Better than Before

Wyatt closed the door behind Gary and stood there for a moment, listening to his footsteps fade down the walkway. The house was quiet again. Too quiet. Chet was still out, her parents were still away, and for the first time all day, she felt the weight of being alone.

She glanced down at herself. The silk robe shimmered faintly in the hallway light, clinging to her skin in a way that felt indecent for something meant to be casual. With a sigh, she untied the belt and let it slip from her shoulders.

In an instant, it transformed — the silk rippling, dissolving into dull cotton. Her old grey sweats lay puddled at her feet.

Wyatt laughed softly, shaking her head. The world had stopped making sense days ago, and yet somehow, she loved it. The impossible had become routine. Every change, every glitch, felt like a secret whispered just for her. A new kind of magic.

She slipped into her pajamas — soft flannel shorts, a tank top — or that's what they had been. The moment the fabric touched her skin, colour bled through it, patterns forming. The top became something sheer and lacy; the shorts reformed into a pair of pink satin panties edged in tiny bows. She looked down at herself and sighed, amused and exasperated all at once.

"Of course," she murmured to no one. "Of course."

It was amazing, though. Everything she touched obeyed some new rule of beauty she didn't understand. A few days ago, she'd have been terrified. Now she just marvelled at it. Whatever this was, it was making her... different. Better, maybe.

She turned off the light, slid into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

Her mind went back to Gary — the way he'd stood nervously on the porch in that yellow sundress, the hem fluttering around his knees, his eyes darting anywhere but her chest. The thought made her smile. He was cute. He really was. And she couldn't remember ever thinking of him that way before.

What did that mean?

She wasn't sure. It felt like parts of her were slipping; her old instincts, her sense of boundaries, even her sense of self weren't tethered to the identity she had known her whole life. Flirting came to her without thought now. A look, a word, a tilt of her head. It wasn't performative; it was natural. Automatic. But actually liking a guy? That was new.

Of course, Gary wasn't just any guy. He was her best friend. Her co-conspirator. The one person who'd always understood her, even when she didn't make sense to herself. They'd built things together. Broken things. Changed each other in ways that couldn't be undone.

Wyatt rolled onto her side, tugging the blanket up over her shoulder. The silk of her new lingerie whispered against her skin, warm and cool at once. The house creaked softly. Somewhere, a car passed outside. Her eyes began to drift closed.

And then came the dreams.

Flashes of things she couldn't quite place — walking down an aisle in a white wedding dress, a veil drifting in the air like mist, her husband-to-be standing in his own white gown, gleaming in the morning light. A baby's cry, soft and distant. The feeling of holding something tiny, fragile, and impossibly precious against her chest. Milk. Warmth. A heartbeat that wasn't her own. A man's laughter — hers? No, his — familiar somehow. Two bikinis drying in the sun, side by side, as children's voices echoed in the surf.

The scenes shifted too quickly to hold. Images without weight. Feelings without context.

When morning came, she wouldn't remember most of it. Maybe a colour. A sound. A trace of warmth on her skin.

But as she sank into sleep, a smile touched her lips. She didn't know what she was becoming — not exactly — but whatever it was, it felt right.

Better than before.