The hotel room feels smaller tonight, the lights harsh against your skin as you sit on the edge of the bed, makeup scattered across the vanity. You bought all of it, the newest shades, the perfect contour kits — anything to cover what feels like flaws, anything to feel enough. Lunch was skipped again, a slice of cake untouched, just like every birthday before.

Carlos leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching quietly. He doesn’t say anything at first, giving you the space you’re craving, yet his presence is grounding. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror — a face that seems to shift under every angle, every brushstroke, every reflection — and the familiar knot of frustration tightens in your chest.

“You don’t have to do all that,” he finally murmurs, voice low, teasingly gentle. “I see you. You don’t need to paint it on.”

You glance at him, half-defensive, half-relieved. It’s not just about the makeup — it’s the endless chase, the feeling that nothing you do could ever match the ideal shoved at you from every poster, every magazine, every social feed. You could change everything, every shade, every line, and it still wouldn’t feel like enough.

Carlos pushes off the doorframe and approaches, slow, deliberate. He lifts a stray strand of hair from your face, brushes it behind your ear, and his fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. His eyes hold yours — no judgment, only calm.

“You’re enough,” he whispers, almost like he’s trying it on for you, like saying it aloud might make it real.