Chapter 5: Breathing Room

Leaving home was easier than I expected. I actually felt lighter—like I could finally breathe. No more comparisons, no more quiet reminders of my shortcomings.

At first, my roommates at Grove State stuck together. Some girl in our hall decided she wanted to lose weight and convinced the rest of us to jog laps at night. “It’ll boost your mood and help you destress,” she said.

I needed to let go. After years living in someone else’s shadow, the words “not good enough” haunted me. But running—my lungs burning, sweat in my eyes. But for once, nobody cared what I looked like. Out here, I was just another girl chasing her breath. It helped me leave some of that behind on the track.

Eventually, the others dropped off, but I kept going. My posture improved, my skin cleared. When I went home for winter break, Lillian, for the first time ever, gave me a sideways compliment. “The water and air in City Grove really do wonders—even Natalie looks like a girl now.”

It was the running, but she chalked it up to the climate. I didn’t argue.

Before Christmas, old high school friends organized a karaoke night. I wasn’t the only one who’d changed—new haircuts, new styles all around. Caleb slid into the booth next to me, nudging me with his shoulder. “Natalie, I texted you—why don’t you ever reply? You can’t forget your old deskmate, right?”

I looked down, lied, “Sorry, I’m really busy.”

His eyes dimmed, and I could tell he was hurt. But ever since I saw him go gaga over Lillian, I knew nothing would ever happen between us. Maybe I was jealous. Maybe I was just tired.

After just a few months away, my bedroom back home was already full of storage boxes. I started cleaning it out. Lillian’s makeup stash—old palettes, unopened lipsticks—sat in my closet, abandoned. I called her. “Just toss them,” she said. “I don’t need them.”

I hated to waste anything, and more than that, I was curious. Growing up, Mom always kept her makeup under lock and key, except when she was painting Lillian’s face for dance recitals. I’d sneak a look, only to get scolded. “Don’t touch.”

Now, with the stash in my hands, I wondered: Could I try, too? I sold most of it on Facebook Marketplace but kept a few things. At night, after everyone went to sleep, I’d sit at my desk, lamp on low, and experiment. My first tries were disasters—clumpy mascara, uneven brows. But I loved it.

Back at school, if my roommates were out, I’d practice. One day, while scrubbing off a pair of bushy eyebrows, a girl from the next dorm caught me. She did a double-take. I laughed. “Sorry, did I scare you? I usually have a filter on, but tonight I forgot to turn on the beauty mode.”

She grinned. “Your makeup’s wild. Want me to help?”