Crying fucks up your face, but sometimes it fucks it up in a way that makes you look untouchable. Skin raw, eyes swollen into this perfect, tragic halo of red, like a girl in a painting who just got done ruining someone’s life. The kind of face someone remembers in flashes: flushed cheeks, a violent little smudge of mascara, lips parted like you just whispered something cruel. I text my friend, we’re going out. Not because I want to, but because I need to be seen. The best revenge is looking like you have a plan, even if you’re making it up as you go. So I do the last thing I need to do—I press my fingers into my swollen eyes until the tears threaten to start again, and I blink. The red deepens. The war paint sets.And I leave, looking like I just crawled out of hell and learned how to use a knife.