I kept the blueprint. The wireframe ghost who I was supposed to become - clean lines, predictable outcomes, dimensions that made sense to architects who never lived in bodies like mine. The roses arrived unscheduled. The lace wrote itself into my skin like terms I never agreed to but learned to speak anyway. The measurements still point at me, insisting I make sense in their language. I don't. This is what metamorphosis actually looks like: not butterfly-perfect, but caught mid-translation. The old code still running while the new form compiles. Both versions real. Both refusing to fully dissolve. I am the space between wireframe and flesh. The error that became the feature. The glitch they tried to debug but I kept anyway, because it was the only part of me that ever felt true.
