“All right,” Noelle said, suddenly unsure. After a few seconds of heavy silence, she asked, “How about you relax and I do your makeup?”

I didn’t know what I thought she was going to say, but it wasn’t that. For a moment, I wondered if I was somehow still dreaming, but the pounding of my heart, which felt very much alive, proved the opposite.

“Only if you want to.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t.”

Noelle got up from where she had been perched on the edge of my bed and walked over to the bathroom. I winced when I noticed the limp in her step but didn’t have the energy to tell her to use her crutches this time.

Instead, I waited, my arms wrapped around myself, as she rifled through her makeup products in the bathroom. Outside, the wind howled and pressed against the windows, begging to be let in. They creaked quietly in protest but didn’t budge.

“What time is it?” I asked when Noelle walked back out.

“Just past twelve,” she replied. On her way over, she picked up her phone from her bed and put on a song I immediately recognized. It was by a British indie band I had told her about a week or two ago. Normally, the familiar melody would have made my heartbeat fall back into its steady rhythm; the knowledge that Noelle had not only cared enough to listen but also to remember, however, caused it to leap in a strange staccato I wasn’t used to.

After turning on the lamp on my bedside table, Noelle tossed the makeup, some hers and some mine, onto the bed and sat down in front of me.

“Do you want to talk about the dream?” Noelle asked, crossing her legs.

Usually, trying to wake up from my nightmares was like swimming through syrup: it was slow and exhausting and even afterward, when I lay panting in my bed, some of it still clogged up my throat. Noelle had made getting out easier, but sitting in front of her, I could still feel it sticking to my skin. Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t think so.”

“That’s all right,” Noelle said, her voice surprisingly soft.

While she spoke, she was applying some of my foundation onto a beauty blender. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Nodding to that question was as natural as breathing.

My eyes slipped shut when her hand came up to cup my cheek, the foundation cool against my skin as she gently dabbed the beauty blender over my face. The longer she worked, the more the nightmare—the stares, the whispers, the laughs—seemed to fade into the distance, the sickening taste slowly leaving my mouth.

“It’s a bit of a shame you always wear foundation,” Noelle murmured. “You’re covering up all your freckles.”

I scrunched up my nose, momentarily making her hand still.

“I don’t like them.”

Noelle let out a quiet hum before she continued. Once she was satisfied, she applied a layer of transparent powder to my face.