You wrench yourself away from the poster, from Trevor's eager face, from the conversation that isn't yours. Your legs move on autopilot toward the bedroom door. Each step feels like wading through concrete.
"Wait, where are you going?" Trevor's voice carries genuine distress. "We were just talking. I thought... I thought we were connecting."
The words hook into something in your chest and pull. You stumble, catching yourself against the doorframe. Your fingers—pudgier than they were even minutes ago—dig into the wood.
"Need... distance," you manage. "Need to think."
But thinking is becoming harder. The virus whispers sweetly: Trevor gets you. Trevor understands. Nobody else would ever talk Chronoquest mechanics at midnight. Nobody else would appreciate your theory about the Paradox Keeper's true identity. Go back. Just turn around. Look at his face when he smiles.
You force yourself through the doorway into a narrow hallway lit by a nightlight. Family photos line the walls. A bathroom to your left. Stairs leading down to your right. The front door is somewhere down there. Freedom. Distance. Space to regroup and—
"Please don't go." Trevor has followed you, standing in his bedroom doorway. His eyes are wet behind his glasses. "I know this is messed up. I know you didn't ask for this. But you're the first person who's ever... who's ever actually wanted to talk to me about stuff I care about."
Your body responds before your mind can stop it. You turn to face him fully, and the movement sends a wave of sensation through your transformed flesh. Everything jiggles. Your center of gravity has shifted even further, your belly pressing insistently against your t-shirt. The fabric rides up slightly, exposing a pale strip of soft skin above your waistband.
"Trevor, I..." The words catch in your throat.
He takes a tentative step closer. "You're kinda totally cool, you know that? I never thought... I mean, the virus was supposed to make someone who'd like me, but I didn't think she'd actually be... be interesting. Be real."
The virus surges at his words. He thinks you're cool. He thinks you're interesting. This skinny, awkward boy with his nervous smile and his trembling hands thinks YOU are—
No. No, this isn't you. This is the programming. The reality-warping code eating through your synapses like acid.
But your feet have stopped moving toward the stairs. You're standing perfectly still in the hallway, facing Trevor, your expanded body heavy and unfamiliar.
"Come back inside," he says softly. "Just for a few more minutes. Please?"