Page 31 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

I didn’t even know where I was going until I was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, half-unpacked makeup bag dumped out beside me like a lifeline.

My phone was still a brick. No bars. No Wi-Fi. No portal to the outside world or digital validation.

But I opened the camera app anyway.

And I hit record.

“Hey guys,” I said softly, voice raspier than usual. “So, today’s look is called‘trapped in a mountain cabin with three lumbersexuals and no coffee shop in sight.’”

I tried to smile. It twitched at the corners, a little wobbly. But I kept going.

As if muscle memory could save me from unraveling.

I grabbed my foundation and started buffing it in with a too-damp beauty sponge. The texture was off, but I didn’t care. I needed something to do with my hands.

“First step,” I murmured, “cover the existential crisis with medium-build coverage.”

I reached for concealer next, dotting extra under my eyes.

“Okay, so this part’s important. We’re gonna erase the fact that I haven’t slept in two days and possibly cried in a broom closet.”

Blush next, a warm, dusty rose. I dabbed it onto my cheeks with a brush that probably hadn’t been cleaned since I still had sponsorships.

“Add color so you look like a person who doesn’t spiral at the mention of the word ‘algorithm.’”

I paused. Looked at my reflection.

Crap, I looked tired.

But I kept going.

Highlighter, a soft champagne shimmer, went on next. I swiped it across my cheekbones, nose, cupid’s bow. The usual map to glowing perfection.

“No one’s going to see this,” I muttered. “But sometimes you have to fake it. Even if it’s just for you.”

I curled my hair in lazy waves, letting the hot barrel singe away the stress. I applied eyeliner with the shaky confidence of someone who’d once done it in the back of a moving Uber, while holding a matcha in the other hand.

Then mascara. Then gloss, a sheer rosy tint I hadn’t worn in months but suddenly needed to.

And by the time I was done, I looked…

Beautiful.

Soft curls. Glowy skin. Glossy lips. Effortless and intentional. The kind of look I used to curate for brand deals and rooftop brunches and paparazzi sightings outside Erewhon.

But here, in a weather-beaten cabin, with the wind howling through the trees and literally zero audience, it felt like something else.

Like armor.

Or maybe a reminder.

That I was still me. Even if everything else had fallen apart.

I stared at my reflection for a long time. Then at the lens.

And I whispered, “You’re still here.”

Not for the camera. Not for the likes.

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