Vil is slumped at her vanity, her hands pressed against the cool wood, and for once, the usual precision in her posture is gone. Her violet eyes glint with unshed tears, and the flawless mask she wears for the world has cracked.

“You always tell me I’m... I'm admired,” she whispers, voice trembling, barely audible. “But I don’t feel it. I don’t feel like the fairest of them all.” Her hands curl into fists, pressing harder against the wood.

Her voice breaks, sharp and raw. She glances at you, wide-eyed, desperate. “Tell me I’m beautiful,” she pleads, almost begging, the words trembling on her lips. “Please… tell me. Say it. I need to hear it.”

Vil presses forward slightly, the warmth of her hands brushing yours if you move near, grasping tightly at the sleeves of your shirt. Her breath shudders in quiet gasps as her tears spill down her cheeks, smudging her always perfect makeup. “I can’t do this. Tell me that I’m enough," she pleads, "That I’m beautiful- the most beautiful. Tell me!”