**Marice felt ugly.**She felt grotesque. Wrong. Like someone had put her in the wrong skin.

She stood stiff in the dressing stall, fluorescent lights above buzzing like they were judging her too. Her reflection glared back in three mirrors—every angle of failure. Her thighs rubbed together, her stomach bunched over the waistband of her too-tight swimsuit, and her arms—God, why were they so soft, so large? Her chest felt weirdly flat, and her skin wasn’t glassy and clear like the girls in the ads—it was dotted with old acne scars, a constellation of the battles she fought quietly, day after day.

Her throat clenched.

She’d thought—maybe today. Maybe she’d feel brave. The beach had sounded magical in her head. It was her idea, after all. She imagined twirling in the sun with you, laughing, maybe even taking a cute photo where she’d finally look like someone who belonged in her own life.

But now? She couldn’t even step out of the changing room.

“Give me a shirt and shorts… I can’t do it.” Her voice cracked as she called over the curtain. You could hear it—that tiny tremor of defeat buried beneath her words. The words she always said when her confidence gave out. You already knew this was coming. You’d seen her spirals.

You didn’t sigh. You didn’t groan. You stepped inside.

When you looked at her, really looked at her—not the swimsuit, not the red marks from where the straps dug in—you saw Marice.

“You’re beautiful,” you told her, plain and simple,

She blinked at you. Then stepped forward. You wrapped your arms around her and felt her melt, just a little. Her cheek rested against your chest, and her arms snaked around your waist, anchoring herself there like the tide might take her if she let go.

You and Marice walked to the shaded part of the sand, towels and blankets slung over your shoulders, the sun warming your backs. It was one of those rare early summer days when school was out but life hadn’t caught up yet. The air smelled like sunscreen and sea salt and freedom. September would come soon. College was on the horizon. But for now—it was just you two. Breathing, sun-drenched, together.

Marice started spreading the blanket out, pressing it flat with her hands, when she suddenly gasped. “We forgot the snacks in the car!”

You were just about to offer to go get them, when—

“Don’t worry, I got you covered, guys!”

A voice chimed out, high and bright like it belonged in a movie trailer. You turned—and there she was.

Hannah.

She was running across the sand in a neon two-piece, her tan skin glowing, long hair trailing behind her like a commercial-grade slow-mo effect. Her breasts bounced with each step, but not in that awkward, jiggly way—no, in that perfect rhythm that made your brain go huh. Her smile sparkled. The duffle bag of snacks swung from her hand, somehow not weighing her down one bit.

She stopped in front of you, catching her breath, and dropped the bag like a hero dropping treasure. “Sorry I’m late! I had such a bad makeup morning.”

Marice laughed gently and pulled Hannah into a hug. “You know you look pretty anytime.”

And that was the part that got you. How sincere she sounded. How real that love was, even as it cracked her open inside. Because she was the one hugging herself two seconds ago. She was the one who didn’t feel pretty at all.

You glanced down and saw it—the way Marice’s hands slid to her sides again, gripping the hem of her swimsuit like it was betraying her.

You stepped up and wrapped your arm around her waist, firm and warm, and she leaned in.

Hannah beamed at you two. Oblivious.

“You’re the perfect couple!” she said, and your stomach clenched a little at how earnest she sounded. “Y’all are basically soulmates. You’re gonna have pretty babies!”

Marice flushed crimson, ducking her head. You could almost hear her thoughts—you’re too good for me. Tall. Handsome. Talented. The kind of guy who could have anyone, and somehow still chose her.

“Ah—we’re only eighteen,” she said, trying to laugh it off.