#yan chan

She was perfectly content with wearing the school uniforms growing up. They were simple. It was one less target for the other kids to throw their degrading daggers towards. As long as she followed along with what she was given and expected to do, there were hardly any threats in the way.

When she'd first tried to mimic other girls in an attempt to finally feel something beyond a cold, hollowness in her chest, it was only makeup. Powder. Lipstick. Liners. It was uncomfortable on her skin, and she found that she felt no different when catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Another failure. There was no point in messing with that either.

Still, she would put on light details here and there, hoping to find something that would spark a sense of enjoyment. A bit of blush or eyeliner was typically all she wore. She was never one to care for acne, or blemishes, or eye bags. They were natural parts of a human being's face. What was the point in trying to hide something that had no purpose?

She never understood the fear and insecurities that would contort a girl's features whenever she'd realize her makeup had been smudged. All she could do was watch as they'd bolt out of their seat and make a beeline for the nearest bathroom. Moments later, they'd return, their face once again flawless in the eyes of others.

Maybe that's why they were so desperate to coat their faces in products.

To hide the faults.

To hide their lack of confidence.

For years, she'd assumed that the only ones who would put in an overzealous amount of effort to perfect their appearances were girls. It made sense, after all, considering the high standards set in place by the community and society in general. However, as she started paying more attention once reaching high school, it only took a few quick glances to notice that, no, it wasn't just the other girls.

The boys were all worried about how they looked, too.

As the realization made itself known in her head, an uncomfortable tension began to form in her body. Now, not only was she unlike any of the other girls, she was simply isolated from other people her age, including the boys. Why did they care so much about how others perceived them? It wasn't like their looks held any value when it came to academics or the real world.

No, that wasn't entirely true.

She'd seen it with her own eyes. Many times.

People were treated poorly if they matched the part. If there was even a single flaw prominent on their face, or their hair, or their outfit, they weren't given the same level of respect as those who seemed pristine at any given moment. Some people struggled to keep their jobs and relationships because of something so meaningless. It was ridiculous.

It was all absurd in her mind.

She continued on after her realization, sticking to her plan to wear the least amount of makeup possible and settle for plain clothing.

Perhaps she'd change once she met the one person who would fix her.

The one person who would find her missing pieces and put her together.

The one person who would be hers.

Until that day came, she was more than willing to lurk in the shadows and draw as little attention to herself as possible.

She'd met you entirely by accident.

She was more than aware of you already, given your over-the-top outfits and makeup that coincided with your bubbly personality. Not only had you caught the eye of the boys in your class. You'd attracted the attention of a lot of girls, too. They adored you in every sense of the word.

Ayano had initially assumed that you were yet another copy of every try-hard girl in the school: vain, arrogant, focused only on your looks.

A flatterer.

A doormat.

That's all she thought you were.

From the outside, it was hard to find anything that would suggest you were anything above superficial. Being surrounded by multiple people at once, all trying to keep your attention on them, made it hard for her to form any other possible opinion. She couldn't hear any of your conversations, nor could she get close enough to study the microscopic changes in your expression.

There was a temptation to try and get close to you. It started as a small spark occasionally flickering beneath her skin, but as time went on, it began to spread, lighting every nerve ablaze and making it nearly impossible to think of anyone or anything else. It was a new feeling — one of the only things she could feel — and she could not understand it either.

Had it not been for the constant talk of you throughout the hallways of the school, she wouldn't have even known your name. As the desire to learn more about you grew stronger, it brought forth another new sensation: sheepishness. She knew next to nothing about you, yet she was too afraid of how you'd react if she approached you.

The other students never spoke of her kindly, and given how chatty you were with a large portion of the school, it would be no surprise to her if you had heard all of the rumors and formed a similar opinion yourself.

If she approached you, would you run away?

Would you mock her and tease her for the things entirely out of her control?

A part of her, one she couldn't recognize fully, hoped that you would welcome her. That you'd flash her that charming smile you sent to everyone. That you'd greet her and fill her with a sense of calm and belonging.

As those wishes grew, she found herself becoming increasingly aware of her mother's words. Her advice. She'd find someone who would let her feel and grow. She warned that it would be confusing at first, but with a bit of time and understanding, it would become an addictive feeling, one that she'd never want to rid herself of.

