I seem like a boring, un-girly person when I compare myself to Yana. But in reality, I love to doll up sometimes.
I can remember myself at five walking around in my mom’s makeup and skirts that were basically dresses for me.
I just feel a little less with her around.
It’s not her fault, more like my insecurities talking, but every time I look at Yana, instead of seeing how beautiful she is, I see how not beautiful I am, and I feel like a horrible friend.
“But wouldn’t that take up so much space?” I tell her, still unsure.
“Yeah… that’s why I’m here.” She tosses her hair like she’s in a shampoo commercial. “Because, unlike you, I’ve had my whole life to perfectconvenientpacking.”
I don’t blame her.
I spent my whole life in Australia, and when I moved here, it was only a train ride.
She had to move her whole life to come here.
“Oh Lord help me,” she mutters, unzipping my suitcase like a bomb squad officer defusing a very fragile situation. “Tilly, what thehellis this?” She looks horrified.
“What?” I ask innocently, leaning back like I have no clue what she’s on about.
“I was being sarcastic when I said all you packed was shorts, bikinis, and your five-step makeup routine. Apparently, I wasseriouslyunderestimating you!” She looks at me disheartened.
“Well, I packed two books as well.” I scrunch my nose, realizing how bad that sounds.
“You didn’t even pack pajamas, Tills. Not even your pajamas!” Yana throws her hands up and stands up.
“We leave in less than twenty-four hours, and you’re… not even one-third packed according to my packing list!” She waves a very official-looking notebook in my direction.
“Well, I don’t have a packing list, which means I’m always one hundred percent packed.” I joke, then frown when I realize I’m not doing anything to help my case.
“Tilly… you are very,verylucky I am done packing,” she shakes her head in utter dismay.
I follow her to my wardrobe. “Let’s see what we can create.”
Yana dives into my drawers, my hanging clothes, and my shelves. Jackets, shoes, dresses, skirts, jumpers — the bed quickly becomes a table for the huge pile of clothes that Iknowwon’t fit into my suitcase.
“Not enough,” she announces flatly.
“Huh?” I blink, because there’s no way I heard correctly.
“This is not enough outfits for all the events,” she explains, massaging her temples. “We’re going to New York Fashion Week, influencer parties, special dinners, brunches, casual days… you cannot wear the same outfit twice.”
“What?” I ask, genuinely overwhelmed.
“You don’t know what thrifting is?!” Her eyes widen in horror.
“Yana. I might not use eyeshadow in my routine, but I’m still a girl who likes to look good. Of course, I know what thrifting is,” I render, feeling slightly betrayed.
She isn’t trying to make me feel dumb, but the way she dives into her element of expertise always made me feel a little… less.
Less fashionable, less prepared, less like I can handle my own life.
I might not be as precise as Yana, or as effortlessly wild as Zara, but I still care.
I still put effort into my outfits, even if it doesn’t always pay off.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” she groans. “Sometimes I forget that being experienced in something doesn’t mean everyone else knows nothing. Forgive me?” She sits down next to me on the bed and hugs me.
