a tulip that actually looks like a tulip. Ava claps. "There she is."

By the end of the shift, my feet ache a little. Not like Denise's ache—lighter, more local to the balls of my feet from standing. I untie my apron, grab my tote, and wave at Ava. "See you tomorrow."

"Good luck with the essay!" she calls.

I walk home in the late afternoon light. The sun is low and pale. My shadow stretches long on the sidewalk. I'm aware of the way my hips move, the small bounce of my breasts, the swish of my skirt. I'm a nineteen-year-old girl walking home from work. I pass a shop window and catch my reflection: dark blonde waves, hazel eyes, the lavender skirt. The girl in the glass is me. A couple inside the shop looks up, and for a second our eyes meet. They see a pretty girl. They have no idea. The thrill is a quick, bright spark in my chest, like a match struck behind my ribs.

At home, the kitchen smells like garlic and tomatoes. Denise is at the stove again. She's set out plates, and Sophie is already at the table, scrolling her phone. Mia is at the counter with her sketchbook. Lily is drawing at the table.

"Hey, Mom," I say, dropping my tote by the stairs.

Denise turns. "Hi, sweetheart. How was work?"

"Fine." I hesitate. The tension is there, under the surface. I know she wants me to stay. I know she doesn't know about the application. I know I haven't told her. The lie sits in my mouth like a hot stone.

I go to my room to wash up. The moment alone is a relief. I close the door, and the quiet settles.

This is my private moment. I lock the door. The click is soft but final.

I stand in front of the closet mirror. The girl in the glass is Chloe. Nineteen. Soft, delicate, pretty. I pull my top over my head. The cream knit slips off, and my small breasts sit high and round in the pale pink bra. I unhook it with one hand. The cups fall away. My breasts are small and perky, the nipples a soft pink. I touch them. The skin is warm and smooth, and the sensation is sharper than it was in Denise's body—less weight, but more sensitivity. I cup them in my palms. They fit there.

I trace my waist, my hips. The contrast with Denise is everywhere. Denise was soft and full and carried her weight low. Chloe is light. Her waist is narrow, her hips a gentle curve, her stomach flat. Her thighs don't rub together when she walks. Her shoulders are narrow but defined from volleyball. She feels like she might float.

I go to her closet. Dresses and skirts hang in color order. I touch the lavender floral sundress—the one from her high school graduation, hanging in the back. The fabric is soft and worn. I pull out a pale pink wrap dress with tiny white polka dots. Her favorite. I step into it, tie the waist. It fits exactly. I look in the mirror. This is mine now.

I spend a long time in the mirror. I try on the white skinny jeans, a bow-neck blouse, the pleated lavender skirt again. Each outfit changes the shape of me. The clothes are soft and feminine and exactly what I wanted.

Eventually, I change into pajamas—a soft lavender sleep set, cotton shorts and a tiny camisole. The fabric is cool and light. I sit at her desk. The transfer application is open on her laptop. The essay is half-written. I read the first few lines. I have always been the one my family leans on... The words are Chloe's. The hesitation is mine now too. I close the laptop.

Later, I go downstairs for dinner. Denise has made pasta. The conversation is normal—Sophie complaining about practice, Mia talking about her fox painting, Lily reciting her lines. Denise asks me about my shift, and I answer without mentioning Ava's exam or my own application. The tension stays under the table, like always.

After dinner, I help clear the plates. Denise and I stand at the sink. The silence is thick.

"You've been quiet," she says.

"Just tired."

She nods. Her eyes are soft, but there's that watchful edge. "Okay, sweetheart."

I go upstairs. My room is dark and quiet. I brush my teeth in the bathroom, wash my face. In the mirror, my reflection is Chloe in lavender sleep clothes. My body. My life now.

I lie down in the canopy bed. The floral bedding is soft against my bare legs. The ceiling is pale pink. I can hear Sophie's music through the wall, faint and thumpy. The house settles around me.

I close my eyes. The floral bedding is soft against my bare legs. Sophie's music thumps faintly through the wall. My chest rises and falls, small and light. The house settles around me. I am Chloe.