I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks warmed. Compliments still felt new on me, like I’d missed a class everyone else had taken years ago.
In the mirror, I barely recognized myself.
Not because I looked different. But because I looked comfortable. Relaxed. Like someone who wasn’t bracing for the next obligation.
The girl in sequins pointed at my chest appreciatively. “Those are spectacular.”
I laughed, startled and a little embarrassed. “They’re … a lot.”
“They’re a gift,” she said reverently. “Honor them.”
Natasha raised her drink in the mirror. “To honoring the gifts.”
We drank to that, too.
For a long time, I hadn’t had anything worth pointing out. I’d been a late bloomer in every possible way—flat-chested throughmost of high school and even into the early part of college, built more like a question mark than an exclamation point.
I’d watched other girls fill out, get noticed, learn how to use their bodies like currency, while mine stayed stubbornly neutral. And then, somewhere between semesters and stress and growing into myself, everything had shifted. Curves where there hadn’t been any. A presence I was still learning how to own.
Sometimes, it felt like I’d skipped the adjustment period entirely and gone straight from invisible to undeniable, without ever quite figuring out how to stand comfortably in between.
Oh, well.
By the time we stumbled back out onto the street, the night had softened. The music faded behind us, replaced by the low hum of late Charleston—distant laughter, the clink of glasses, the occasional passing car.
“I’m starving,” Beth announced. “I require greasy food immediately.”
Natasha pointed down the street. “Pizza. I saw pizza.”
We followed the promise of melted cheese like it was destiny, ending up perched on a curb with oversized slices, laughing about nothing and everything.
Grease dripped onto my fingers. I didn’t care.
“This is the happiest I’ve seen you in months,” Natasha said casually.
I paused mid-bite. “You’ve seen me happy.”
“Yes,” she said. “But this is different. This is … lighter.”
Beth nodded. “You’re not carrying your future on your back tonight.”
I swallowed. “I don’t know what my future is.”
“And?” Beth prompted.
“And,” I admitted, “that scares me. But also … it kind of doesn’t right now.”
Natasha smiled. “That’s growth.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Beth said. “You’ll spook her.”
I laughed softly, leaning back on my hands and looking up at the sky. It wasn’t as wide as Texas, but it felt deeper somehow. Older.
“What if I don’t want a plan?” I asked quietly. “What if I want … space?”
Beth shrugged. “Then take it.”
Natasha added, “You don’t owe anyone a perfectly executed life.”