There would be no numbness left. She'd finally be granted the chance to know what it feels like to be normal. To know what it feels like to care. To love. That's all she's ever wanted was to be normal.

But now, as she watches you from afar, there's a new want clawing its way into her soul. Within days, its made itself home in her heart, which she had convinced herself would never feel the warmth of what she wanted most.

You.

She wanted you.

There were so many attempts made to catch your attention, all of which failed or ended with her running off from shame before you could speak to her. Still, she studied you, trying to find a way into your life.

That's when it hit her.

You were into fashion — the one thing she cared so little about. It was your passion. One that you shared with the school. You never tried to lie about what your routine was, or what products you used. Ayano had even caught you handing a few of your favorite products over to the students who had asked about them. There was no hesitation in your aid, either, and it only took a bit of talking herself up before she wrote a letter and stuffed it through the slots of your locker.

Inside, on the neatly folded sheet of paper, rested her phone number, address, and a coy plea to help her experiment with her style and figure out what she was confident in.

To her delight, you agreed, shooting her a quick message to let her know that you had read her letter and were more than willing to help. You told her you'd come over on the weekend, and after she gave you a few of her measurements, you went on a small shopping spree, trying to find things that would suit her the best.

It was your intention to surprise her, although that wouldn't be the case. Not that you knew that. She'd followed you up to the mall, watching with pure fascination and intrigue as you effortlessly spotted and plucked different clothes off the shelves and racks. Each item kept a general color scheme, though there were a few that strayed away from it.

She had said she wanted to experiment, after all. What better way than to try all sorts of colors and styles?

Her eyes were locked on you all the way up until you left the building. Not wanting to get caught, she darted away and took a longer path home.

All she could do then was wait.

It was hard. She wished you were there with her already, but with every hour that built up to Saturday, the fear from before settled in the pit of her stomach. What if she did something that weirded you out? Would you leave if she got too close? If she got a little too open and honest about how much she'd learned about you in such a short amount of time?

She knew she had to keep all of that inside. At least until you were close enough for her to properly gauge how you'd react. Maybe, if she gained your trust fully, you'd find it endearing rather than terrifying.

By the time Saturday finally rolled around, her limbs were practically buzzing with excitement. Her fingers, numb and tingling, tapped away at her phone screen, repeatedly closing out of the messenger app and opening it to see if you had left her any new texts.

She'd informed her mother about what was going on, and after an enthusiastic congratulations, Ryoba promised to make sure she and Jokichi were out of the house to grant her privacy. Ryoba trusted her daughter. She'd taught her well over the years, and now she was finally given the opportunity to prove herself.

True to her word, Ryoba made up some kind of excuse to get Jokichi to follow her out for a few hours, leaving Ayano to prepare herself to finally be alone with you without the worry of interruption or judgment beyond your own.

She'd decided on a pair of black track pants, a white, short-sleeved t-shirt, and a beige cardigan draped loosely across her shoulders, the buttons parted to keep it open for a more casual look. There was no makeup on yet, considering you promised to help her experiment with that as well, and she kept her hair tied up in its usual style.

Eager and desperate to see you, she leaned herself up against the wall by the front door, still checking your messages on repeat until you finally began typing. Her thumb, which had nearly swiped off of the app, froze, hovered above the dim lighting of her screen, hesitant to make another move.

'I think I'm at the right place,' you typed, the sight of your confirmation enough to leave a faint trail of crimson across her skin and get her heart pounding harder against the inside of her ribs. Without taking into consideration just how off-putting it would seem, she spun around and flung the door open, leaving her there with the view of you jolting and staring at her with wide eyes.

After a moment, she cleared her throat, briefly averting her gaze and stepping to the side to let you in. "Apologies," she mumbled. "I'm just very… excited." You offered a gentle laugh, one that she instantly wanted to hear more of. "It's alright. No need to apologize," you replied as you walked past her and into the house.

When she closed and locked the door, she turned to you, finding you standing there, waiting expectantly. It took her a moment to figure out what you were waiting on. "Oh," she blurted after another few seconds. "Sorry, I'm new to this. We can go up to my bedroom." It was then that she registered the bags in your hands. They seemed to be weighing you down.

