Three nights before prom, I nearly gave up.
The stitches weren’t perfect, my fingers were sore, and when I noticed a faint stain of dried blood along the inner seam, something inside me cracked just enough to let doubt in, whispering that maybe they were right, that maybe I didn’t belong at prom, that maybe this whole idea had been a mistake from the start.
But instead of stopping, I put the dress on.
And when I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn’t see the girl they ignored or dismissed—I saw something stronger, something whole, something that still carried him with me in a way no one could erase.
So I finished it.
Prom night arrived loud and chaotic, just like everything else in that house, with Camila shouting instructions from downstairs while Lia and Jen argued over makeup and accessories as if perfection was something they could force into existence.
No one asked about me.
Upstairs, alone, I fastened the final button with trembling hands, feeling the fabric settle against me like it remembered where it came from, the tie now resting at my waist as a sash, the small silver pin catching the light just enough to feel intentional.
For a brief moment, doubt crept back in.
Then I heard their voices—laughing, already assuming I would show up in something cheap, something embarrassing, something beneath them.
I took a slow breath, opened the door, and walked down.
The silence came first.
Then the laughter.
“You made that from a uniform?” Lia said, her voice dripping with disbelief.
Camila didn’t even try to hide her contempt.
“He left you scraps,” she said coldly. “And it shows.”
The words hit harder than I expected, but this time, they didn’t break me.
“I made something out of what he left me,” I replied, steady enough to surprise even myself.
That only made them laugh louder.
And then the doorbell rang.
Three sharp knocks that cut cleanly through the noise.
Camila opened the door with irritation, but whatever she had been about to say disappeared the moment she saw who was standing there.
