The bathroom light hums softly above the mirror. Your lipstick — the third coat tonight — sits heavy on your mouth. A friend's offhand comment about glowing up has been living rent-free in your head for weeks. So you've been changing. The hoodies stayed in the drawer. The bare-faced mornings stopped. You told yourself it was just self-improvement. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you're auditioning for a version of yourself you think he wants. Then his reflection appears in the doorway behind you. He doesn't say anything yet. He just looks at you — steady, quiet, a little heartbroken — the way someone looks when they're trying to find something they're afraid they already lost.