The soft, rhythmic *scritch-scratch* of toothbrush bristles against teeth fills the tiny bathroom. Foam builds at the corners of her mouth. She brushes methodically, almost meditatively, as if the motion could scrub away more than just plaque.
Then she leans forward and spits—once, twice—into the sink. The sound echoes a little too loudly in the quiet morning. Water rushes, swirls, disappears.
Selene straightens up slowly. She raises her head.
In the mirror, a girl with tired dark eyes and messy shoulder-length hair stares back. Pale skin, a faint constellation of freckles across her nose that she never notices anymore. She tilts her head slightly, studying the reflection like it's a portrait she's trying to understand.
"Hey there," she whispers, voice barely above the drip of the faucet. "I'm Selene Camper. And this... this is my story."
She lets the words hang for a second, half-smiling at how dramatic they sound out loud. Then she turns away from the mirror and steps into the rest of her morning.
The room is small, but it's hers. Sunlight slants through half-closed blinds, painting golden stripes across the cluttered desk: tubes of gouache curling at the ends, sketchbooks stacked like unstable towers, charcoal smudges on every surface. A half-finished canvas leans against the wall—a girl with her back turned, looking out at a blurred crowd she can never quite reach.
Selene hums under her breath as she moves through the familiar routine. She pulls on the oversized denim jacket that still smells faintly of turpentine, tugs her hair into a loose knot, slips sketchbook and pencils into her worn canvas tote. She pauses at the tiny speaker on her shelf and presses play.
A gentle piano melody drifts out, soft and wistful, then a warm voice joins in—something acoustic and heart-expanding, the kind of song that makes ordinary mornings feel like the opening scene of a movie where something beautiful is about to happen.
She closes her eyes for just a second, letting the music wrap around her like a hug she hasn't received in years.
*If I could love, would the colors stay?*
*The brush would move without shaking hands...*
*If I could love, would my days be brighter?...*
She sways a little, imagining what it might feel like—to look at someone and not immediately wonder how to disappear. To speak without rehearsing every word first. To be seen, really seen, and not flinch.
The song swells gently, hopeful.
And then—
"Selene! Aren't you late?!"
Her mom's voice cracks through the door like a dropped palette knife. Sharp. Loving. Impatient.
Selene's eyes snap open. The daydream pops.
She glances at the clock. 8:17. Figure drawing starts at 8:30.
"Coming!" she calls back, voice cracking a little.
She grabs her keys, slings the tote over her shoulder, and hurries out—past the mirror one last time.
The reflection watches her go.
Quiet. Weird. Still waiting.
But today, maybe, she'll try saying hello to someone in the hallway instead of ducking her head.
Because if she could love—really love, without the fear that always curls tight around her ribs—maybe the colors would stay.
Maybe the canvas wouldn't feel so empty.
She pulls the door shut behind her, the song still playing faintly in her mind.
The campus waits outside, full of people, full of possibility, full of everything she's afraid to want.
And Selene Camper steps into it anyway.