I don't know how long I've been staring at the rain, tracing its patterns through the window, but I feel a light nudge on my shoulder. I recognize it as Ila.

"Vi, you look freaking possessed," she remarks. I swear, the girl says whatever she thinks with no filter.

"Sorry," I reply and turn to face her. "Have you brushed your hair today?" I ask. Whenever there's a tension between us, I turn to asking about Ila's appearance. She loves talking herself. Not in a vain way, though. She just always wants to look good. Different. Not like the person she's being trained to be.

"Yeah, why? Does it look sloppy?" She worriedly glances to a small mirror hanging on the wall.

"No, not at all." I run my fingers through the feathery strands often compared to the beige of the walls, but with more life. The girl's so short, I have to bend my knees a little to reach the bottom of her hair. "Why do you always wear it down? It's so boring."

"I've never been that good with doing anything fancier than maybe a side braid. I don't really have the creativity to think of something else," she explains.

I study her face in the mirror that's positioned for Ila to see herself, I never bother with my appearance. Her eyelids are painted a dark gold color, eyelashes deep brown. Her lips are the slight pop of color, a dull lavender. Ila has a way of turning her face into a canvas. A canvas where she can paint a picture of her emotions only using makeup.

"Do you think you can do something fancier?" she asks as soon as she can tell I'm paying attention to her words again. "In return, I'll--"

"Yes," I tell her. Normally, I don't bother with makeup. I do bother with my hair, though. It's my staple, I like to think. The only real freedom I have.