Malia
Friday night crept up on me faster than I’d expected, and somehow I still found myself standing in front of the mirror, tugging at my clothes like I was heading somewhere that actually mattered.
It was just dinner. That’s what I kept muttering under my breath, like repetition might trick my brain into believing it was just dinner and nothing else.
Except every time I looked down at what I was wearing, something felt wrong. Too casual, then too formal, then too obvious.
I changed my fit twice, then a third time, then stood glaring at the heap of discarded clothes on my bed as though they’d betrayed me personally. My mom’s voice drifted up the stairs at one point, sharp and clipped about the laundry I hadn’t done, and I rolled my eyes at the ceiling.
Is there ever a day in my
