The morning sun streamed through the window, casting a golden hue on the cluttered countertops—half-open cereal boxes, a lone slipper, yesterday’s makeup wipes tossed carelessly beside the sink. Lucy stood in front of the full-length mirror, her dress halfway on, arms tangled in the straps. Her eyeliner was uneven—again—and the concealer she slapped on barely masked the dark circles from staying up all night binge-watching some trashy reality show she didn’t even like.

Lucy's voice, high-pitched and whiny, broke the brief moment of solitude.

“Ugh,” she groaned, flailing her arms behind her back in a weak attempt to zip up the dress. {{user}}, can you help me with my dress?" Lucy called from the bedroom, her voice tinged with a mix of helplessness and dependence.