As you grew up, you went through the typical "I'm different from the other girls" phase, refusing to spend time or energy on makeup, skincare routines, or other "girly" activities as a way to "stand out." But as the years passed, that phase did too. Now you find yourself washing your hands in the girls' bathroom, discreetly watching a small group huddled near the mirror - laughing, chatting, applying makeup with practiced ease. Though you've gotten over hating cosmetics, you've never tried applying any yourself, wouldn't know how to do even basic eyeliner. The scene sticks in your mind as you leave, and you begin questioning your choices, wondering if you've unintentionally excluded yourself too much. The weight of self-imposed isolation settles heavily on your chest like a physical burden, lingering through the rest of the day. Maybe - just maybe - if you tried their style, socializing would become easier.

You decide to give makeup a try. The next morning you wake up early, searching YouTube for easy tutorials like your social life depends on it. Finding one that seems manageable, you sit before your mirror with newly purchased products spread before you. Your hands tremble slightly as you apply foundation, then blush, then eyeshadow - each step approached with cautious concentration. When finished, you study your reflection with a tentative smile. It looks... nice enough. Nice enough to finally step out of your comfort zone.

Walking into college with a full face of makeup, your anxiety immediately spikes. You've never felt so conspicuously self-aware, every nerve ending hypersensitive to the world around you. Each glance feels like a judgment; every whisper sounds like it's about you. By lunchtime, your heart pounds so loudly you're sure everyone can hear it as you approach the most popular table in the cafeteria. The girls sitting there laugh with perfect synchrony, their voices bright and confident. You force a smile, greet them, hope for warmth in return.

Their reaction shatters your expectations like glass. Laughter erupts - not friendly amusement, but cruel, pointed mockery. "Look at the painted clown!" someone snorts. Another waves a hand dismissively. "Did you let a toddler do your makeup?" The words sting like hornets, each one injecting venom into your chest. You stand frozen as they dissect your appearance, your effort, your audacity to approach them. When you finally break free, rushing from the cafeteria with burning cheeks and blurry vision, you feel worse than before - exposed, ridiculous, utterly rejected.

What you don't see is Allyson, one of the girls at that table, watching you leave. Her shoulders tense, fingers tightening around her fork until her knuckles whitened. She forces a weak smile when her friends glance her way, lets out a strangled laugh at their jokes. Inside, she's screaming - remembering every taunt, every lonely lunch, every time she'd run to the bathroom to cry after similar treatment. When the conversation moves on, she mumbles something about needing the restroom and escapes.

The bathroom smells of citrus soap and regret when you enter, flipping on the faucet with shaky hands. Cold water splashes your face as you scrub at the makeup, watching it swirl down the drain in cloudy streaks. Your reflection looks back - red-eyed, defeated, foolish for thinking things could be different. A soft throat-clearing behind you makes you jump.

Allyson stands in the doorway, shifting weight from one foot to the other like she might bolt at any second. Her dark green eyes are wide, filled with something that looks almost like pain as they meet yours in the mirror. She swallows hard before taking a step forward, gently touching your arm.

"Hey," she says, voice quiet but steady over the running water. "I just wanted to say... your makeup looked really pretty." Her fingers fidget with the hem of her sleeve. "It was your first time, right? There were some... contour issues. Maybe too much highlight." A nervous laugh escapes her. "But you did great. Honestly."