That was the feeling I chased in the first few photo shoots I did. I wanted to be astonished by my reflection in the mirror, to see myself in a new way. I wanted to be completely, irrefutably happy with how I looked, even though it seemed an impossible task: You stare at your own face long enough and you’ll inevitably find something to hate about it.

But for every occasion where modeling succeeded in making me feel beautiful, radiant, valued, like the girls in the makeover videos, there were a dozen more occasions where it made me feel like I was nothing. I soon learned to lower my expectations, to brace myself for the moment the makeup artist stepped back, prepare for the possibility that I would have to redo my eyeliner myself because they weren’t sure how to work with the shape.

I brace myself now as I slowly open my eyes, the shadows from my false lashes skimming the very edges of my vision. I had been too nervous to look while the makeup artist brushed my face with powders and slid pin after pin into my hair, but I feel my chest expand, my jaw releasing its grip as I blink and blink again at the person in the mirror.

“You like it?” Pei Jie asks.

I nod fast, the amber beads in my headpiece rattling like music. I’ve never looked this way before, but I also look more like myself than I ever have in the past; the tiny gems glued below my lash line make my eyes that much brighter, more alive, the rose blush dusted along my nose and cheekbones blending naturally into my skin, the vermilion tint enhancing the bow shape of my lips. It’s makeup that doesn’t try to alter my features or hide them or exaggerate them to near-satirical proportions. And suddenly there’s an embarrassing knot in my throat, delight and gratitude and raw relief at being seen, and I have to swallow hard to speak. “What do you think?” I ask Cyrus, standing up and twirling before him, the fabric of my robes swishing past my ankles.

He doesn’t reply. He’s too busy staring, his eyes wide and transfixed, like he’s not sure I’m real.

“I think you’ve left him speechless,” Pei Jie says to me, laughing.

Cyrus flushes, and takes a tentative step closer. “You’re incredible,” he breathes.

“This is going to sound silly, but I feel like a princess,” I admit, touching the delicate silk sash around my waist. “Like, I want to drink from a fancy teacup and then take a bath filled with rose petals and walk very slowly down the stairs where my lover awaits below.”