Ximena's POV
Glenda's bedroom resembles a clothing store explosion. Garments drape every surface, accessories scatter across her dresser, and her closet doors hang open like hungry mouths. She sits cross-legged on the floor, carefully applying crimson polish to her nails as though the chaos around her is perfectly normal.
I stand frozen before her full-length mirror, yanking at the dark fitted top she insisted I wear.
"This is way too snug," I complain, angling myself to examine how the fabric molds to my curves.
"It fits perfectly," Glenda replies, concentrating on her pinky finger. "You just aren't used to clothes that actually show your shape."
I continue adjusting the material, desperate for it to somehow expand. "It's like a second skin. I feel exposed."
"You look amazing," she states matter-of-factly, still focused on her manicure.
