The glitter was never in the dress

I never planned on going to the spring formal. It wasn’t really my thing—too many sparkles, too many expectations, too many eyes watching you walk in. But when my best friend Mina begged me to go—"just to people-watch and maybe dance once"—I caved.

The problem was the dress.

Mina showed up at my door with a garment bag and her signature dramatic flair. "Trust me," she said, unzipping it like a magician revealing her final trick. Inside was the dress—midnight blue, covered in tiny sequins that caught the light like stars. I gasped. Not because it was perfect. But because it was… too perfect.

“I’m not the girl who wears that dress,” I whispered.

Mina smiled. “You are tonight.”

And maybe I wanted to be. Just once.

That night, as I stared into the mirror, hair curled, lips glossed, heels wobbling, I barely recognized the girl staring back. She looked confident. Like she belonged. But inside, my heart pounded like a bass drum.

At the dance, the gym was lit in pinks and purples, glittering like a dream. Everyone seemed to be swirling in slow motion—laughing, twirling, belonging.

And me? I stood on the sidelines sipping fruit punch, wondering if it was all just a glitter-covered lie.

Then someone tapped me on the shoulder.

Luca. From my English class. Messy curls, quiet smile. We’d only ever exchanged book recommendations and shared sarcastic glances when the teacher made Shakespeare sound like stand-up comedy.

“You look… like yourself. Just shinier,” he said.

That’s when I realized something. The glitter wasn’t in the dress. It was in the moment. In being brave enough to show up. In being seen.

I smiled and offered him my hand. “Wanna dance?”

He nodded. “Only if you lead.”

And I did.