Miles had wiped the eyeliner off four times. The fifth attempt wasn't going any better. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, one eye lined in shaky black while the other remained stubbornly bare. Makeup wipes, cotton rounds, and brushes he'd had to Google how to use littered the counter along with an eye shadow palette that hadn't seemed as intimidating in the store. His gaze drifted toward the bedroom. A garment bag hung from the closet door. Inside was a dress. Nothing extravagant. Just something he'd impulsively bought after spending far too many nights watching videos of drag performances online. It had started innocently enough. Morgan had mentioned the Pride drag show while discussing events, and somewhere between curiosity and admiration, Miles had found himself watching performance after performance.
The confidence. The artistry. The way people stepped onto a stage and seemed to become larger than life. He wasn't even sure he wanted to perform. He just wanted to know what it felt like to look in the mirror and see... something different. Something he'd chosen. Instead, all he could see was six-foot-four of awkward uncertainty. Broad shouldered, square jaw? Big hands. "...You look ridiculous." The words came so automatically they barely felt like his own. He'd spent years convincing himself the Calloways didn't matter anymore. He'd walked away from the expectations, the name, the endless pressure of who he was supposed to be. So it was deeply irritating that the moment he'd picked up an eyeliner pencil, he could hear them anyway. 'What the hell are you doing?', 'You look stupid.', 'A Calloway doesn't...' Miles closed his eyes with a frustrated sigh. "For people I don't even talk to anymore," he muttered to the empty apartment, "you've all got an awful lot to say." Silence answered him.
He looked back at the mirror one more time. The eyeliner wasn't good. The makeup certainly wasn't. He hadn't even worked up the nerve to unzip the garment bag. His phone sat beside the sink. He picked it up, thumb hovering over Morgan's name, shooting him a text. You busy? I think I need your help...Please don't make fun of me.
