BRIANNA

16. MY BEAUTIFUL GIRL

BRIANNA'S POV

As soon as we got to the penthouse, I went straight to the shower, letting the warm water wash over me as though it could somehow erase the lingering strangeness of the day. It wasn’t just the fact that I had gone to a party—my first real party outside of family gatherings—but that I had walked into a world I’d only ever seen in movies or overheard in passing conversations.

The music had been deafening, the lights almost disorienting, and though I hadn’t touched a single drop of alcohol, I felt intoxicated by the sheer energy of it all. Every movement, every glance, every word exchanged at that party had felt charged, as if I were caught in a current I didn’t know how to navigate. I couldn’t believe I had even gone, much less stayed, but somehow, there I was, standing in a room full of people I didn’t know, trying to convince myself I belonged even when I knew I didn’t.

The shower, though soothing, wasn’t enough to stop my mind from wandering back to the memories of the parties I was used to—the kind of events where the music was always low enough for conversations to flow freely, where my mother’s laughter echoed through the room as her friends teased her about growing another year older. My mother’s birthday parties were always orchestrated to perfection, with her friends sipping wine, laughing about just anything and gossiping while my grandmother sat primly in a corner, quietly judging everyone. My mother's friends secretly called her the queen of gossip and more often than not, speculated about who she could be judging and what she could be judging about that person. To be honest, I find myself thinking about that too whenever I see her at her usual corner busy scanning the room.

Family parties had a warmth to them, a predictability that wrapped around you like a favourite blanket. My grandmother, who always insisted on quiet dinners for her birthdays, had once told me that simplicity made moments more memorable. Her birthdays were never loud or flashy, just filled with good food, meaningful conversations, and the unspoken comfort of being surrounded by people who truly knew you. Those moments felt so far away now, like they belonged to a different version of me—a version untouched by whatever it was about tonight that made me feel so raw, so exposed.

And then, there was JC. It was infuriating how much space he took up in my thoughts, how his presence seemed to linger even now. I could still feel the weight of his gaze, sharp and assessing, following me as I moved through the crowded room. I wasn’t foolish enough to think it meant anything significant—boys like JC didn’t see girls like me as anything other than temporary distractions. He was the kind of boy who thrived on attention, who probably had a different girl hanging off his arm every weekend if not every day of the week. And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop replaying the way he looked at me, like he was trying to figure me out, as though I were some kind of puzzle he wasn’t used to solving. It wasn’t flattering—it was frustrating, and it made me feel small in a way I didn’t like admitting even to myself.

The worst part, though, was his attitude. He had been rude, his words cutting in a way that felt deliberate as if he wanted to put me in my place. His sister hadn’t been any better, her icy demeanour and condescending remarks making it clear she didn’t think much of me. I didn’t know what I had done to deserve their disdain, but it stung nonetheless.

I wasn’t the type to care about the opinions of people who didn’t matter, but something about their behaviour had gotten under my skin. Maybe it was because I wasn’t used to being treated that way, or maybe it was because a small, irrational part of me had expected more from them—from him. Either way, it annoyed me that I couldn’t seem to let it go, that their words and actions had taken up residence in my mind, refusing to be ignored.

I stepped out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel and staring at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was damp, my cheeks slightly flushed from the heat, and my eyes held a weariness I didn’t recognize. I told myself I didn’t care what JC thought of me, that his rudeness said more about him than it did about me. But the truth was, I hated the way he had made me feel, like I didn’t belong, like I was out of my depth. And even though I knew better, even though I had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten to me, I couldn’t help but wonder why his words had cut so deep.

I stepped back slightly, letting the towel fall and the silence of the bathroom settle around me like a soft embrace. For the first time, I wasn’t just seeing my reflection—I was really looking at myself, taking in every curve, every feature, every imperfection and perfection that made me who I was. I hadn’t realized before how much of my self-perception had been shaped by the words of others, their compliments whispered in passing or casually thrown into conversation.

Back home, people always seemed to have something to say about my looks, calling me beautiful like it was an undeniable fact, but I had never truly believed it. It always felt like an act of kindness on their part, a way of uplifting a young girl who wasn’t quite sure of her place in the world. Yet now, standing here alone, with nothing but the truth staring back at me, I couldn’t help but see myself differently.

