Backwards

It began with the shirt.

Not an accident — a choice. She buttoned it from behind, felt the cuffs slide wrong down her forearms, and thought, better. The seams felt like a new language.

The next day she zipped her jeans backward. Harder to sit, yes, but she liked the discomfort, the slight reminder that something had shifted. People looked at her differently. Or maybe they just looked longer.

By the end of the week, she was a walking optical illusion. Belts buckled at her spine, earrings dangling behind her ears, shoes laced from heel to toe. Her reflection no longer matched the world. She caught strangers staring in shop windows, as if they’d seen a glitch.

She told her friends it was “deconstruction,” but really, it felt like rebellion — an exorcism of every outfit she had worn correctly, politely, all her life.

Her wardrobe became a puzzle she had to solve daily. Could she wear the coat sleeves as pant legs? Could the handbag strap become a belt? She woke early just to experiment, ending up tangled in silk and leather like a magician’s final act.

By the second month, she didn’t just look different — she moved differently, a choreography of twists and reversals. Going forward felt impossible; she only walked backward now.

One morning she found her reflection facing the wrong way entirely, looking out of the mirror while she stood behind it. It waved, smiled faintly, and walked forward — into the day she could no longer reach.