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The model wearing it would be tall and narrow, but not the severe kind of thin everyone seems to worship. He would be beautiful without apologizing for it. His hair would be bleached nearly white, his eyes lined in silver, his cheekbones dusted with tiny crystals that catch the camera flashes when he walks.

He would not keep his shoulders hunched.

He would not make himself smaller.

He would not have to listen for footsteps.

My pencil stills.

I stare down at the figure and know I have drawn myself again.

Well, not exactly myself. Not the version reflected in the mirror hanging from the back of my closet door, all sharp elbows and uncertain limbs, with hair I cut myself because I can’t afford a real barber and don’t trust one not to give me something aggressively masculine when I ask for short sides and volume on top.

This version of me stands straight.

This version doesn’t flinch.

He’s proud.

Beautiful.

I turn the page over before I can look at him for too long.

Beside my knee rests a blouse I bought three weeks ago from the thrift store near the bus station. It cost four dollars and still smells faintly like someone else’s cheap floral detergent despite being washed twice. The material is cream-colored and almost sheer, with a high collar and sleeves that billow around my wrists, but whoever made it chose cheap plastic buttons and stitched the side seams unevenly.

I’ve spent the past few mornings fixing it.

The first day, I removed the buttons and replaced them with pearl ones salvaged from a cardigan Mom threw away. The second, I took in the waist. Yesterday, I carefully picked apart the cuffs so I could add narrow strips of lace around their edges.

Today, I’m working on the collar.

I lift the blouse into my lap and run my fingers along the fabric, finding the place where I left off. My sewing kit is an old mint tin hidden inside the hollow space beneath my nightstand drawer, where the bottom panel came loose years ago. It contains three needles, six spools of thread, two pieces of tailor’s chalk worn almost flat, and a handful of pins.

It isn’t much, but it’s mine, and that makes it precious.

I thread a needle and bend over my work, keeping each stitch tiny and even. Before I sew, I always imagine how the piece should look when it’s finished, then I work backward, breaking the transformation into little steps that don’t seem so impossible on their own.

Remove the bad buttons.

Fix the crooked seam.

Take in the waist.

Add the lace.

One small thing after another until something unwanted becomes coveted.

People should work that way too.

I’ve tried, for nineteen years.

Be quieter.

Be more useful.

Don’t cross your legs like that.

Don’t move your hands when you talk.