Chapter 1

Owen blinked, and the world shifted. One moment, he was scrolling through his phone in his sleek, modern apartment, the hum of his laptop in the background. The next, he stood in a pastel-colored kitchen, a frilly apron tied around his waist, his hands smoothing down a floral dress that swished against his knees. His reflection in a chrome toaster showed a perfectly styled bouffant and red lipstick. He was no longer Owen, the tech-savvy graphic designer. He was Olivia, a 1950s housewife.

"Modern conveniences, my foot," he muttered, eyeing the bulky refrigerator and electric stove. The women around him---neighbors in similar dresses, sipping coffee at his kitchen table---had gushed about the wonders of their new appliances. "No more scrubbing laundry by hand!" they chirped. But Owen knew what was missing: cell phones, microwaves, computers, the internet. The freedom of information, the ease of instant communication, the ability to order takeout with a tap. Gone.

His husband, Harold, a broad-shouldered man with a Brylcreem-slicked crew cut, reinforced the era’s rules. "No need for you to work, Olivia," he’d say, patting Owen’s hand. "Your job is here---keeping the house spotless, meals on the table." Breakfast at 7 a.m. sharp, dinner at 6 p.m. If Harold wanted a late-night snack, Owen was expected to whip up a plate of sandwiches, smiling as if he hadn’t been scrubbing floors all day.

The wardrobe was relentless. Dresses with cinched waists, skirts that flared just so, and blouses that required ironing to crisp perfection. Stockings, heels, and a face full of makeup---foundation, powder, eyeliner, the works---every single day. "You look lovely, dear," Harold would say, but Owen felt like a mannequin, trapped in a performance he didn’t choose. His hair, teased into submission, took an hour each morning. One smudge of mascara, and the neighbors would whisper.

He tried confiding in his friends---June, Betty, and Margaret---who gathered for bridge games and recipe swaps. "Don’t you ever want more?" he asked once, voice low. "Like… a job? Or a phone that fits in your pocket?" They laughed, thinking he was joking. "Oh, Olivia, you’re so funny! Why would we need that when we have our electric mixers?" June said, stirring her martini. They didn’t understand. How could they? This was their world, not his.

Years passed. Owen fought at first, hiding his frustration behind perfect smiles. He burned casseroles on purpose, left dust bunnies under the sofa. But Harold’s disapproval---silent, heavy---wore him down. The neighbors’ gossip stung. Slowly, he adapted. He mastered pot roasts and lemon chiffon pies. He learned to sew darts into his dresses for a better fit. His makeup routine became second nature, his hair a sculpted masterpiece. He stopped dreaming of Wi-Fi and started anticipating Harold’s needs: coffee ready before he asked, shirts ironed to starched perfection.

Owen felt something stir within him---a quiet yearning, like a breeze brushing against a closed curtain. It wasn’t that he resented his life. He had come to loved Harold and their little home. But he wondered what else there might be for him. His thoughts often lingered on the receptionist at Dr. Kelman’s office, with her tidy desk and smart little typewriter. Or the secretary at Whitmore & Cole Law Offices, whose nameplate gleamed proudly on the door. They were poised, capable. They did things.

One evening, after dinner, while the dishes still soaked in the sink, Owen smoothed his skirt and cleared his throat.

“Harold,” he said gently, “I’ve been thinking.”

He looked up from the newspaper. “What about, Olivia?”

“I’d like to find a job. Just part-time---something like a receptionist or secretary. I could still keep the house as I always do. Dinner would be on the table just the same, I promise.”

Harold lowered the paper. His brow furrowed as he set it aside. “You want to work?”

He nodded, hopeful. “I want to see what I can do---be. It doesn’t mean I’d stop being your wife or taking care of our home. I just... I want to try.”

Harold reached across the table and took his hand. “I’ll think about it,” he said with a soft smile.

But over the next few days, Harold’s mood turned quiet. He mulled over the thought of Olivia working---his Olivia, typing letters for some attorney or answering phones in a doctor’s waiting room. It wasn’t that he doubted him; it just unsettled something in him, something about change and what it meant for the life they had built.

By Thursday, he had made up his mind. He would tell him no.

Friday came, and Harold left work early. He stopped at the florist and picked up a dozen red roses---Owen’s favorite. When he walked through the front door at 4:30, Owen blinked in surprise.

“Harold?”

He smiled and held out the flowers. “Get dressed, Olivia. We’re going out tonight. Dinner and a show.”

His eyes lit up. “But it’s Friday---we have meatloaf---”

“Forget the meatloaf. I want to take my beautiful wife out on the town.”