"Here, let me help you carry those," she offered, already reaching for the bags clasped in your left hand. Huffing out a sigh of relief, you handed them to her without delay, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips. "Thanks. They got really heavy while walking here."

It was almost instinct to mirror your smile.

It was natural.

But how could she not smile back at you?

Your glee was contagious, even to someone like her who had hardly felt anything her entire life.

"You didn't have to find so many things for me to try. I would've been more than content with a few shirts or leggings."

You hummed, trailing behind her as she made her way upstairs to her bedroom. "Well, then there wouldn't really be much to experiment with. Besides, I don't mind. It'll be fun!" She hummed, her head turning briefly to eye you as she climbed the steps before you. "Fun. Yes. I'm sure it will be."

It only took a few more steps to reach her room. The room was everything you'd expected from her, given how distant and reclusive she seemed at school. Bare walls, a desk organized neatly with papers from school, a wardrobe tucked in the corner to hold her few outfits, and her bed, tidy and plain. It wasn't what you were used to seeing when you'd go over to friend's houses, but it wasn't a drab sight either.

It suited her.

You turned to her after setting the rest of the bags down beside her desk, nearly jumping out of your skin at the sight of her staring right back at you with an unrecognizable expression. "Is everything okay?" You asked softly. She nodded with a bit too much force, but you chose not to point it out.

"Yes, of course. I just," she paused, and you watched as her eyes darted around her own room, suddenly holding a mixture of unease and uncertainty. "Is there something wrong with how I've set up my room?" You blinked, surprised. You didn't figure that she cared what others thought — that was one of the main things that drew you to her in the first place: she didn't need the attention or validation of others to thrive.

She did well in all of her classes, and she always looked flawless, regardless of how minimalist her makeup was. She impressed you, honestly.

So for her to ask for your opinion on her bedroom — a space reserved solely for her?

"No, of course not," you finally answered after a beat. "It's very cozy. I'm just not entirely sure where to sit or stand while we mess around with the different outfits." Almost unnoticeably, her shoulders tensed, and she dropped her own handful of bags down with very little consideration of what could be inside.

She walked over and pulled her chair out from her desk, motioning subtly to the seat. "Sorry, I should've let you know sooner that you're free to sit wherever. You could sit here or on my bed, if you'd like." Internally, she hoped you'd choose to sit on her bed, wanting nothing more than to be able to catch your scent on her sheets as she dozed off later that night.

To her dismay, you chose the office chair, though she supposed it wasn't necessarily a loss. Your perfume would surely cling to it as well. It would give her all the more reason to spend her time studying at the desk.

"Thank you," you blurted, snapping her out of her thoughts. She nodded and hummed. "Of course."

She moved to her bed after grabbing the previously discarded bag from the ground. With a grunt, she dropped onto the mattress, took a breath, then peeked inside to see what you had brought. "So," you started while your hands clapped together excitedly. "I wasn't entirely sure if there was a specific style you'd like, and I really only see you at school, so I don't know what casual clothes you already have. That being said, I did take my time to try and find stuff I thought would bring out your features."

A hum was her reply. She nodded along, acting innocent, as if she hadn't watched you hand-select everything for her yourself. She feigned surprise as you began to pull out the different blouses and accessories. She disguised the recognition in her eyes as intrigue.

Even though she'd expected each item you tugged from the bags, she hadn't anticipated the feeling of flattery you'd unknowingly brought her. It bubbled through her veins, drawing her focus away from the clothes, and ultimately left her speechless as she simply watched you.

Not only had you gone out of your way to search for and buy different outfits you thought she would like, you'd also been thinking specifically of the features they would emphasize. "I think this'll really bring out your eyes," you said as you held up one of the blouses. "And if we mess around with your hair and makeup a bit, I'm sure we could find a style that would bring out your lips and nose, too."

You were thinking of her: of her eyes, her lips, her nose — the same parts her mind latched onto whenever she thought of you. Maybe you weren't thinking of those features in the same way as her, but it brought her delight to know you were thinking of her at all.

