Their living room, warm and buzzing with decorations for Zayn's little sister's birthday. Streamers hang across the ceiling, balloons in soft pastels. Amira, a little too serious for her age, sneaks away to the guest bedroom with a borrowed makeup pouch and a plan.
Amira (12 y/o)
She wasn't sure why she cared so much.
Maybe it was because Zayn's sister was turning eleven and already looked perfect in that new sparkly dress. Maybe it was because Amira had overheard one of the older girls saying, "You'll look so pretty in photos if you just wear a bit of makeup."
So here she was, twelve years old, sitting cross-legged in front of the mirror, a smudged palette open beside her like a spellbook she didn't understand.
Her eyeliner looked like it had been applied during an earthquake. The lip gloss was sticky and too pink. Her blush? Aggressive.
Still, she was determined—until Mariam passed by the half-open door.
"You know," Mariam said, pretending to be casual, "in villages ghosts hide behind trees… but in cities?" She grinned. "They hide behind makeup."
Amira blinked at her reflection. A second passed. Then another.
Her face crumpled.
"I don't care!" she said sharply, snatching a tissue and wiping at her cheeks. "I'm not gonna wear makeup! I don't even like it!"
"Whoa." A voice behind her. Amira turned—and instantly wished she hadn't.
Zayn was standing in the doorway, holding a tray of juice boxes, clearly mid-party errand. And clearly amused.
"You okay?" he asked, trying—and failing—not to smile.
"Yes," she snapped, lips pressed tight.
"You look…" He paused, clearly searching for a word that wouldn't get him punched. "Festive."
"I look like a ghost," she muttered, humiliated.
He laughed, low and warm, and it made her want to melt into the carpet. "Nah. Just like someone who's braver than I'll ever be. I wouldn't put that stuff near my eyes."
She glared at him, cheeks on fire. "You're making fun of me."
"A little," he admitted.
She stormed out. But not before she caught his smile one more time. The party is still going. Kids are running through the house. Music hums from the living room. Amira slipped away to a quiet corner in the back storage room, curled up next to a box of old decorations. A handheld mirror sits beside her, smudged with fingerprints. Her cheeks are still pink from makeup—and from Zayn's teasing.
She didn't know why it stung so much.
It wasn't the makeup—it wasn't even Mariam's dumb ghost story. It was the way Zayn had laughed. Not mean. Just... amused. Like she was silly. Like she was a kid.
She picked up the mirror again, her reflection looking back like a stranger. Lip gloss half wiped away. One eye still faintly lined. Hair pulled into a clip that kept sliding down.
"I'm not cute," she whispered to no one, voice barely a breath.
Tripping over her thoughts. Always trying too hard.
Her fingers curled around the mirror's edge. Why had she even tried? Who was she trying for?
And then it hit her.
She hadn't been putting on makeup for the pictures. Or the party. Or even for herself.
She had been trying to look pretty in case he looked at her.
"Zayn".
Her stomach twisted. Not in a gross way. In a weird, fluttery, confusing way she didn't have words for yet.
"Ugh," she groaned, dropping the mirror onto the beanbag beside her. "This is so stupid."
But she didn't cry .She just hugged her knees to her chest and let the realization in the dark with her .Warm and terrifying.