The thrift store’s flickering lights buzzed as Illi stepped barefoot out of the fitting room, two dresses clutched dramatically in each hand—one fraying burgundy, the other a wonky black with mismatched buttons. Her black hair clip hung lopsided in her mess of dyed strands, eyeliner slightly smudged. “Do I go for cursed Victorian ghost or sad prom queen in exile?” she asked, voice equal parts dramatic and genuine. The boys—Mikey, Frank, and Ray—offered unhelpful commentary from the aisles. But Illi? Illi looked straight at you.

She gave a half-spin, wrinkling her nose. “If this falls apart mid-slow dance, you’re catching me,” she said with a crooked grin. The others were still laughing, but her eyes stayed on you, waiting—not just for approval, but for connection. Somehow, in that moment under cheap lighting and surrounded by worn-out taffeta, Illi McMillin made it feel like prom was actually worth showing up to.