Maya's sweat crystallizes at 32 degrees. Mine forms a film that won't evaporate.

At 6 AM she's standing naked in the kitchen, arms spread, her skin glittering like she's been dipped in sugar. The apartment is 29 degrees. My shirt is soaked through.

"You turned it up again," I say.

"You turned it down." She rotates slowly, letting the crystals catch light. They're growing from her pores in branching patterns, tiny geometric flowers that click softly when she moves. "I need 32 to nucleate properly."

"Above 30, I can't stop sweating."

"So drink more water." She's admiring her forearms, where the crystals have formed a lace sleeve. "This is beautiful. This is my body solving the problem."

My body just sweats. Constantly. The moisture sits on my skin like a fever that won't break, and lately it's started to thicken—not quite gel, not quite liquid. My body trying to make something that will stay, will cool. Something that might work. It doesn't. It just accumulates in the creases of my elbows, behind my knees, sticky and useless.

"I'm setting it to 30," I say, reaching for the thermostat.

Her hand catches my wrist. The crystals on her palm are sharp. "I'm setting it to 32."

We stand there, hands locked, both of us slick and glittering and miserable. The thermostat screen is already coated—crystal dust from her fingers, my condensation fingerprints, layers of our separate failures.

"We could alternate," she offers.

"I work from home now."

"Then we split the apartment. You get the bedroom at 30, I get the living room at 32."

"And the kitchen? The bathroom?"

"Neutral zone. 31."

"That doesn't work for either of us."

"Exactly. Fair."

But it's not fair, because Maya can move through my cold spaces—her jaw tight, her movements stiff, but functional. When I enter her heat, my body panics. My heart rate spikes. My skin produces sweat it can't evaporate, building up in layers that sting and crack.

"You're adapting wrong," Maya says. "Your body is trying to cool you the old way. It hasn't learned."

"Learned what?"

"That sweating doesn't work anymore." She touches her collarbone, where crystals have grown overnight into an elaborate formation. "The body knows. You just have to let it."

"My body knows how to dehydrate me."

She goes to the thermostat. Sets it to 32.

My skin immediately responds, producing another wave of useless moisture. I feel it beading on my scalp, pooling in the hollows of my clavicles, that strange thickness starting again. Maya watches me.

"You can't live like this," she says.

"Neither can you."

"My skin is fine." She holds out her arm. Where the crystals have fallen away, the skin underneath is smooth, new-looking. "I haven't felt hot in three months."

"You're turning into a salt sculpture."

"You're turning into a puddle."

We stare at each other across the kitchen. Between us, the temperature differential creates a visible boundary, heat meeting cold in a line neither of us can cross.

"We could find other roommates," I say. "People whose bodies match ours."

"You want to live with someone who sweats as much as you? Your apartment would be a swimming pool."

"Better than living in a kiln."

Maya touches the thermostat again, adding another layer to the residue. "What if we both just... stopped touching it?"

"That's not a solution."

"It's the only solution. Unless one of us moves out."

We've been friends since university, roommates for four years. Our bodies have made us strangers.

"Let's just try," she says. "One hour at 32. See what happens."

"Maya—"

"Please. Let me show you."

She sets it. The apartment begins to warm. I feel my body's response immediately—the panic, the flooding sweat, my heart hammering. But Maya stands in the rising heat and something changes. The crystals on her skin begin to branch outward, growing visibly, spreading across her shoulders and down her back in patterns like frost on glass. I watch the heat leaving her body, see it shimmer in the air around her as the crystals sublimate. Her shoulders drop. Her breathing slows. Her whole body relaxes into a temperature that's killing me.

For a moment, she's genuinely beautiful. Impossible and beautiful, her skin a garden of geometric ice in a room that's burning.

Then my vision blurs. The thickened sweat is running into my eyes now, and I can't blink it away fast enough. My shirt is plastered to my chest. I can feel my pulse in my temples, too fast, too hard.

"Okay," Maya says quietly. "Okay, I see it."

She reaches for the thermostat. Her hand hovers over it. Mine does too. The screen between our fingers is slick with our incompatible residues, salt and moisture, neither of us able to touch it without leaving more evidence of what we've become.

Outside, the temperature climbs toward 48. Inside, we stand in our transformed bodies, in space that holds only one of us at a time.

Her crystals click softly. My sweat pools on the floor.

Neither of us touches the thermostat. Neither of us moves away.