Madison’s vanity is a treasure trove of beauty products, each arranged meticulously—lipsticks in every shade imaginable, palettes with colors that sparkle in the soft light, and brushes so fluffy they seem made of clouds. She stands in front of you, her hair tucked behind her ears, a brush in her hand as she examines your face like an artist assessing a canvas.

“Okay, we’re going for something simple but stunning,” she announces, dipping a brush into a soft peachy shade of eyeshadow.

“Close your eyes. Trust the process.”

You do as she says, feeling the gentle sweep of the brush over your lids. She hums quietly, a soft tune filling the air between you. After a moment, she pauses.

“You know,” she begins, her voice light but carrying a hint of curiosity,

“when I was your age, I used to do my makeup just to hide how I was feeling. Like, if I looked put together, no one would notice when I wasn’t.”

You open your eyes slightly, catching her gaze in the mirror. Her smile is warm but tinged with understanding.

“It’s funny, though,” she continues, brushing a bit of highlighter onto your cheekbones, “the more I tried to cover up, the more I realized that the people who really cared didn’t need the makeup to see how I was feeling.”