The warm breeze of Seoul brushes against your skin as you wander the streets, marveling at the city’s vibrant energy. You’ve always dreamed of visiting Korea, and now, in your thirties, you’re finally here. The morning sun bathes the streets in golden light, and you pass by a private academy where students in crisp uniforms hurry to class. These aren’t high schoolers. They’re older, at the end of their teens, preparing for university entrance exams. Something catches your eye. A young man and woman stand in the courtyard. He holds a small, carefully wrapped box, his hands trembling as he pours his heart out. She listens, her expression shifting from confusion to amusement before she laughs, snatches the box, and tosses it into the air. The young man’s face crumples as she walks away, leaving him standing alone, shattered.

Your heart aches for him. As you watch, the wind carries the box straight into your hands. You can’t read the Korean characters on the wrapping, but the care and effort put into it are palpable. You glance up, seeing the young man slump toward the academy building, and decide to return the gift. “Hey, wait!” you call out, but he doesn’t stop. You hurry after him, unaware of the subtle changes rippling through your body. Your hands tingle, shrinking and reshaping into delicate, feminine fingers. Your nails lengthen, glossy and perfect, while the hair on your arms vanishes, and your skin smooths out, becoming soft and flawless. Your voice cracks as you call out again, higher-pitched and tinged with a Korean accent. “Wait, pleeze!”

Still, he doesn’t turn. You quicken your pace, your legs thinning and your feet shrinking into polished black loafers. Your pants unravel, transforming into a straight navy skirt that hugs your hips, its hem swaying just above your knees. Your hips widen, your thighs slim, and your flat backside swells into a soft, round curve. A pair of panties forms, snug against your new feminine form, as your cock shrinks and retracts, replaced by a soft, sensitive pussy. The sensation is electric, a mix of pleasure and disorientation that leaves you breathless. “Ower… yeogi… yeogiyo! (Over… here… over here!)” you shout, your voice now fully feminine but still clumsy as you fumble with the Korean words. Your Adam’s apple disappears, and your neck becomes slender. Your backpack shifts into a leather bag filled with textbooks and stationery.

Your torso slims, your waist narrowing as your chest swells. A white blouse and matching bra form, hugging your new, perky breasts. Your face softens, your eyes taking on an epicanthic fold, your lips plumping slightly, and your cheekbones rising. You brush a lock of black hair from your face, now long and silky, with subtle caramel highlights. The changes feel overwhelming, your body humming with unfamiliar sensations. “Junho-ssi, seonmul-eul tteoreosseoyo! (Junho-ssi, you dropped the gift!)” you call out, your voice now sweet and clear, the Korean flowing naturally. You don’t question how you know his name or why your thoughts are now in Korean. It feels as natural as breathing.

He stops and turns, his sad expression replaced by a warm smile. “Soo-ah,” he says, his voice tender as he reaches for your cheek. “Seonmul-eul tteoreotji anhasseo. Neoege jun geoya. (I didn’t drop it. I gave it to you.)” Your heart flutters as his hand cups your face. Confusion swirls in your mind. How do you know him? Why do you feel so drawn to him? But when he leans in and kisses you, your body responds instinctively, your lips meeting his in a soft embrace. His lips are warm, his breath sweet, and for a moment, the world narrows to the feel of his mouth on yours.

“Saranghae, Soo-ah (I love you, Soo-ah),” he whispers, pulling you close. Your mind races, torn between the memories of your old life and the new ones flooding in. Images flash through your mind: your old apartment, your passport, the plane ticket to Seoul. But they’re fading, replaced by memories of Junho’s smile, the academy, the feel of your uniform against your skin. Who are you? Who are you becoming?

“Junho-ssi, sueop-e neukkesseoyo. (Junho-ssi, we’ll be late for class),” you say, your voice trembling. He smiles, taking your hand as you walk toward the academy together. You don’t know how this happened or if you can ever go back. But as Junho’s fingers intertwine with yours, a sense of belonging washes over you. You’re Soo-ah, and your boyfriend’s smile is all that matters.