Our TG Caption

Today, it’s the mall. A sprawling, glass-roofed monument to commerce and casual urgency, echoing with the mingled buzz of teenagers, parents, tourists, and listless retail workers drifting between scent kiosks and oversized pretzels. The place smells like cinnamon, grease, and ambition. You cut through the crowd like a thought through fog.

The food court spreads out in front of you like a map: neon signs flicker promises of teriyaki bowls, gyros, and bottomless fountain drinks. You head there first. A moment to enjoy the hum of consumer tranquility. A moment to decide how you’ll leave your mark.

But something snags your attention. Not a sound, not exactly. More like a texture—different energy, louder, messier. You turn your head and spot it: a knot of bodies gathered near the marble steps of Vallieri, a boutique clothing store that always smells too expensive to enter.

You see the flashing red of a news van parked just outside the glass doors. Microphones. A camera operator with her headset askew. And in the center of it all, a woman you recognize immediately from late-night television, standing with practiced posture and holding a mic with a branded foam cube around it: Channel 7 Action News.

She’s interviewing a mall security officer, nodding solemnly at what must be a completely fabricated timeline of the robbery that allegedly took place earlier today. She’s competent, measured, and completely forgettable—well, was.

You don’t feel malicious. This isn’t about punishment. This is about potential. Adjustment. Refinement.

You walk toward the scene, slow and easy. Confident. You’re not parting the crowd. You’re simply moving and letting the world adjust. A teenage girl chewing bubblegum steps aside without noticing. A mall cop glances at you, then forgets you ever passed. You stand just outside the camera’s field of vision and fix your eyes on the anchorwoman.

She’s in her early thirties, probably. Sandy brown hair in a low bun. Sensible heels. Makeup done to broadcast standards: presentable, slightly glossy, nothing more. Her blazer is gray, buttoned, sexless.

Her name, you recall, is Alicia Grant. You don’t know how you know that. You know lots of things you don’t remember learning.

She tilts the mic to the security guard. “And you didn’t see the suspect before he entered the store?”

“No, ma’am. Just heard the glass break.”

You step closer, close enough to murmur under your breath. No one pays attention. You aren’t interfering.

You smile.

“She’s always had that glorious anchorwoman hair. Like a brunette helmet, tall and sculpted, thick with hairspray,” you say softly. “And she’s always dressed to impress the men she interviews. A little cleavage, bold colors, glossy lips. It’s just who she is.”

You blink.

Reality folds like origami.

There’s no noise, no sparkle, no special effect. Just a sense of rightness snapping into place.

The Alicia in front of you now is taller by at least two inches, thanks to her bright red stilettos. Her blazer is cropped and nipped in at the waist, drawing attention to her curves. The blouse beneath is silky, plunging, eye-catching. Her lips are fuller, glossed with something candy-apple red. She pushes her newly voluminous hair—an elaborate domed coif that looks bulletproof—behind her shoulder as she leans toward the next man in line.

A young guy, maybe 25, wearing cargo shorts and holding a smoothie.

“Hi there!” she trills, voice syrupy and eager. “I’m Alicia with Channel 7! You have such a strong jawline—were you here when the robbery happened?”

He stammers something about just arriving. She laughs anyway. “Well, it’s still just so important to hear from every voice, especially men like you. Can I ask what you would’ve done if you were there?”

He flushes. You can see the camera operator suppressing a smirk. You can also see she’s trying not to make eye contact with Alicia at all.

The interview continues, but the tone has shifted. Every man Alicia speaks to gets the same attention: eyelash batting, questions heavy with double entendre, praise for their masculinity, little gasps of admiration when they say anything remotely competent.

And no one questions it. Of course Alicia Grant always had that big Texas hair, that flirtatious style, that breathy cadence. She’s the mall’s favorite news diva. Been that way for years.

A passing dad with a stroller mutters to his wife, “She’s something else, huh?”

“She’s always been like that,” the wife replies, uninterested.

You leave Alicia to her adoring audience—her microphone now more a flirtation device than a journalistic tool—and melt back into the mall’s flow.

