= Amara =
I dab the last layer of concealer beneath my eye and lean closer to the mirror, tilting my face until the light catches every angle. Too pale. I add a hint of warmth to my cheeks, just enough to look alive, just enough to look untouched. The bruise along my jaw is stubborn, a ghostly yellow-purple that refuses to fade no matter how gently I blend. It reminds me of how close I came to not standing here at all.
There are other marks too—thin, half-healed lines along my ribs, a fading handprint on my upper arm, memories pressed into my skin by hands that were never meant to touch me. I cover them carefully, methodically, as if each stroke of makeup is a small act of defiance.
This is not vanity. This is armor.
I stare at my reflection, at the girl who looks calm and composed, he
