Selene takes the stairs two at a time, canvas tote thumping against her hip. The song from her phone is still looping faintly in one earbud—soft chords fading into the smell of coffee and toast drifting up from below.
The kitchen is bright, too bright, the kind of morning light that makes everything look like it's posing for a family catalog she was never cast in.
Her mom, Elena Camper, stands at the counter in yoga pants and an old college sweatshirt that somehow looks editorial. Hair in a loose braid, skin glowing like she's been Photoshopped in real life. She's pouring orange juice with the casual grace of someone who never spills anything, ever.
Next to her is Trish—Mom's best friend since forever—perched on a stool in designer athleisure, laughing at something on her phone. Trish is all sharp cheekbones and effortless confidence, the kind of woman who makes "casual Friday" look like a red-carpet event.
And then there's Sasha.
Selene's younger sister is sixteen going on magazine cover. Long legs crossed under the table, glossy dark hair falling in perfect waves, uniform skirt rolled just high enough to be rebellious but not enough to get detention. She's scrolling TikTok with one hand and eating a banana with the other, somehow managing to look both bored and luminous at the same time.
Selene pauses in the doorway for half a second, taking it in.
You must be asking why I'm not looking like a goddess too, like my mom and baby sis.
Well. Shit.
I don't care.
…so suck 'em up.
She exhales through her nose, pushes the thought down like charcoal dust under her thumbnail, and steps fully into the room.
"Morning," she mumbles, heading straight for the fridge.
"Selene!" her mom says brightly, turning. "You're cutting it close again. Did you even eat breakfast yesterday?"
"Sort of." Selene grabs a yogurt she doesn't really want.
Trish glances up, smiles that warm, knowing smile. "Hey, Picasso. Still painting the world in shades of melancholy?"
Selene snorts despite herself. "It's called 'moody realism,' Trish. Keep up."
Sasha doesn't look away from her phone but smirks. "Moody realism is just depression with better lighting."
"Wow. Thank you, art critic of the sophomore class."
Sasha finally glances over, eyes sparkling with mischief. "You're welcome. Also, your hoodie has paint on the sleeve again. Like, fresh paint."
Selene looks down. Cobalt blue smear, still tacky. She sighs and rubs at it uselessly with her thumb.
Elena sets a plate of toast in front of her anyway. "Eat. You're not floating through figure drawing on vibes and spite."
"I'm fine on spite," Selene mutters, but she takes a bite anyway.
The kitchen hums with easy chatter—Mom and Trish trading gossip about some neighborhood drama, Sasha occasionally chiming in with exaggerated teenage commentary. Selene listens with one ear while the other ear fills with the voice inside her head, the one that never quite shuts up.
She's narrating again, the way she always does when the room feels too full of people who aren't her.
*And here we are, the Camper women and their honorary fourth. Three goddesses and one… accessory. The quiet one in the corner who draws people better than she talks to them. The one who—*
"Earth to Selene!!!"
Trish's voice cuts through like a palette knife.
Selene blinks. Everyone is staring at her.
Trish is leaning forward, eyebrows raised, amused. "You've been standing there holding the same piece of toast for like forty seconds, babe. You okay in there?"
Selene feels heat crawl up her neck. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
"About?" Sasha asks, genuinely curious for once.
Selene hesitates. The truth is too big, too soft, too embarrassing.
About how maybe if she could love—herself, someone else, the world just a little more easily—her hands wouldn't shake when she tried to draw a face that wasn't turned away.
About how she keeps painting girls with their backs to the viewer because looking someone in the eye feels like handing them a loaded brush and saying *go ahead, ruin me*.
About how sometimes she thinks the reason she's so quiet is that every word she doesn't say is another color she's saving for later, for when it finally matters.
But she doesn't say any of that.
Instead she shrugs, takes another bite of toast, and says, "Just wondering if I left my good kneaded eraser in the studio last night."
Sasha rolls her eyes. "Deep thoughts."
"Very," Selene deadpans.
Elena reaches over and squeezes her wrist gently. "You'll be late. Go. We love you."
"Love you too," Selene mumbles, already turning toward the door.
She's halfway down the hall when she hears Sasha call after her, voice softer than usual.
"Hey, Selene?"
She stops. Doesn't turn around.
"You're not invisible, you know."
Selene's throat tightens.
She doesn't answer.
She just keeps walking.
Because if she stops, if she turns, if she lets herself believe that maybe someone sees her—
She might actually have to try believing it back.
And she's not sure she's ready for what happens after that.
The front door clicks shut behind her.
The campus waits.
And somewhere inside her ribcage, a small, stubborn hope keeps beating anyway.