Lily's breath caught in her throat.
Taylor stood at the door, her perfectly arched brows slightly raised, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and she wore a fitted green hoodie and jeans that probably cost more than Lily's entire wardrobe. Everything about her looked so put together, so… polished.
Lily's fingers twitched against her pencil.
"Sorry," she mumbled, moving instinctively to cover her sketch with her palm. "I didn't think anyone came in here anymore."
Taylor stepped into the room, her heeled boots making soft taps against the linoleum. "I don't. Not really." She shrugged. "I was just walking by and saw the light on."
Lily gave a stiff nod, hoping she would take the hint and leave.
But Taylor didn't.
She wandered toward one of the drying racks and trailed her fingers across the edge. "I used to love art," she said, almost to herself. "Freshman year. Before I got too busy with cheer and… everything else."
Lily didn't respond.
Taylor's eyes flicked to Lily's sketchpad. "That drawing…" She tilted her head. "Is that… you?"
Lily swallowed. "It's just a rough sketch."
"It's good." Taylor's tone was unreadable. "Like, really good."
Lily didn't know what to say to that. She wasn't used to compliments from girls like Taylor.
They stood in silence for a moment, the air thick with something that felt like static. Then Taylor sat down on the stool beside Lily's—just like that, like they were friends.
"Do you ever wish you could just… start over?" Taylor asked suddenly.
Lily blinked. "Start over how?"
"I don't know. Just… not be the version of yourself everyone already expects." She looked at her manicured nails. "Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck playing a character."
Lily was quiet. She hadn't expected this kind of honesty.
Taylor let out a breathy laugh. "I'm not trying to be deep or whatever. Just saying… your drawing made me think."
That surprised Lily. She glanced down at the sketch—at the soft curves, the uncertain stance, the almost-defiant gaze. For a moment, she saw what Taylor saw. Not a failure. Not a mistake. Just a person trying to understand herself.
"You're not really what I expected," Lily said before she could stop herself.
Taylor smirked. "Same."
They sat there a little longer. Not quite friends. Not quite strangers. Something in-between.
Then Taylor stood, smoothing her hoodie. "Well, I better go before people start wondering if I got kidnapped." She hesitated at the door. "You coming to the pep rally Friday?"
Lily raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like someone who goes to pep rallies?"
Taylor shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. You should come anyway."
And then she was gone.
Lily stared at the doorway long after she left.
---
Later that evening, the air was cool and crisp as Lily and her mom stood in line at Trader Joe's, picking up groceries for the week. Her mom was holding a basket of fresh produce and almond milk, chatting with the cashier about weekend plans.
Lily wasn't really listening.
Her mind kept looping back to Taylor. To the way her voice had softened in that art room. To the strange vulnerability beneath her polished shell.
She didn't know what to do with that.
As they walked to the car, her mom glanced sideways. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just tired."
Her mom nodded, not pushing. That was one of the things Lily appreciated most—her mom always gave her space when she needed it, but was there when she was ready to talk.
At home, after unloading the groceries, Lily flopped onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. Her phone buzzed beside her.
A message from Maya.
Maya: I saved you a seat in English again. You vanished on me after lunch—everything okay?
Lily hesitated, then typed:
Lily: Yeah. Just needed some air. Can we hang out tomorrow?
Maya: Always.
She smiled faintly and tossed her phone aside. For a few moments, the quiet felt peaceful. Then, for no real reason, she opened Instagram again.
This time, she wasn't searching for fitness models or "before-and-after" photos. She typed something different: body neutrality artists.
Her feed filled with drawings of all kinds—bodies in motion, soft bellies, scars, stretch marks. Joyful, angry, peaceful, tired. Real.
One image stopped her completely. A painting of a girl, standing in front of a mirror, not sucking in her stomach or adjusting her clothes—just existing. It was captioned: You don't have to love it. You just don't have to hate it either.
Lily stared at it for a long time.
---
The next day at school, everything felt off-kilter.
Word had somehow gotten out that Lily had been seen talking to Taylor. People noticed. Whispers followed her down the hallway.
She found Maya at lunch and slid into the seat beside her.
"Did Taylor really talk to you?" Maya asked without preamble.
Lily sighed. "Yeah. She walked in on me sketching. We talked for, like, five minutes."
Maya gave her a look. "Just… be careful."
"Why?"
"She's nice when she wants to be. But Taylor's like a tornado—she pulls people in and then spits them out when she's done."
Lily didn't know how to feel about that.
"I don't think she's trying to be fake," she said. "I think… she's just tired of pretending too."
Maya looked at her, thoughtful. "Maybe. But don't lose yourself trying to understand someone else."
Lily nodded. "I won't."
She hoped she meant it.
---
That afternoon, during gym class, Coach Randall had them run laps. Lily hated running. Every step felt like her body was betraying her. Her lungs burned. Her thighs ached.
She slowed to a walk halfway through the second lap, breathing hard.
"Keep it moving, Bennett," Coach called.
Lily clenched her jaw and pushed herself to jog again.
Then she heard footsteps beside her.
It was Taylor.
"Coach acts like this is the Olympics," Taylor muttered. "You okay?"
Lily nodded, not trusting her breath.
"Here," Taylor said, pulling her earbuds out and handing Lily one. "Trust me."
Lily hesitated, then took it.
A bass-heavy beat filled her ear—an old Rihanna song, full of attitude and fire. Taylor smirked and picked up the pace slightly.
Lily followed.
They didn't speak again. Just ran—if not in sync, at least side by side. For the first time, the running didn't feel like punishment. It felt like… movement. Not perfect. Not effortless. But doable.
After class, Taylor gave her a half-wave and disappeared into the locker room. Lily stood there for a moment, earbuds still buzzing in her hand.
---
That evening, Lily didn't go on social media.
She didn't weigh herself.
She didn't look in the mirror and pinch her stomach or thighs.
She picked up her sketchpad and drew instead.
This time, she drew two girls. One soft around the edges. One sharp, polished. They stood back-to-back, connected by a red thread. Not pulling. Just holding on.
And when she finished, she didn't hide it.
She posted it.
Captioned: Two kinds of strength. Still figuring out which one is mine.
Within minutes, likes trickled in. Comments from Maya. From the girl on TikTok who'd inspired her. Even one from Taylor.
Taylor: You're braver than I am.
Lily stared at it, heart racing.
She didn't know what would happen next. But for the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid of finding out.