What Color Do You Think Represents You?
1050 Words
I stared at the room again, trying to take it all in. The chandelier alone looked like it could pay off my entire student debt—and maybe buy me a yacht on the side. Velvet drapes. Gold trim. An actual fainting couch.
This was so much more than I expected. Way more. And yet, somehow… I wasn’t panicking. My heart was racing, sure, but not from fear.
I was excited.
Weirdly, stupidly, dangerously excited.
“So,” I said, turning to Brittany, who was practically bouncing in her heels, “when do we start the makeover?”
She squealed like I’d just asked her to marry me. “Oh my gosh, now you’re talking! You’re gonna be fabulous, darling. Absolutely fabulous.”
Somewhere behind us, Kelsey muttered loud enough for God and everyone to hear, “God help us all.”
And that was it. Just like that, my new life in the North Tower officially began—with glitter in the air, judgment in the background, and zero idea what I’d just signed up for.
I was still trying to decide whether to hide behind the door or pretend to be busy dusting nonexistent furniture when a girl’s voice floated in from the living room.
“I heard we’re helping someone out today?”
Her tone was light—playful, almost—and footsteps followed. I peeked out just enough to see a blur of red pass by.
Brittany, who had been fussing with my closet for the past ten minutes, perked up instantly. She darted to the hallway like someone had just yelled “free lip gloss!”
“Paris!” she squealed, her pink earrings bouncing with every excited step. “You’re just in time!”
I heard the click of heels, then another voice—smoother, richer.
“So… who’s the makeover victim?” Paris asked.
“She’s in there,” Brittany said, practically vibrating with glee as she pointed toward my room.
My room. Which had its door slightly ajar.
Which I was now standing behind.
I swallowed. Then peeked out.
Just a tiny bit.
Only my head.
Brittany spotted me first, of course, and beamed. “There she is!”
I managed a small, unsure smile, my fingers curling around the edge of the door as I looked at the new girl.
She wasn’t like the others.
Brittany was always pink—fluffy skirts, glossy lips, the literal embodiment of a cupcake.
Kelsey was... all black. Leather, eyeliner, and the type of beauty that made you think twice before saying “hi.” Like if you messed up your greeting, she’d stab you. With a stiletto.
But this girl—Paris—was something else entirely.
She wore red.
All red.
Not just any red—the red. The kind of red that made your heart race. A body-hugging dress with a slit so high I wasn’t sure if it was legal, matching heels that clicked against the floor with confident rhythm, and lips painted like temptation itself.
Her hair was styled in effortless waves, her skin glowed like she’d never had a single breakout in her life, and her eyes… they were the kind that held secrets and made you want to ask about them.
She looked like the color love. The dangerous kind.
“Well, step out, will you?” Paris said, eyes twinkling with amusement as she waved a finger in my direction.
I hesitated.
“She’s just shy,” Brittany chimed in cheerfully, coming to my rescue.
I stepped out slowly, still hugging the doorframe for support.
Paris's smile faltered the moment she got a proper look at me. Her gaze swept from my scuffed shoes to the plain dress I’d borrowed, and her lips curved downward.
Yup. That was definitely a frown.
“She doesn’t just need help with her looks,” she said bluntly. “She needs help with confidence.”
I flinched. Not visibly, I hoped, but my fingers tightened around my sleeves.
“I’ll take looks!” Brittany said, still riding the high of her own makeover mission.
But Paris held up a hand—perfect nails painted the same shade as her dress.
She turned to me fully then, eyes narrowing just slightly in curiosity.
“What color,” she asked, “do you think represents you?”
I blinked.
What?
My lips parted, but no sound came out.
Paris’s eyes stayed on me, expectant. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing.
“She’s hesitating,” Paris said flatly, arms folding under her chest. She looked genuinely offended—as if I’d personally insulted her with my silence.
Brittany gasped dramatically. “She’s white, obviously! Can you not see how cute and innocent she looks?” She skipped over to me and threw an arm around my shoulder like we’d been besties since birth. “Look at her! She’s like… snow. A baby dove. A fresh marshmallow!”
Paris raised a single brow. “A marshmallow?”
“An adorable marshmallow,” Brittany defended, squeezing my arm. “With big eyes and a nervous little smile. Come on. White is her color. Pure. Untouched. Kind of like a lost princess who doesn’t know she’s royalty yet.”
I blinked at that. “Um…”
Paris stepped closer. I instinctively stepped back.
Her eyes scanned me again, this time slower. “Hmm. Maybe white... or maybe beige. She thinks she’s white, but there’s definitely beige energy happening.”
“Excuse me?” I whispered, unsure if I should be insulted.
“It’s not a bad thing, darling,” Paris said, her lips curving again—but not into a smile. More like a challenge. “Beige girls are the ones who surprise you. They look soft, but they’ve got bite when it counts. Question is—do you have any bite?”
I swallowed hard. “I… I don’t think I bite people.”
Brittany giggled. “Oh, I love her.”
“She’s going to be a project,” Paris muttered, already pulling her red clutch open and tossing out lipstick tubes like a surgeon prepping tools.
“She’s standing right here, you know,” I said softly.
“Exactly,” Paris replied, not looking up. “Time to operate.”
- Writer
