When I opened my eyes, I saw young Aria getting ready for school. It was so early — just like I used to wake before anyone else, even before Mom.
There she was, standing in front of the mirror.
I watched her — my younger self — admiring her reflection. She was still so small, so unaware of the world waiting to swallow her whole. Long brown hair, full brows, a sharp nose, big brown eyes, soft pink lips… she took it all in as strengths, signs she could someday be "perfect."
If only she knew.
But today was special.
It was the day she would stand on a stage — well, not a real one, but back then it felt like one — and talk about the most amazing woman in the world.
Aside from Mom, of course.
Evelora Sainthill.
A woman I had admired.
A woman I wanted to become — remembered, loved, perfect.
I watched as young Aria prepared herself, imagining how proud she would feel telling her whole class about Evelora's impact before she left the world.
Mom helped her curl her hair while I watched her practice, carefully refusing to peek at the paper in her hands.
That's what people like Evelora did — they spoke with grace, confidence, and power.
Even then, I could see the quiet hunger growing inside her — the desire to be seen, remembered, to leave a mark. I hadn't realized it yet, but it had already begun.
Mom eventually got ready for work too, but she paused and smiled, watching her daughter.
"You look pretty, baby," she said warmly.
"Thank you, Mom," young Aria replied softly, "but not nearly as perfect as Evelora."
"Baby," Mom said gently, "you don't have to look like Evelora. You're beautiful just the way you are."
Watching it now — the obsession, the innocence — it hurt.
It was a different kind of pain, seeing yourself ruin your own life and not being able to stop it… not even being able to warn her.
"I know, Mom," she said, "but I wish I was perfect."
"No one is perfect, my love," Mom replied.
"Noy… Evelora is," she insisted.
"She… she's picture perfect," Mom admitted quietly.
I don't think I understood what she meant at the time — but I wish I had listened.
"Then I want to be picture perfect," young Aria said firmly — and just then, the school bus honked outside.
Mom wanted to say more, to change her mind, but all she could do was sigh and wave goodbye.
I watched young me wave back, smiling, before climbing onto the bus.
She sat beside her best friend, Marie, and began talking about Evelora.
"Wow! I'm doing mine on Célestine Vantique," Marie said — a French woman known for her designs and fashion sense.
I observed young Aria nodding. "Yeah… I read she once donated fifty dresses to the poor."
Marie smiled, then tilted her head. "Ariana?"
"Yes?" she answered.
"You've always loved Evelora, right?"
"Yes. Every time I watch her or read about her… I feel safe. And happy. Like nothing can stop me from…" Her voice trailed off.
"From what?" Marie asked.
"Making sure he remembers me," young Aria said.
For a split second, something dark flickered in her eyes.
Marie stared at young Aria — really stared — with a sad, knowing look.
I remembered how, back when I was young Aria, I had changed the subject before Marie and I started crying. Now, I was watching from behind the scenes, like I was rewatching a series that I knew in and out.
"Marie… have you ever wondered what it would be like to make an impact on the world?" young Aria asked.
"Yes," Marie said softly, smiling. "If that ever happened… maybe my parents would be happy again. And those girls who treat us like trash — they'd finally see our worth."
Her eyes sparkled with hope, but I didn't care about how they saw me.
What mattered was that I would never be invisible again.
And maybe someday… he would remember us.
When we arrived at school, I watched each student take their turn, speaking proudly about people who changed the world.
Then the teacher called her name.
"Ariana Larken — you're up!" she said, grinning.
Young Aria took a deep breath nervously and marched forward.