She woke before I did.
I know because when I opened my eyes, she was already watching me. Not staring. Waiting. Her face was calm in a way that didn't belong to sleep or rest. It looked practiced.
"I moved," she said.
I stayed still. "In your sleep?"
She shook her head slowly. "No. I was awake. I just… didn't decide to."
Her hand rested on her abdomen, fingers spread like she was holding something in place. The skin there looked stretched now. Not swollen. Purposeful. Like it had been reshaped and set.
"I stood up," she continued. "I walked to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror. I didn't stop myself."
"And?" I asked.
She swallowed. The movement of her throat looked harder than it used to be, like something inside her neck was sharing the space.
"It adjusted," she said. "While I was standing there. I felt it make small corrections."
She demonstrated by shifting her weight.
Her body followed smoothly, efficiently, like it had learned a better way to balance itself. No hesitation. No pain. Just compliance.
"I didn't feel scared," she added. "That's what scares me."
She stood up without bracing herself.
No tremor. No lag.
Her center of gravity was completely different now. When she walked, her steps were shorter, more deliberate, placed with quiet certainty. She didn't swing her arms anymore. They stayed close to her sides, conserving space.
"Does it look obvious?" she asked.
I studied her. The curve of her spine. The new tension across her midsection. The way her chest rose unevenly, breath rerouted around something that had claimed priority.
"No," I said. "You look better."
She smiled at that.
It wasn't her smile.
The muscles pulled correctly, but the timing was off. It arrived half a second too late, like an echo.
Later, while she was brushing her teeth, she paused mid-motion.
Her arm froze, toothbrush hovering near her mouth.
"I didn't tell it to stop," she said quietly.
I watched her reflection.
Her jaw clenched. Her shoulder lowered. Her arm resumed movement, slower now, more controlled.
"I think it's borrowing," she said. "Not taking. Just… using."
I leaned against the doorframe. "Using what?"
"Me."
That afternoon, she dropped a glass.
Her hand opened without warning. No clench. No slip. Just release.
The glass shattered at her feet. She didn't jump.
"I didn't let go," she said calmly.
I cleaned it up while she stood still, eyes unfocused, breathing shallow.
When I finished, she looked down at her hands.
"They don't feel like tools anymore," she said. "They feel like access points."
That night, she didn't curl up to sleep.
She lay flat on her back, arms straight at her sides, palms down, as if presenting herself. Her breathing slowed into a pattern I hadn't heard before. Not hers. Too steady. Too efficient.
I reached out and touched her arm.
She didn't react.
Not because she was asleep.
Because the sensation arrived late.
When she finally turned her head toward me, it was smooth and precise, neck muscles working in coordination instead of habit.
"I think I'm done pretending I'm in charge," she said. No sadness. No fear. Just fact.
"Does that bother you?" I asked.
She considered the question.
"It's easier," she said. "I don't have to decide anymore. I don't have to remember where things go."
Her hand lifted slowly and rested on her abdomen.
The movement beneath her skin was visible now. Not dramatic. Just undeniable. A shift that suggested intention.
"It doesn't hurt," she said. "It corrects."
I didn't touch her this time.
"You're very quiet," she added.
"I'm listening," I said.
She nodded, satisfied.
Later, in the dark, her body moved again.
She rolled onto her side without waking. Her legs drew up slightly. Her spine curved further, accommodating something that had finished settling.
A soft sound escaped her throat.
Not pleasure.
Relief.
By morning, she would forget what it felt like to move without permission.
And soon after that, she would stop noticing the difference at all.