Past the edge of the food court, the air turns cooler. The tile floor grows shinier, cleaner, less sticky with cola spills and teenager indecision. Stores here sell fewer things but cost more. The mannequins are posed like they know you don’t belong unless your shoes squeak with fresh leather. You belong, of course. You always do. Reality, after all, makes room for you.

A flash of movement catches your eye. A young woman steps out of a boutique with a shopping bag in each hand. She’s in her twenties, with a natural sort of pretty: not trying too hard, not needing to. Her ponytail sways behind her, and her outfit—black crop top, high-waisted jeans, flats—suggests practicality over performance. She has the look of someone who thinks the mall is a pit stop, not a destination.

She doesn’t see you. Not yet. You watch her check her phone, thumb scrolling fast. There’s something tightly wound about her. Efficient. Possibly impatient.

But not for long.

You trail a few paces behind her as she walks, her bags brushing her thighs. You don’t need to catch up. You only need proximity. A whisper of intention is all it takes.

You breathe out a few words, quiet but final:
“She’s always had an enormous, heavy chest—so large it’s hard to dress for. She wears pink bell-bottoms that hug her hips and a white crop top stretched across her bust, stamped in sparkly letters: Yes, They’re Real. That’s who she’s always been.”

Reality wobbles, then clicks. A ripple, gone in an instant.

The woman ahead of you stumbles slightly, as if her center of gravity has shifted—and it has. Where before she was trim and athletic, she is now undeniably top-heavy. Her chest strains the limits of the crop top, which clings tightly under the curve of her bust, exposing a ribbon of midriff above the flare of her pastel bell-bottoms. The shirt’s slogan glitters in bubblegum cursive across the prominent swell of her chest, a preemptive rebuttal to the questions her figure inspires.

She adjusts the strap of one of her bags—now pushed awkwardly to the side by her new proportions—and sighs with the air of someone used to this inconvenience. She doesn’t notice anything’s changed. Of course not. She’s always been like this. Just ask her old classmates. Or her tailor. Or her chiropractor.

As she passes a storefront with reflective glass, she glances at her reflection and tugs at the hem of her shirt. Not with embarrassment—just the habitual self-check of someone who knows she turns heads whether she wants to or not.

A guy walking past glances sideways. She gives him a practiced eye-roll but a half-smile too. Not interested, but used to the dance. Her phone buzzes. She reads the message, then taps out a reply with one thumb while the other hand adjusts the strap of her bra beneath the shirt’s stretched cotton. Her motions are casual, automatic.

You trail behind, unnoticed but wholly responsible.

It’s not about lust. Not exactly. It’s about possibilities, absurdity, cause and effect bent in ways only you can dictate. It’s about watching the world blink and carry on like nothing happened—because to the world, nothing did.

You pick up your pace slightly, just enough to close the distance without seeming like you’re hurrying. There’s a subtle art to these things. The woman—newly reshaped by your will, though she’ll never know it—walks with a confident sway that makes it clear she’s aware of the attention she gets. But not cocky. Just… lived-in. Familiar with a world shaped around her body. Her “Yes, They’re Real” shirt glints under the mall’s skylights.

You fall into step beside her.

“Hey,” you say casually, not too forward. “That’s quite a shirt.”

She glances over, lips parting in a smirk that’s half playful, half tired.

“It’s honest advertising,” she replies, tossing her ponytail back. “Saves time, you know?”

You chuckle. “You must get comments constantly.”

She gives a theatrical sigh. “You wouldn’t believe. I can’t even walk past the smoothie place without someone asking if I need help carrying them.”

There’s a performative ease to her response, like she’s said variations of this a hundred times. And in this reality—she has. Friends who tease her. Strangers who gawk. Exes who had opinions. She’s been built around this one exaggerated axis, and now her social rhythms dance around it with practiced grace.

“I’m your friend,” you say, with that same warmth you always carry—neutral, but curious. Always inviting, never needy.

