There’s a point in the night when the bathroom is the only honest room. Outside, everyone is pretending. Pretending to have fun. Pretending not to care. Wanting to be seen. Here, the truth exists in pieces. Someone is crying into toilet paper that’s too thin for the job. Another 'fixing' their make up with blurry eyes. Girlhood, the spoken language. Emotional support, the only currency. It’s Beautiful. Violent. Vulgar. Cheeks get hotter under bad light. Lips get stained. Faces get done up using bare fingers, because no one has time for anything else. For a few minutes, nobody is alone. Then the music gets louder, the mirror gets meaner and everyone goes back out looking slightly better than they feel.