But I know I’m tired of living like this.
I want to see what my life can look like when hurt isn’t the loudest part of me—who I’ll become once I finally choose myself.
Chapter Five
The Control
A
s heavy as home feels, my friends are the light I cling to. Malaysia, Jordan, Samantha, and Jessica—are the reason my life feels livable. We wander the mall for hours, slipping through stores, scoping out cute boys, letting it wash out everything else.
They look like the kind of girls parents brag about—polite, respectful, good in school. So my mom never questions them; they breeze right through her ‘are they going to get pregnant in high school’ inspection.
If she knew the truth about them, she’d loose her mind so fast she’d need a second one as backup. They are not as innocent as they look, I mean they aremyfriends.
Nothing pulls me in like the makeup counters—it’s always my little escape. The tall sleek chairs, the huge mirrors, the women dusting new shades across our lids, lining our lips in colors we’re too scared to buy ourselves but bold enough to try just for a few hours.
In those moments, I get to see that girl I wish I could be
all the time—bold and unapologetically me.
The only problem is I never have any money to buy anything. My friends live these TV-perfect lives—two parents, reliable jobs, no stress about bills. They swipe their Amex cards without blinking, sometimes they’ll even grab something for me too.
Other times, it’s on me. Heart hammering, fingers shaking as I slide a gloss or mini palette into my bag when no one’s looking.
Theynever make me feel guilty—they just let me live without apology.
What really surprises me is how all their moms adore me. Even Jordan’s mom loves me like she raised me herself.
She’s always giving me an allowance whenever I stay more than a couple days. She even told me once she wanted to adopt me.
I wish my mom would just let her.
But knowing how controlling she is, she’ll never let that happen. She can’t stand the idea of anyone stepping in where she won’t.
Jordan’s mom is always hugging me and calling me beautiful like it’s a fact, not a question.
My own mom never even calls me beautiful. But her mom buys me stuff like I live with them—she even takes us out to dinner over an hour away, just because.
She always makes love look so easy and natural. The exact opposite of what I get at home.
A part of me wants to be jealous—of their bigger houses, their moms; the stability they don’t even realize is gold.
But I shove it down.
I’m just grateful I get to even taste what it would be like to live their shoes, even if I can’t.
? ??
Makeup started out as fun, but then quickly became therapy before I even noticed—color, glitter, and control wrapped around the parts of me that feel shaky.
I can spend hours blending shades until they melt together just right, painting a version of myself the world can’t recognize.
My friends know it too—they always beg me to do their prom and formal looks, and I never say no. Even on nights out, I’m the one with a brush in hand, turning all of us into something bold and untouchable.
There’s something about that moment—when the liner’s razor-clean, the gloss hits right, and I see the final look—that makes me feel powerful.
Like I finally control something.
