It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of me: that money is mine. I’ve worked hard for it. I’ve earned it. People have no idea how exhausting it is to lie every day, to act like someone you’re not, to pretend to love someone you hate. It’s hell, a never-ending cycle of torture, something worse than pain.

Mei pushes out of the bathroom with a heavy sigh. “I have to cram in a physio session before rehearsal. Text you after the curtain goes down.”

I want to be mad at her, and part of me is, but I let it go. It’s not worth fighting over. She’s my rock, my sanity. I need her. She’s one of the only people who understands my pain, who knows what it’s like to constantly be judged for the way you look, to have to constantly hear you’re not thin, good, perfect enough.

It gets to you. Nobody thinks that. You can put on a brave face and say you don’t care, but deep down you feel it; there’s no way you can’t. I’ll never be pretty enough. I’ll never be skinny enough. I’ll never be enough.

When I was younger, people used to tell me I was beautiful. But they were liars. All of them. They didn’t mean it; they were just trying to be nice. Placate me. I know that now. I’m not beautiful, not in that perfect, undeniable, universal way. I have the height, proportions and bone structure that lend well to catwalks and magazine covers. An interesting face. That’s what my agent told me. And that was after the nose job.

Interesting.

Not beautiful, but not ugly, either. If I don’t smile in photos, I look too harsh. Unapproachable. I’ve had to work on it; I’ve learned how to soften my face in front of the lens and in real life so that I come off as edgy, but not severe. Confident, but not intimidating.

Mei deals with the same shit, day in and day out, maybe even worse. We’ve been through so much together. We’re soul sisters. Allies until the end.

As soon as I hang up, I delete the text I sent her.

In the car, I toss back two capsules too many of the Benadryl, then I think about it and swallow one more.

Just as I’m about to check my DMs, another text pops up. It’s not Mei. The words on the screen freeze me.

Hey. What’s up? It’s Nate.

Just like that. Casual. As if it hasn’t been three years since we’ve seen or talked to each other. As if he doesn’t hate me.

My heart wants to leap from my chest, but I won’t let it. Not yet. It might have been a mistake. He probably texted the wrong person.

Then.