“Sounds like her,” I smile.
Their shared room is such a perfect split between worlds that it almost looks staged.
Zara’s side feels like a forest dream — ivy climbing along the walls, fairy lights hanging from the ceiling, paint-splattered jars filled with brushes.
Her desk is covered in sketches, watercolor palettes, and tiny clay sculptures that never fully dried.
Yana’s side is all sharp lines and confidence.
Clean white bedding with a deep red throw blanket at the end. Her vanity glitters with gold perfume bottles, lip glosses, rings, and a half-open makeup bag spilling with color.
The air smells faintly of vanilla.
The one thing they agree on.
“Sit,” she says, rolling Zara’s paint-stained chair next to her vanity. “I’m in the mood to glam someone up.”
I sit, laughing. “You act like I’m your project.”
“You are. My favorite one,” she brushes the hair out of her eyes.
Yana’s makeup sessions always feel like therapy disguised as girl talk.
Her room glows softly under the warm lights, and she hums along to the music while brushing foundation over my cheeks.
This is girlhood at its finest.
I can almost forget the heaviness sitting in my chest.
I haven’t told her about the night I broke down to Luca.
Or about how he held me while I cried, whispering things I didn’t know I needed to hear.
I haven’t told her that he said you’re enough, and that it hasn’t left my head since.
And I feel horrible.
“So,” Yana asks, like she’s reading my mind, “how are you and Luca?”
My stomach tightens.
“It’s been weeks. I’m fine.”
She gives me a look. “Right. And I’m secretly a nun.”
“I’m serious.”
She sets down the brush and crosses her arms. “Tilly, you’ve been weird ever since he told you how he feels. You get this face every time someone says his name.”
I laugh weakly. “Maybe I’m just tired.”
“Or maybe,” she says, “you’re catching feelings and refusing to install the update.”
I groan. “You are so dramatic.”
She grins. “I learned from the best.”
She finishes the makeup and hands me a mirror, finally letting me look at myself.