My mom’s voice echoed in my mind, her words as familiar as the sunrise: “Good morning, my beautiful girl.” She had said it so often that it had become part of our routine, as natural as the clinking of her coffee cup against the saucer. At first, I used to brush it off, rolling my eyes and dismissing her words as the biased opinion of a loving parent. But over time, as I grew older, I began to accept them—not as absolute truth, but as something I could hold onto on days when I doubted myself.

Now, as I traced the line of my collarbone in the mirror, I could see what she had seen all along. There was beauty there, not just in the symmetry of my features or the softness of my skin, but in the way I carried myself, in the quiet confidence I hadn’t realized was growing within me.

My gaze travelled downward, taking in the small, delicate swell of my breasts. They weren’t large, but they suited me, complementing the slender lines of my frame. My hips, though not wide or dramatic, curved just enough to remind me that I was no longer a child but not yet fully a woman. I found myself appreciating the balance of my body in a way I never had before, marvelling at how it all seemed to fit together so seamlessly. And yet, I couldn’t ignore the small voice of insecurity that crept in, pointing out the slight roundness of my belly, a lingering trace of childhood that hadn’t yet faded. It wasn’t something that bothered me most of the time, but in moments like this, when I compared myself to others—like Sarah, with her impossibly flat stomach and effortless grace—it was hard not to feel a pang of envy.

Sarah was one of those girls who seemed to defy logic, the kind of person who could eat whatever she wanted, skip every gym class, and still look like she’d stepped out of a fitness magazine. I envied her in the way that only a girl standing naked in front of a mirror could envy someone else’s body—not with bitterness, but with a wistful longing for what I didn’t have. I ran my fingers over my stomach, wishing for the kind of flatness that seemed to come so easily to her. But even as I envied her, I reminded myself that this was my body, and it had carried me through seventeen years of life, through every challenge and joy, every stumble and triumph. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine, and that had to count for something.

My thighs, though not as slim as I might have wished, were strong and shapely, and my legs—my legs were perhaps the one feature I could truly say I loved. They were long and lean, the kind of legs that made me feel taller than I actually was, as if they could carry me anywhere I wanted to go. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, watching the way the muscles moved beneath my skin, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of pride. My eyes drifted back up to my face, the familiar planes and angles that had stared back at me from every mirror since I was a child. My face was the one thing I hoped would never change, the one feature I felt truly defined me, the part of me that had always felt like the truest reflection of who I was. My skin was clear, save for the faint freckles that dotted my nose and cheeks, remnants of long summer days spent under the sun. My lips, naturally rosy and full, curved slightly upward at the corners, giving me the appearance of a perpetual half-smile. And then there were my eyes—large, almond-shaped, and framed by thick lashes that I had inherited from my father. They were the kind of eyes that people often commented on, calling them "expressive" or "soulful," though I had never quite understood what they meant. But as I looked at them now, I saw what they saw—a quiet strength, a depth of feeling that I had never allowed myself to acknowledge. It wasn’t just about the way they were shaped, but the way they seemed to hold a quiet determination, the way my smile could be reflected in them.

And then there was my hair, thick and unruly, cascading around my shoulders like a wild halo. It was the one feature I never wanted to lose, the one thing that felt uniquely mine. I reached up to run my fingers through it, marvelling at the way it caught the light, at the texture and depth that no amount of styling could ever fully tame. Standing there, in the quiet solitude of the bathroom, I realized that for all my insecurities, for all the things I wished I could change, there was so much about myself that I genuinely liked—loved, even. It was a strange and unfamiliar feeling, but one that I held onto tightly, as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

I smiled to myself, picking up the towel and wrapping it securely around my body before stepping out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed and oddly at ease. The cool air of the penthouse greeted me as I walked into my room, the faint scent of lavender from my lotion lingering in the air. Sitting down on the edge of my bed, I reached for the bottle of my favourite body lotion and began applying it meticulously, making sure every inch of my skin was covered. It was a small ritual, but one that made me feel grounded. With each stroke, I let my mind wander, replaying the day’s events, the new faces, and the swirl of emotions I hadn’t quite sorted through yet. By the time I slipped into my pyjamas, I felt a little lighter, the weight of the day slowly ebbing away.