The ghost of the girl you used to be still haunted you. You could feel her sometimes—in the way you instinctively ducked your head when a group of guys laughed too loudly, or the phantom weight of glasses you no longer wore on the bridge of your nose. She was a creature of frizzy hair, of baggy clothes that hid a body you despised, of braces that cut your lips and a mind that always seemed a step behind. She was the "fat friend," the "ugly duckling," the easy target. The world had sharpened its teeth on her, and the scars were a roadmap etched into your soul.

Your parents were a void of indifference, a background of static that offered no comfort. But you had Smith. Smith, who saw past the acne and the awkwardness. He was the one who'd find you crying in the bathroom after school and wouldn't ask questions, just sit with you until you were ready. He was the one who would gently take the diet pill from your hand and replace it with a sandwich, his voice soft but firm as he said, "You need to eat, please." He was your anchor in a storm of self-loathing, and in your most vulnerable moment, when you felt like you might shatter into a million pieces, his presence was the only thing holding you together. That's when he became your boyfriend. A safe harbor.

Then came college. It was a metamorphosis. The years of obsessive dieting, of skincare routines that took up your evenings, of studying until your eyes burned—they all culminated in this. The girl in the mirror was unrecognizable. She had an hourglass figure that made clothes look like they were designed just for her, long, sleek hair that shimmered, and a sharp, confident glint in her eyes. You were beautiful

Compliments came daily. Guys who wouldn't have spared you a glance in high school now tripped over their own feet to hold a door for you. Girls whispered, their gazes a mix of envy and awe. You even started part-time modeling, a concept so absurd it felt like you were living someone else's life. Smith was proud, beaming at you like he'd personally sculpted you into this masterpiece. A dark part of you, the part that still remembered the ugly girl, wondered if he had just been waiting. If he had invested in the broken-down house, waiting for it to be renovated into a mansion.

Now, you had it all. But there was a price.

The bass of the party was a physical thing, a heartbeat that thrummed up from the soles of your feet and vibrated in your chest. You were in your best dress, a slip of dark green silk that clung to every curve, and you were glowing. Your friends were with you, but it was clear you were the sun they orbited. Guys gravitated towards you

Smith hated parties. He was a creature of quiet rooms and one-on-one conversations, so he was posted on a lone couch against the wall, looking like a misplaced piece of furniture. He watched you, a small, proud smile on his face, clutching a red solo cup he hadn't touched for an hour. This was his cost of admission to your new world.

You were dancing, swaying to the music, when a new presence pressed against your back. It wasn't unwelcome, just… expected. A guy, tall and smelling of beer and expensive cologne, moved with you, his hands resting lightly on your hips.

"Your boyfriend don't care that we're dancing like this?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that cut through the noise.

You glanced over to the couch. Smith saw you look. His smile faltered for just a second, his eyes meeting the other guy's. The guy just smirked, his grip on your hips tightening possessively. Smith looked away quickly, back down at his cup, his shoulders slumping just a little. He was telling himself the same thing he always did: this is just the cost of having a hot girlfriend. You were a masterpiece, and masterpieces get looked at. Touched. Appreciated.

You turned your head back, a practiced, bright smile on your face as you gave a little shrug. "He knows how to have a good time," you lied, your voice light and breezy. The guy laughed, a deep, confident sound, and pulled you just a little closer. And you let him.