Your dreams after her influence

Sweet dreams are made for you. (rough draft v1)

As you drift off to sleep, the boundaries of reality blur and dissolve, leaving you in a dream world that feels strangely lifelike. You're still you, but there's something different, something off.

Looking down at your body, you realize you're wearing a blouse and a skirt. They fit well, hugging your form in a way that feels foreign but not unpleasant. Your legs are shaved, and your skin is smooth, almost glowing.

You find yourself walking on the college campus, but the atmosphere is different now. Your steps are hesitant, a lump of tension sitting heavy in your gut. Whispers float around you, mixing curiosity with judgment.

"Is that Soulan?"

"He looks... different."

Some faces you pass are open and encouraging; others twist into narrow-eyed glares of confusion or disdain. Your heart pounds in your chest, as if begging you to run.

Stepping into the psychology classroom, you're met with another wave of mixed reactions. Your professor does a double-take, her eyes widening for just a moment before she regains composure. She gives a nod, almost as if she's reassuring herself more than you.

During class discussions, you feel your voice crack, softer and more melodic than you're used to one moment and your normal mild bass the next. The room falls silent for a moment that feels like an eternity, before resuming with awkward laughter or indifferent shrugs. The space feels both vast and suffocating, like you could drown in a sea of unsaid words and hushed judgments.

The dream transitions, and you find yourself unlocking the front door, **** to escape to some semblance of comfort. As you step inside, the familiar scent of home cooking and the soft glow of ambient lighting wash over you.

Miss Isabelle greets you, and the relief you feel is immediate and visceral. There’s no judgment in her eyes, no question in her voice.

"Welcome back," she says simply. "How do you feel?"

"Confused, a little scared," you reply, your voice still tinged with that dreamlike femininity. "But also... not entirely uncomfortable?"

She smiles, both enigmatic and reassuring, and for a moment you think she might answer. But she doesn’t.

"Sometimes it takes a storm to clear the air," she says softly. "The key is to learn how to navigate it."

Slowly, the dream world begins to unravel, fraying at the edges like worn fabric. As you wake up, your first instinct is to touch your face, your body, verifying the solidity of your reality. You're you, and yet the dream leaves a lingering question, a whisper of what-ifs.

Once she's sure you're awake and starting your day, Miss Isabelle returns to her study, ready to start her own day, having woken up early to check on you, skipping her own routine.

Her fingers dance over a hidden drawer, pausing briefly before she decides against opening it.

"Every question," she murmurs to herself, "needs its own time for an answer."

She sits back, her gaze fixed on the closed door that separates her space from yours, as if she could see through walls and into your stirring thoughts.

"Time," she smiles, "we both have."