She typed the caption:

The girl took the photo. “You look… different,” the girl said, confused. “Happier.”

She looked at the draft of her next post: a photo of her and Valentino, lips locked in a fake, glossy combat.

Sofia smiled again. And for the first time in years, she didn’t care if anyone was there to take the picture.

That night, after the after-parties and the sponsored stories for a collagen drink, Sofia sat in her silent penthouse. She opened her private folder, the one not linked to any cloud. It was full of photos no one had ever seen. Her at age ten, blowing out birthday candles, lips wrapped around a straw. Her father, before he left, kissing her forehead. Her mother, laughing so hard her lips vanished into a thin line of joy.