Chapter 2
I set down the magazine, ready to head back to the makeup room.
But my feet wouldn't move.
That sentence kept playing on loop in my head like a curse. I told myself to be rational, to wake up, but...
But what if it really was about me?
I shook my head, trying to dismiss this ridiculous thought. The more I tried to forget, the clearer those buried memories became.
High school sunshine, Liam's focused profile as he adjusted his camera, and those words he'd said...
I leaned against the doorframe, letting the memories drag me back to that bittersweet past.
The summer I turned nine, we moved into the apartment below Liam's family.
My face was still wrapped in gauze then, the scars just beginning to heal. Every time I looked in the mirror, I wanted to cry. While other girls started caring about their appearance, I couldn't even bear to glance at my reflection.
Hat pulled low, head down—that's how I walked everywhere.
"Look, here comes the scar freak!"
"God, that's disgusting. Don't come near me!"
"Why doesn't she just die? Makes me sick to look at her!"
Those words cut through me like knives. I ate lunch hiding in bathroom stalls. In classrooms, my seat was always surrounded by empty space, as if I carried some contagious disease.
I thought I'd be alone forever.
Then Liam appeared.
First day of freshman year, as I automatically took my usual seat in the back corner, a figure suddenly sat down beside me.
I jumped, looking up to meet a pair of deep blue eyes.
"Hi, I'm Liam," he said casually, as if sitting next to the scar freak was the most natural thing in the world.
Whispers immediately rippled around us:
"Is he crazy? Why is he sitting there?"
"He must not have seen her face clearly..."
"He'll run once he sees the scars."
I ducked my head, bracing for the look of disgust when he inevitably left.
But he didn't leave.
He just pulled out his textbook, occasionally turning to smile at me, as if those whispers didn't exist at all.
That was the first time in my life I felt like I wasn't invisible.
From then on, he waited for me in the stairwell every day.
"Want to walk to school together?" he'd always ask, his tone as casual as discussing the weather.
I'd stammer my agreement, my heart racing like it might burst from my chest. Those ten minutes walking with him were the happiest part of my day.
"Don't you think... people will talk?" I finally asked one day.
"About what?" he asked back, something unreadable in those blue eyes.
"About you being with the scar freak..."
He stopped walking and looked at me seriously. "Scarlett, don't let other people's words define you."
That was the first time he called me by my name. Not "scar freak," but Scarlett.
From that moment, I was completely lost.
Everything changed after that. I started looking forward to school, to every minute I could spend with him.
But I never dared hope for more. After all, for a girl like me, his kindness was already more than I deserved.
Until that art class, when I realized I might mean more to him than just an object of pity.
While other students painted still lifes, Liam pulled out his camera—an old film camera he carefully adjusted.
"Can I take your picture?" he suddenly asked.
I shook my head in horror. "No! I'm... I'm ugly..."
"Why would you say that?"
"Because of the scars... because I'm a monster..."
He lowered his camera, his gaze so gentle it made me want to cry. "Scarlett, cameras see differently than eyes do."
I didn't understand until he raised the camera again and said softly, "From this angle, your scars look like shadows of angel wings."
Angel wing shadows.
In that instant, I felt my heart might shatter. Not from pain, but from a beauty I'd never experienced.
That was the first time I thought I might not be so hideous after all. That beautiful feeling lasted all the way through graduation.
The night before graduation, sunset on the school rooftop.
"I want to be a photographer," he said suddenly. "Go to New York to study."
My heart clenched. New York—that place as distant as a dream.
He turned to look at me. "If I go to New York to study photography, would you want to come?"
My heart pounded like it might explode. Was this... was this an invitation?
"I... I don't know if I deserve to go to a place like that."
"You deserve a bigger world more than anyone." His voice was soft, but every word hit my heart.
My heart soared, thinking this was some kind of promise. "If... if you think I could..."
He smiled, and that smile was so beautiful it made me want to cry.
In that moment, I thought my life was about to change.
Then reality delivered a crushing blow.
The next morning, I was still fantasizing about a future with Liam in New York.
Mom suddenly burst into my room. "Scarlett! Pack your things—we're leaving today!"
"What?"
"Moving! Out of state! I already quit my job!"
Moving boxes instantly filled the room, my world spinning out of control.
"Why so sudden? I haven't said goodbye..."
"We need a fresh start, away from everything here." Mom's tone was final. "Every inch of this place reminds us of painful memories."
I wrote a goodbye letter, but my hands shook so badly I could barely form the words. As the car started, I sat in the back seat, watching the letter tremble in my hands.
When we drove past Liam's building, I saw him standing at the window.
Was he waiting for me?
Tears flooded my eyes as I tore the letter into pieces.
Paper fragments scattered outside the car window, like my shattered dreams.
"Scarlett! Where the hell are you? The actors are waiting for touch-ups!"
The director's angry voice snapped me back to reality. I realized I was still standing in the break room doorway, my eyes moist.
Seven years.
For seven years, I'd told myself it was just a beautiful misunderstanding from my youth. He was only comforting a pitiful girl, nothing more.
But that sentence I just saw in the magazine...
"No, it's impossible." I shook my head, roughly wiping away the tears. "He's surrounded by perfect goddesses now. How could he possibly remember a scarred girl?"
I took a deep breath, forcing myself back to reality. This was a rundown film set, and I was a makeup artist worried about a few hundred dollars. He was in his luxury Malibu studio, working with international supermodels and luxury brands.
The distance between us couldn't be bridged by eight years of longing.
"Forget it," I whispered, turning toward the makeup room. "Time to get back to work."
Reality had already given me my answer. No point in fooling myself anymore.