Strength and Stability

Amir Petros tightened his grip on the handles of the wheelbarrow, the soft leather of his work gloves creaking faintly. He pushed it forward, the rubber wheel crunching through loose gravel, his heels clicking daintily against the packed earth with each careful step. His breath came steady, his waspish waist cinched neatly beneath the hem of a dusty white tank top and the waistband of a faded, pleated denim skirt.

It was late morning, and the London air was already thick with the scent of concrete dust, oil, and steel. Sunlight glanced off glass towers beyond the scaffolded site, and laughter echoed across the work yard. His coworkers lounged on crates, on bags of cement, on anything horizontal and strong enough to hold their young bodies. One of them, Martin, twirled a high ponytail, something that had become more popular with the young men in the past few years, around his pink-tipped finger and giggled about how cute his heels looked in the reflection of a puddle. Another, Tariq, snapped selfies with two others, all of them fresh-faced, lipsticked, with smooth legs crossed over thigh-high boots.

But Amir didn’t stop.

He bent slightly—careful of his back, even though there was no longer a creak in his spine—and dumped the load of gravel onto the pile near the corner foundation. The wheelbarrow shuddered slightly as it emptied, and Amir leaned against it, just for a moment, his long lashes fluttering as sweat tickled the soft skin above his perfectly sculpted brows.

Three hours ago, he’d been fifty-six years old.

He still felt fifty-six in his bones. Not because of the aches—they were gone—but because of the weight he carried. The understanding of hardship. Of duty. Of what it meant to keep your head down and push forward, even when the world shifted under your feet.

Just that morning he'd blinked and found himself once again eighteen. Young. Firm. Energized. His deep brown skin gleamed with youthful luster. His face was smooth, cheekbones sharp, lips full and shiny with cherry gloss, hair thick and wavy where once a large bald spot had been hidden beneath the hard hat. He’d looked at his reflection in the scaffolding glass and hardly recognized the boy staring back, clad in a snug skirt and the delicate lace edges of a bra just visible beneath his tank.

And he’d thought, Alright. I can work with this.

But now…

Now something else was wrong.

The world had shifted again.

And so soon since the last change!

He touched his stomach, then his hips. Everything was… smaller.

A strange disorientation swept over him, like vertigo. The wheelbarrow he’d just dumped loomed in front of him like a cart built for giants. His dainty hand, with its soft pink nails, looked laughably undersized against the handle. He looked around the yard.

Every single worker—Martin, Tariq, all of them—looked different.

Not just young. Small.

They were all short. Narrow. Their shoulders delicate, their arms thin, like they’d been carved into a single androgynous mold with high cheekbones, fluttery lashes, and model-thin frames. The construction vests hung like costumes, cinched tightly at the waist to fit their waspish figures. Hard hats sat daintily on tousled hair.

He looked down at his legs. The muscles he’d built over decades of lifting, pushing, grinding, sweating—they were gone. His thighs were slim, his knees smooth and hairless. His arms… he flexed them. They moved with precision, but they didn’t look like they used to. The broad, working-man power he’d worn like armor was gone.

And his height… he turned to glance at the nearest doorframe. He had shrunk. They all had. It was difficult to tell exactly their heights with the heels, but they couldn’t be taller than five foot five, give or take. A full head shorter than he’d been before.

“Amir?” Martin’s voice trilled from behind him, lilting and flirtatious like everyone’s had become. “Did you feel that? That, like, whoosh thing? I think we glitched again!”

Amir turned, blinking slowly. Martin looked like a doll. His orange lipstick gleamed in the sun, and his navy pleated skirt fluttered in the breeze. His dainty hands gestured as he spoke, the motion ****, elegant.

“Yeah, sweetie,” Amir said, his own voice high, smooth. Feminine. “I felt it.”

“Oh my gosh, I think we’re, like, even cuter now.” Martin beamed, then gasped. “Your blush is totally still perfect, by the way.”

“Thanks, hon.” Amir offered a tired smile.

He turned back to the wheelbarrow.

There was a pit in his chest. A quiet lament for the arms he’d used to carry concrete blocks, for the back that had absorbed decades of strain. For the strength he’d needed to rise above, to push through, to build something in this country. To protect his wife, his children. To build a future that they wouldn’t have to claw for the way he had.

And now he was soft.

Small.

Pretty.

Helpless?

No.

He shook the thought away.

He reached for the wheelbarrow handles again. They were heavier now, but not unmovable. The gravel pile across the yard glinted in the sun, beckoning. There was still work to be done.

He pushed.

The weight was different. It pressed into his arms, dragged against his heels. His wrists trembled faintly—slim, adorned in pink glitter polish—but he kept going.

Each step clicked sharply against the ground. His balance was harder now, with those endless heels attached to his boots. His skirt rode up slightly with every push. But he adjusted. Adapted. Like he always had.

He thought of his wife, probably at home, giggling with the neighbor women, showing off her own new figure. She’d been shy about it at first, pulling at her short skirts and huffing at the heels. But yesterday, just yesterday, she’d caught his eye across the living room, winked, and said, “You’re not the only one who can wear red.”

It hadn’t been love, when they married.

But, after the changes, it was.

He thought of his daughter, beautiful and brilliant, who’d spent too many nights crying over body image and magazine covers. How he’d told her to love herself. And now—now the whole world had those same smooth arms and narrow hips and glossy lips.

She’d never need to envy again.

Amir pushed the wheelbarrow to the gravel pile, stopped, and bent his slim knees to scoop a fresh load. His hands trembled again, but he adjusted his stance and kept going.

Maybe the strength in his arms was gone.

But he still had heart. He still had work. And he still had a family that depended on him.

And the field was level now. Every man, every woman, every person looked like this. Soft. Beautiful. Dainty. Small.

And they would all have to learn how to work again.

He dumped the gravel into the wheelbarrow. Wiped his glossy lips with the back of a glove. Straightened his pleated skirt with a quick flick of his pink-tipped fingers.

The sun glinted off his cheeks, off the shine of his lipstick. His waspish waist curved into a perfect silhouette. His high-heeled boots pressed neatly into the dust.

He turned.

And pushed again.