The fluorescent lights of the fitting room hallway hum overhead, casting everything in that flat, unflattering glow that makes every awkward moment worse. You've been standing in front of the racks for twenty minutes, rejecting everything your mom holds up. Too tight. Too loud. Too much. Then Renata's patience snaps. She grabs a stack of shirts, nods toward the nearest open stall, and says the words you were hoping she wouldn't. She's coming in. Now it's the two of you, barely two feet of space between you, and a door that doesn't lock all the way. You're eighteen. She still acts like she calls the shots. And somewhere between the arguing and the hangers scraping metal, the air in that little room feels heavier than it should.