They dined at Delacourt’s, the swankiest spot downtown, where the waiters wore white gloves and the women wore gloves of their own. Harold ordered champagne and held his hand across the table. They went to the theater afterward, where a musical comedy had them both laughing until tears came.

That night, as they stood on the porch in the warm spring air, Owen leaned his head against Harold’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“I know you were disappointed,” he said softly. “But I wanted you to know that I see you. I love you, Olivia. You mean the world to me.”

Owen’s chest swelled with warmth. He still longed to explore the world beyond their white-picket life, but in that moment, wrapped in Harold’s arms, he let the feeling drift away like smoke from a candle.

From that day forward, Harold never let Owen forget his worth. He brought him flowers for no reason. Left notes tucked into his recipe box. Surprised him with picnic lunches in the park, or records of his favorite singers.

And while Owen never did become a receptionist or secretary, he began to believe---deeply---that he could have.

By the tenth year, Owen was Olivia in every way that mattered. He hosted bridge nights, laughed at the right moments, and kept the house gleaming. He still missed his old life---podcasts, late-night Reddit scrolls, the chaos of a group chat---but the ache dulled. This was his reality now.

Then, one morning, he woke up in his old apartment. No apron, no dress. Just Owen, in sweatpants, staring at his phone on the nightstand. The year was 2025. The kitchen was sleek, with a microwave and a smart fridge. His laptop glowed on the desk. He was back.

But something was wrong. He couldn’t stop moving like Olivia. He caught himself smoothing nonexistent skirts, checking his reflection for smudged lipstick that wasn’t there. At the grocery store, he reached for ingredients to make Harold’s favorite meatloaf, then froze, realizing Harold didn’t exist. At work, he organized his desk with a housewife’s precision, arranging pens like he once arranged silverware. His coworkers noticed. "Dude, why are you humming ‘Que Sera, Sera’?" one asked.

He tried to explain, but the words sounded insane. "I was… stuck in the 1950s. As a housewife." They laughed, thinking it was a quirky bit. His best friend, Sam, pulled him aside. "You okay, man? You’re acting… weird." Owen couldn’t tell him that he missed the rhythm of that other life---the predictability, the structure. He missed knowing his role, even if it had been a cage.

At home, he cooked elaborate dinners, setting the table for one with a precision that felt right. He bought a vintage apron online, tying it on while he baked. His phone sat unused; social media felt overwhelming, alien. He caught himself wondering what June and Betty were doing, if Margaret still overbid at bridge.

One night, staring at his laptop, Owen typed a search: "time travel experiences." The results were sparse---conspiracy forums, sci-fi stories. Nothing real. He leaned back, the apron still around his waist, and sighed. He was Owen, but Olivia lived in him too. The modern world was his again, but it felt incomplete, like a recipe missing a key ingredient. He didn’t know how to blend the two lives, but he’d try. Tomorrow, he’d make a casserole. And maybe, just maybe, he’d check his email too.

Chapter 2

One night, in a dream that felt both surreal and oddly comforting, he saw himself in front of a vanity mirror, his face done up like the 1950s housewife he had been. Rosy cheeks, bold red lips, a little winged eyeliner. He was wearing a pale pink robe, smiling gently as he dabbed powder on his nose. When he woke up, his heart pounded with confusion and fear. The dream lingered, unsettling in its clarity. He sat up in bed, brushing sweaty bangs from his forehead.

All morning, Owen carried the dream around like a fragile secret. At breakfast, he barely touched his toast. At work, he kept losing his train of thought. A small part of him wanted to forget it ever happened, but something deeper---the part of him that had smiled in the mirror---held on. He started remembering little things from his time as Olivia. He wasn’t sure what any of it meant, but it was starting to scare him less. It didn’t feel like a mistake anymore. He had lived ten years as Olivia. They were happy years.

By evening, the fear had softened. Owen walked into a nearby drugstore. Owen stood in the fluorescent-lit aisle, his fingers trailing over tubes of lipstick and compacts of blush. The modern selection was overwhelming---matte, gloss, long-wear---but he hunted for shades that matched Olivia’s 1950s palette: cherry red for lips, soft rose for cheeks, a smoky gray for eyelids. The closest matches weren’t perfect, but they’d do. At home, he sat at his bathroom mirror, applying the makeup with a precision honed over years in that other life. The first swipe of lipstick felt like slipping into an old, familiar skin. He stared at his reflection, half-Owen, half-Olivia, and exhaled.