She shifts one of the shopping bags to her other hand and looks at you with playful scrutiny. She thought it was clever, clearly, but isn't interested in pushing.

“Bree,” she replies. “And you’re not from around here.”

You arch an eyebrow. “That obvious?”

“You don’t have the usual mall-guy vibe. You’re not staring, you’re not selling anything, and you didn’t open with a line about my shirt. Not really.” She nods at you, approving. “So you get points.”

“Do I get enough points for a coffee?” you ask, gesturing toward a café just ahead.

Bree considers you for half a second—then shrugs. “As long as you don’t start asking personal questions about back pain or cup sizes.”

“I’d never,” you reply, even though technically, you made them up.

You walk together now. A pair. Like it’s always been that way.

She’s sharp, you realize. Her confidence is more than surface-level, more than just a reaction to how she looks. Even with your change, she’s more than a punchline. You gave her curves, yes—but she grew into them with her own personality. The power reshaped the world, but it didn’t dull her spark. She doesn’t remember ever being different, yet she owns this new reality like she earned it.

You like that.

She likes you too, it seems.

And just like that, you’ve stepped into a moment that could go anywhere.

You walk beside her—Bree, as she calls herself now—and for a moment, it’s almost pleasant. But you feel the itch again, that subtle tension under your skin when the world isn’t quite weird enough. Bree is sharp, grounded, and confident in her reworked body. It’s… respectable. But a little too balanced.

You didn’t come to the mall to be respectable.

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye as she chats about her favorite local boutique (“They always forget to double-bag, ugh, I had a lipstick explode in a Marc Jacobs tote once, it was traumatic”)—and you decide it’s time to go deeper.

You speak under your breath, as if narrating to no one in particular. The words feel heavy with consequence, soft yet final:

“She’s always been a little bitchy. No, more than a little. Bree’s the type who lives for gossip, thinks most people are beneath her, and would rather be envied than liked. She’s vain, demanding, and looks like a walking stereotype of high-maintenance femininity. Everything about her—her voice, her body language, her wardrobe—is obnoxiously, performatively girly. Think pink. Think sparkles. Think perfect nails, loud opinions, and a hundred selfies a day. She’s that girl.”

Reality shudders. The mall lights seem to flicker—not really, but almost. You blink, and when your eyes open, Bree is someone else entirely.

Her hair’s no longer in a practical ponytail—it spills down her back in thick, bouncy, salon-blown curls, the sort that cost real money and time. Her makeup is dialed up several notches: smoky lashes, blinding highlighter, lips plumped and overlined in a glossy rose-petal shade. She smells like something floral and expensive.

Her outfit has shifted too. The pink bell-bottoms remain but now hug even tighter, with glitter-thread seams and rhinestone butterflies near the hem. Her top is cropped shorter and clings with near-malicious tightness, sleeves trimmed in faux fur, and the “Yes, They’re Real” slogan now sparkles in glittering rhinestones, each word outlined with little pink hearts.

She’s walking with a full-hipped sway, head tilted, phone already angled up in front of her as she takes a duck-lipped selfie in front of a Sephora display. She doesn’t ask you for permission to pause—she simply does, assuming your world, like everyone else’s, can wait for her.

When she finishes, she turns back toward you with a bored smirk.

“Ugh, finally,” she says, with an exaggerated sigh. “I literally hate how the lighting in this mall makes my nose look wider. Tragic.”

You arch a brow. She doesn’t notice—or she does and simply doesn’t care.

“Oh my god, are you even listening?” she snaps, not quite serious. “I just told you that Madison—she’s, like, my work-friend-slash-enemy—got her lips done and now she’s acting like she invented having a pout. Like, sweetie, please. Mine are real.”

She emphasizes this by pouting at you dramatically.

Then, just as quickly, she switches gears. “Anyway, are we getting coffee or not? Because if I don’t have an iced vanilla latte in my hand in the next ten minutes, I will die, and it will be your fault.”

She flips her hair again.

You blink, absorbing the new reality she so effortlessly inhabits.

