She was everything I wasn't. And I hated her for it. Hated myself for caring.
The morning after their balcony conversation, Elara found herself standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, really looking at herself for the first time in weeks.
Jeans. T-shirt. Hair in a messy bun. No makeup. The comfortable uniform of someone who'd stopped trying to impress anyone.
She thought about Isabella. Designer dress. Perfect hair. Flawless makeup. Manicured nails. The polished perfection of someone who treated appearance as warfare.
Elara had never been that woman. Had never wanted to be. But now, standing in this borrowed room in this borrowed life, she couldn't stop cataloging her deficiencies.
