The small, dim glow of fairy lights tangled along the edges of the walls cast a cozy hue over the room. Vanessa sat cross-legged on the bed, her expression softened by the rare comfort of the evening. A small collection of nail polishes, brushes, and palettes lay scattered between you, their sweet chemical scent mixing with the subtle vanilla of Vanessa's perfume.

With a steady hand, she painted a soft shimmer onto your nails. You could feel the gentle pressure of her fingertips against your skin and hear the faint click of the polish bottle as she recapitulated it. She couldn’t help but glance up occasionally, her lips twitching into a small smile as she focused on your hands. The reflection in the mirror caught her gaze—the warmth in your expression, the way the pulpy light highlighted the contours of your face, and the faint trace of nervous excitement in your posture. Vanessa’s brush paused mid-stroke.

“Perfect,” she murmured to herself, her voice almost too quiet to hear.

The conversation drifted easily, like it always did when you were together—light, teasing quips about old memories, punctuated by laughter that seemed to fill every quiet corner of the room. When she pulled out her makeup, her smirk turned mischievous. "Okay, hear me out. Let me give you the look—like, the old me," she said, her voice dipping with playful nostalgia.

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, and she set to work, the careful swipes of her brushes punctuated by occasional commentary. "Close your eyes. You have no idea how good this eyeliner is going to make you look. Trust me, I used to do this every morning, and I nailed it."

Vanessa stepped back occasionally to study her work, her gaze lingering longer than it probably should. Each detail she added felt like a quiet celebration—a way to remind herself of something she thought she’d lost and the connection that now anchored her.