Continue kissing David passionately in the hallway, letting your feelings take over.

You press yourself against David in the hallway, your lips meeting his with newfound hunger. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping firmly as he guides you backward until your shoulders touch the wall. The pressure of his body against yours sends waves of heat coursing through your veins. Every nerve ending in your new body seems hypersensitive, registering each brush of his fingers with exquisite clarity.

"Mia," David murmurs against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. "God, I want you."

You twist your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, letting yourself drown in the sensations. His thigh presses between your legs, and a moan escapes your lips—a sound so feminine and needy it barely registers as your own.

Then it happens. Like a switch flipping off, the warm haze of Comfort Mode evaporates. The artificial chemical cushion dissolves from your brain in an instant, leaving you raw and exposed. Reality crashes in with the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

You freeze against David, your body suddenly rigid. Every moment of the past forty-eight hours floods your consciousness without filter—posing half-naked for photos, giggling as saleswomen cupped your breasts to "check the fit," the way you've been swaying your hips when you walk, the underwear selfie you sent to the man currently pressing you against the wall.

"What's wrong?" David pulls back, confusion clouding his features.

You can't answer. Your throat constricts as you stare at him—your flatmate, your friend, the person who's seen every step of your transformation. His hands are still on your body, your lipstick smeared across his mouth. The cognitive dissonance is staggering. You're Matt, except you're not. You're Mia now, with all these alien sensations and responses—and the most terrifying part is how right it had felt moments ago.

"I need—I can't—" Your voice comes out strangled, the Irish lilt still present but now sounding foreign to your own ears. You push against his chest, ducking under his arm. "I'm sorry."

You stumble down the hallway, shopping bags forgotten, and lock yourself in the bathroom. The harsh fluorescent light is unforgiving as you confront your reflection—copper waves tumbling past your shoulders, eyes wide with mascara-framed panic, lips swollen from kissing.

Sliding down against the door, you wrap your arms around your knees, trying to steady your breathing. Without Comfort Mode's influence, every aspect of your situation hits with brutal clarity. You're trapped in a body that isn't yours, feeling things you shouldn't be feeling, wanting things that Matt would never want.

"Mia?" David's voice comes through the door, concerned rather than angry. "Talk to me. What happened?"

You press your hands to your temples. "I just need a minute," you call back, your voice trembling. "Please."

There's a pause, then a soft thud as David leans against the other side of the door. "Take all the time you need," he says quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."

That's exactly what you're afraid of—that he's not going anywhere, that you're not going anywhere, that this new reality is settling into place with terrifying permanence. Twenty-seven return points. Twenty-three more to go. And every task draws you deeper into being Mia, makes it harder to remember Matt.

"The pasta's getting cold," David adds after a moment, his tone gentler now. "But I can reheat it whenever you're ready."

The mundane comment—so normal amidst the insanity—brings unexpected tears to your eyes. In the mirror, mascara begins to track down your cheeks in dark rivulets.

22:15 | Sunday 3 August 2025 | Your flat, Putney, London

Return Points: 27/50