The cheap lip gloss in Elara's pocket felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Every time she moved in her chair during History class, she could feel the plastic tube pressing against her leg. It was a secret—a small, sparkly promise that she could be different. But looking at the blackboard, she realized she had no idea how to actually use it.
She spent the afternoon in the back of the library, hidden behind a stack of dusty encyclopedias. Her phone was propped up against a book, showing a video of a girl with perfectly glowing skin.
"First, you apply the base," the girl in the video said, smiling. "Then you blend until the imperfections disappear."
Elara looked at her own hands. She didn't have "base." She didn't have brushes. She only had the pink gloss and a stolen eyeliner pencil from her mom's drawer. She felt like a soldier trying to go to war with a toothpick.
"You're still hiding," a voice said.
Elara gasped, nearly knocking her phone off the table. Liam was standing at the end of the bookshelf. He wasn't looking at her; he was looking at the titles of the books, his fingers tracing the spines. He looked paler today.
There was a thin, red scratch near his ear that hadn't been there yesterday.
"I'm not hiding," Elara said, quickly turning off her phone screen. "I'm studying."
Liam finally looked at her. He leaned against the shelf, crossing his arms. "In the 700 section? Nobody studies Art History unless they have to."
Elara felt her face heat up. "Maybe I like art."
"Art is just a way to make sad things look pretty," Liam muttered. He walked closer, his presence making the air in the small corner feel tight. He noticed the small pink tube that had rolled out of her pocket onto the table.
He picked it up. He held it between his thumb and forefinger like it was a strange bug.
"Is this the plan?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You think if your lips are shiny, the world becomes a better place?"
"It's not about the world," Elara said, grabbing the gloss back from him. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. "It's about... being noticed. Don't you like being noticed? Everyone follows you. Everyone wants to be near you."
Liam let out a short, dry laugh. It was a sound without any happiness in it. "Being noticed just means you have to work harder to hide the parts of you that are broken. You're lucky, Elara. When people don't see you, they can't hurt you."
He turned to leave, but Elara reached out, her fingers just barely touching the sleeve of his black hoodie.
"Liam, wait."
He stopped, but he didn't turn around. He stayed perfectly still.
"Who hurt you?" she asked softly.
The silence in the library felt heavy. For a few seconds, Elara thought he might actually tell her. She saw his shoulders drop, just a little. But then, he pulled his arm away and straightened his back. The wall was back up.
"Go home, Elara," he said, not looking back. "Stay invisible. It's better for you."
Liam didn't go home. He couldn't. Not yet.
He stayed in the school gym until the sun went down, shooting baskets over and over until his arms ached and his sweat felt like ice. He wanted to be tired—so tired that he wouldn't feel the sting of his father's disappointment or the coldness of his mother's silence.
When he finally walked through his front door at 8:00 PM, the house was eerily quiet. The lights were dimmed, but he could hear the clinking of a glass from the study.
"Liam."
His father's voice was like a low growl. He was sitting in a leather chair, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
"Yes, sir," Liam said, standing by the door.
"The school called. They said you skipped the Honor Society meeting this afternoon."
"I was at the gym, sir. Practice—"
"I don't pay that tuition for you to bounce a ball!" His father stood up, his movements heavy and dangerous. He walked over to Liam, looming over him. "You represent this family. You are a Peterson. If you aren't the best in that classroom, you are nothing. Do you understand?"
Liam stared at his father's tie. "Yes, sir."
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you!"
His father's hand came up, gripping Liam's jaw tightly, forcing him to look up. Liam saw the anger in his father's eyes—the same anger that had been there since Liam was a child.
"You're a disappointment," his father whispered, before shoving him away.
Liam stumbled back against the wall. He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in years. He just went to his room and locked the door. He sat on the floor, his back against the wood, and thought about the girl in the library.
He thought about how she looked at him—not with worship, not with fear, but with a strange kind of hope. It made him feel human, and that was the scariest feeling in the world.
In her own room, Elara was sitting in front of her mirror.
She had the eyeliner pencil in her hand. She tried to draw a thin line along her lashes, like the girl in the video. Her hand shook, and the line became thick and messy. She wiped it off and tried again. And again.
By midnight, her eyes were red from rubbing, but she had finally managed to make a straight line. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.
She put on the pink gloss. It felt sticky and strange, but when she looked in the mirror, she saw a tiny spark of a different Elara.
"I'm not going to stay invisible, Liam," she whispered to her reflection. "I'm going to make you see me. And then, I'm going to make you see yourself."