There's this quiet moment in the day—right before Ruby arrives—when everything seems to slow down just enough for me to breathe. That's when I slip into my sanctuary. No, it's not a glamorous spa or a therapist's office. It's YouTube. Makeup tutorials. DIY beauty hacks. Skin routines using ingredients I probably don't even have.
I sit in front of my cracked vanity mirror, armed with a dollar-store brush and expired foundation, pretending I'm in some pristine studio under bright lights. With each stroke, my reflection transforms—undereye bags fade, cheekbones carve themselves out, lips plump up, and my eyes come alive. For a moment, I'm not just another burned-out call center rep. I'm someone else. Someone free.
Makeup is magic like that. You don't need money for it to feel real.
But the second I hear Ruby's loud flip-flops clacking up the stairs, I wipe it all off.
She can't see me like this. Not dolled up alone in my room, pretending to be something I'm not—just a sad, broke Cinderella.
"Pearl!" Ruby's voice booms from outside my door. "You gotta help me, girl! I'm late!"
I open the door, and there she is—Ruby. Confident, fiery, and always a little out of breath from rushing around. She's the kind of girl who walks into a room and makes everything around her stand up straighter. Today, though, she's a little frantic, her pageant sash half-on and her false lashes still in their case.
"I need a miracle. You gotta glam me. I trust no one else."
I nod without question. I don't even need to ask. I grab my brushes, pull my hair back, and get to work.
We're backstage at the pageant hall now—half-lit and chaotic. Then we hear it—a sharp scream that cuts through the noise. Everyone freezes for a moment, and then the crying starts.
We follow the sound and find a mother trying to comfort her daughter, a girl about early 20s, her gown torn in several places like it's been attacked with scissors. Her makeup's smudged, and her hair's half-curled. The glam team they booked never showed up. The mom looks seconds away from falling apart.
Ruby looks at me. I look at her.
"We gotta help," I say.
Ruby nods without hesitation.
The girl's name is Bella. She's shaking, embarrassed, pulling at her torn dress like it's the only thing she can control. I kneel beside her and ask gently, "Do you trust me?" She nods, eyes wide with gratitude and fear.
Ruby grabs a sewing kit from some auntie nearby. I start fixing Bella's face—cleaning up the streaked eyeliner, brightening her eyes, and contouring with care. Ruby jumps in, figuring out how to finish the curls, while I sew the dress like my life depends on it. I do my best to salvage it. We don't speak much. We just work.
When Bella finally walks on stage, the room falls silent. She looks like a dream. Amid all the chaos, she still carries this softness, this poise, like she was born to wear that crown.
When the crown is placed on her head, she looks straight at us, mouth open in shock. Ruby claps the loudest. I swear I see a tear slip down her cheek.
Ruby wins runner-up, but she's not upset. She turns to me backstage and says, "We don't lose when we help people, Pearl. Bella deserved that. You saw her. She needed it."
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
After the show, Bella finds us, still wearing her crown, her mother hugging her like she just won the lottery.
"Thank you," Bella says, eyes glistening with gratitude. "You changed everything."
Her mom pulls out a pen, ready to scribble down a number. "Please, your number. I want to repay you somehow."
I smile, "Of course." I jot down something fake. They don't need to thank us. That moment? That was enough.
We leave the venue under the dim streetlights, Ruby's heels dangling in her hand.
I go home alone.
The door creaks when I open it. My mom's cough greets me before her voice does. I peek into her room. She's propped up on a pile of pillows, a blanket clutched around her frail frame. She tries to smile when she sees me.
"You're late," she whispers, her voice rasping.
"Sorry, Ma. I was with Ruby. Helping out." I say it casually, hiding the receipt for her medication tucked deep in my bag. The one for glioblastoma. I'm glad she remembers me, even if sometimes she forgets how much I've grown. In her mind, I'm still her little girl.
She nods, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. I hand her a glass of water, then sit beside her, brushing her hair back gently. The bottle of pills on her nightstand is almost empty again. I bought a new bottle, but it's not enough. And the surgery she needs? The one that could save her? It's out of reach. 300K USD.
I kiss her forehead and whisper, "One day, Ma. I swear, I'll get you that operation."
She looks at me with unfocused eyes, a hint of confusion. "What operation? I'll be okay. You'll be okay soon," she says, her words slurred with fatigue. She takes her meds and then looks at me, her brow furrowing. "You're so pretty. Ma'am, have you seen Pawpaw?"
It stings. Pawpaw. That's what she used to call me when I was little. From Paul. Sometimes, when she forgets who I am, I catch glimpses of how much she still worries about me. It's like she's trying to mother me, even when she doesn't remember.
Outside, the world spins on without us. But in this room, time stops. It's just me and her. My reason for everything.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I'll wake up and fight again—with grace, with resilience, and maybe... with just a little more eyeliner.