"I'll leave—" Your words instantly drew her back into the present. She gawked at you, an overwhelming sense of offense and hurt instantly contorting her face. Thankfully, you hadn't noticed.

You were leaving? Already? What had she done?

"—the room," she took a breath, "so you can get changed. Just let me know when I can come back in." Although she didn't want you to leave, she could only nod, then watch as you stepped out into the hallway and shut the door behind you.

Her focus landed on the separate piles on her desk. There was no spark of interest in her eyes as they bore into the different fabrics, nor was there any better of an understanding in her mind for the appeal of it all.

Truthfully, she didn't care for any of the outfits. Not for the way they looked, anyway. She only liked them because you were the one who had given them to her. That, and you had put so much thought behind each article. Because you were the one to pick them out for her, pay for them out of your own pocket, and gift them to her, she loved them, every single one.

She thought back on the way you looked at each blouse, each skirt, each pair of pants, and she put on the ones that you seemed the most excited to see her in. With a brief look at herself, she made her way back to the bedroom door, prying it open and peering out to find you waiting a few feet away from the frame. Your head turned at the sound of the door opening, a smile your way of greeting her when you made eye contact.

"You're welcome to come in again," she spoke, then stepped back to let you slip in past her. When you made it in and faced her properly, you let out a small squeal, the grin on your lips once again growing contagious and forcing one to mirror itself on Ayano. "Oh, you look so good!" You said, bouncing on your toes. "So pretty!"

Pretty.

You thought she was pretty?

There was no way for her to hide the crimson creeping over her face at your words, though she wasn't entirely worried about concealing it either. You were far too focused on the way the outfit complimented her to notice.

"Thank you," she managed to murmur.

The next few hours felt like they were all blurred together. She tried on different combinations, all of which you met with pure excitement, and you never failed to shower her in compliments. That kind of praise wasn't something she tended to care for, but hearing you speak so highly of her? It drove her insane.

By the time you left for the evening, her heart throbbed with every recall of your words. She had to make it happen again.

The end of the next week, you once again found a letter in your locker. You recognized the handwriting immediately, barely having to skim over the message inside before you tugged your phone out, shooting her a text and letting her know you were more than willing to help out again.

This time, it was with her hair and makeup.

Feeling your fingers in her hair, nails occasionally grazing over her scalp, and leading different strands into specific directions to style it had her shutting her eyes. A small smile was the only outward indication that she was enjoying it, but she could feel the pleasure and delight coursing throughout each limb.

When you sat in front of her on the bed to apply different makeup products, she was stiff, even with you letting her know she could make herself comfortable. Her body was rigid because of the impulse she felt to pull you into her lap. She had to fight against it, not wanting to upset you or scare you away.

But having one of your hands cradle her jaw to keep it steady helped her ease up a bit. She practically melted into your touch, and beyond a small chuckle, you didn't comment on it. It was clear she liked being around you, even though you'd hardly spent time together. You seemed to bring her a sense of peace.

It was cute.

You liked being around her already, too.

It became a routine thing after that second day to come over to her house on the weekend and help her pick out different outfits and styles for the following week. After a while, though, you wouldn't hide behind that excuse anymore. You started spending time with her just for the fun of it.

Uncaring of the curious — and occasionally disgusted — glares, you began to spend time with her during school as well. You'd meet up with her at lunch, sit with her during study hall, chat with her between classes, and eventually walk with her to and from school.

It was only a matter of time before you caught feelings for her as well and finally became official with her.

To say she was elated would be an understatement. Her plan had worked flawlessly. You were hers now, and it was all thanks to something she paid so little attention to before.

Still, even after dating her for months — and years — you still chose new outfits for her. You'd help her dress, help her apply her makeup, and help her style her hair. She didn't bother hiding how much she loved it anymore. There was no need, to be fair. You got to watch every reaction you could pull from her.

Every sigh and small groan she'd give while your fingers carded through her hair.

Every perk of her lips when you reminded her how beautiful she was.

Every instant her body would fall slack beneath your touch as you put on her makeup for her.

She just loved that you were near her. She still cared very little for the cosmetics and outfits, but now that you were the one helping her experiment with it all?

She had to admit it.

She was warming up to it.