Tagged in the Photo (Patreon)

The lift in the parking garage is tiny, as they always are. You understand they want to save money, but that doesn't make sense when it's connected to a shopping center like this one is. People buy stuff after all. The guy coming from the previous floor moves to one side of the elevator as soon as the door opens, and he realizes he would have to share the ride. You take the other side. Once standing there you try your best to not look. It is awkward as it is in the cramped elevator. He is clearly on his way to the fitness center they opened in the old cinema that closed down, already wearing his workout gear. You know it has a purpose, that it is "functional" and has to look like it does, but you really wished he had some shorts on to hide the junk that was now prominently on display in his tight-fitting man leggings. Gym sneakers, shiny compression pants, hugging short-sleeve top, and a cap, all of it filled to the brim with muscles. Well, perhaps not the cap, you stereotype. You see some movement on his side and look up. To your surprise he has his phone out, and ready to take a photo of you. Without shame he taps it right as you look at him, and the unmistakable shutter click sampling plays in his phone. The doors open before you can think of an appropriate reaction, and he steps out.

You feel a mix of pride and anger. He took your photo without asking. But had he asked, you probably would have let him. It's not like it is stealing your soul or anything. Perhaps it is that you are robbed of the reason for the photo that upsets you. You shake yourself out of the daze, and exit the elevator before the doors close. Did he pity your weak physique? You are nowhere near his level. Did he think you looked cute? Some people do, apparently, but someone like him? He is already walking far ahead of you, and getting to him to demand an explanation would be an overreaction. You decide to drop it.

It's just that you don't. You do your shopping as planned, but back in the elevator you keep thinking about the man with the silver bulge and the photo of you he carries with him. You on your hand carry this annoying feeling with you. What a lousy exchange. As you drive home you can't remember what his face looked like, or the gym bag he carried. You can't remember any brands of any sort. Some simple logotype on the hat, but otherwise all you can think of are bulging muscles under stretched, synthetic fabric.

You're almost not surprised when you wake up the morning after looking like him. It's your home, your bedroom, your bed, but it isn't your body. You didn't put in any work to get those thighs, those abs, and those arms. Admittedly he didn't have to put any work in to get such dick, but now you had that too. You look into the mirror and see a different sight than ever before. You know you ought to be upset or scared. You are not you anymore. You don't have any clothes or shoes that fit. You can't open your phone with face recognition. You don't have a valid ID. Not even your mother would recognize you. No one would.

Well, that doesn't have to be true. Perhaps someone recognizes whoever you look like now. You hope that is a good thing. You wonder what he looks like. Does he look like you now? Do you both look like twins? Does he exist at all anymore? Will you swap back? Slowly you start to realize that none of this feels real to you. Because if it is real, you are in so much over your head.