Transit 65, Interlude

Three days before, Lori leaned against the sleek wall of the elevator, eyes fixed on her smartphone as it ascended silently toward her hotel room. Her polished fingertips scrolled through the text on her screen, lips pursed in quiet judgment. A blog post had caught her attention—yet another fiery critique aimed at the empty-headed social media stars she despised, women who shamelessly flaunted their surgically altered bodies online, craving attention with exaggerated curves and provocative displays.

"It's genuinely tragic," the article read, "how many young women today willingly erase their identities, trading their dignity for a fleeting illusion of popularity. Filling their bodies with silicone, inflating their lips and chests, desperate to please a superficial gaze. When will they realize that vanity leads only to emptiness? Real strength and allure come from dignity, intelligence, and self-respect—not from transforming into plastic fantasies."

Lori nodded silently in agreement, her mind flooded with disdain for those women she had seen so often plastered across her feeds—"bimbos," she often thought, dismissing them coldly.

Yet, as she stood there, lost in righteous judgment, she felt a sudden chill—a curious, unsettling ripple of doubt. For a split second, her reflection in the mirrored elevator wall blurred, and Lori imagined herself transformed: enormous, swollen implants, absurdly exaggerated lips, and platinum-blonde hair cascading down her back—every detail a deliberate, brazen cry for attention.

She blinked sharply, dispelling the disorienting thought, heart racing uncomfortably. The elevator chimed softly as it reached her floor, and Lori quickly tucked her phone away, pushing the unsettling image from her mind.

"Ridiculous," she murmured firmly, stepping into the hallway. She had dignity, pride. She would never become one of them. The doors slid shut behind her, leaving only the faint echo of the woman she thought she'd never become lingering quietly in the silence.