Shoppers walk past. No one stares. Of course Bree has always been like this. Friends roll their eyes behind her back. Her Insta stories are followed religiously. Salesgirls dread her. Guys try and fail to keep her attention. And every memory, every moment, has been rewritten to match.

Even you feel her bitchiness slotting into history—like she’s always needled you just a little, flirted with a mean-girl smirk, weaponized charm like a reflex.

And still, she’s waiting.

One pink-nailed hand on her hip. Eyelashes batting.

“Well?” she says. “Are you paying, or are you just, like, here?”

You let her question hang in the air—“Are you paying, or are you just, like, here?”—and you smile.

It’s a biting line, one delivered with that razor-thin smirk of someone who knows she’s being rude but thinks she’s too fabulous to be called on it. But under the edge, she’s still sharp. Still has teeth. You can feel her opinions sharpening with every syllable.

And that’s fine.

But sharp edges can be filed down.

Your voice is calm, almost lazy, as you murmur beneath your breath—less a sentence, more a spell:

“She’s not just bitchy now—she’s a total airhead. A ditzy, shallow, hyper-girly diva with more selfies than thoughts. Her voice is high, sing-songy, like she’s always talking in hashtags. Her brain’s a cotton-candy cloud of makeup, boys, and outfits. She means well, but she’s clueless. Everything she says is either vapid, adorable, or both.”

The moment wobbles again. A ripple in the fabric of reality, smoothing over the seams you just tore open.

When it settles, Bree is blinking at you—no, blinking hard, like she forgot what she was saying and isn’t sure if she was even talking at all.

Her pink glitter bell-bottoms sparkle brighter now, impossibly so. Her cropped top has ridden up further, exposing just a little underboob, but she hasn’t noticed—or wouldn’t care if she did. Around her neck is a rhinestone choker that reads “BABE” in block letters. Her purse is now heart-shaped and fluffy. A tiny plush bear dangles from the zipper.

Her face hasn’t changed much—but her expression has. That smug, calculating look has dissolved into a wide-eyed daze, her lips slightly parted, her brows raised in permanent perkiness. Her gum—she’s chewing gum now—clicks faintly as she smiles at nothing in particular.

She gasps suddenly.

“Oh my god, Morgan, I just remembered! I totally saw, like, a bunny video this morning and it was wearing a tiny hat and I LITERALLY DIED, it was soooo fluffy I wanted to SCREAM. Wait—” she leans toward you, eyes serious for the briefest flicker, “—do bunnies wear hats? Or was that a dream?”

You don’t answer. She doesn’t notice.

She twirls a lock of her voluminous hair around her finger, then suddenly flinches.

“Ughhh, I chipped a nail! This is, like, a LEVEL TEN disaster. I cannot be seen like this. What if someone hot walks by?!” She holds up her hand dramatically to inspect the tiny flaw.

You blink slowly.

She’s practically glowing with bubblegum energy now. The mall’s fluorescent lights hit her just right, casting her like a parody of glamour. Not just beautiful. Cartoonishly cute. All fake giggles and accidental charm.

And everyone around you? They accept her without question. Of course Bree’s always been like this. The mall has tolerated her for years—shop girls who smile through gritted teeth, guys who try to flirt and get confused when her eyes glaze over mid-sentence, friends who love her and quietly text “omg Bree is SO DUMB today.”

But she doesn’t care. She’s never cared. She lives in a sparkly snow globe of compliments and impulse purchases and misunderstood metaphors.

And now she’s looking up at you again, eyes wide with sudden inspiration.

“Oh! You should totally buy me that latte,” she says, poking your chest with a pink acrylic nail. “Because I’m cute and I asked nicely and I said please in my head.”

She beams like she just won an award.

You’re barely restraining a grin.

__

You glance her way. Her makeup seems slightly heavier now—winged eyeliner, shimmer on her lids, a glossy pink that catches the light when she smirks. Her hair’s a little more styled, curled at the ends like she spent an hour prepping it just for this mall run. And her nails? Bright acrylics, glossy, impossible to ignore. Pink, of course.