At the Liberal Arts University, Kiko wasn't just the "ugly girl"; she was the favorite punching bag. Her clothes always modest and slightly disheveled contrasted painfully with the designer coats and pristine sneakers of the Diamond Girls, led by the cruel Sayuri.
The contempt was a daily ritual. Silence wasn't enough. One day, Kiko found her locker vandalized with offensive drawings. The next, a final semester project—crucial for her grades—was "accidentally" covered in spilled coffee. But the breaking point came during Art class, one of the few subjects Kiko genuinely enjoyed.
As she presented a timid sketch, Sayuri and her friends walked into the room, supposedly to pick up some supplies. In the middle of the presentation, a bucket of cleaning water, "forgotten" on top of the door, tipped over Kiko.
The water cascaded down, soaking her from head to toe, matting her awkward bangs and blurring her fogged-up glasses. While Sayuri feigned horror, the room erupted in roars of laughter. The humiliation was public and absolute. The professor, an exhausted and indifferent man, merely gave Kiko a look of pity and sent her home.
Kiko ran out of the university, her coat dripping, her soul wounded. When she arrived home, drenched and trembling, her parents' indifference was the final straw.
"What happened to you?" her mother asked, without taking her eyes off her tablet, where she was researching the price of prestigious tutoring for Kenzo, who was playing quietly in the living room. "Don't make a mess."
"I can't take it anymore!" Kiko burst into tears, dropping her bag of books. "They did it again! Mom, they hate me! I'm the laughingstock of the entire university!"
Her father, who was reading the newspaper, grunted: "You can't be so dramatic. It's just youth. Have more grit, Kiko. People respect those with grit."
Her mother finally set the tablet down, her brow furrowed in irritation. "I've already told you to fit in. If you're a target, it's because you *allow* yourself to be a target!"
It was then that Kiko made her desperate plea, her final play: "I want to be transferred. Please. To Seiji University. No one knows me there."
There was an immediate refusal a protest about tuition fees and logistics. But Kiko did not back down. For days, she used the threat of scandal the possibility of Sayuri's parents getting involved, of the family name being dragged through the mud until her mother, exhausted and prioritizing "honor," gave in with a sigh of defeat.
"Fine! You'll be transferred. But don't even think about embarrassing us at Seiji. This is your only chance."
Kiko barely heard the threat. The new university would start in a month. She had one month.
With her laptop in hand, she locked herself in her tiny bedroom. Her reflection in the mirror was that of a prisoner. But this time, she didn't see a victim; she saw a blank canvas. Beauty would be her armor.
Kiko typed the same search as before, but with a feverish urgency. She wasn't looking for tutorials; she was looking for a new identity. She watched videos day and night, studying the play of light and shadow, the illusion of a slimmer nose, the power of contouring. She spent the few savings she had on cheap products, practicing with the same discipline she would use to study a textbook.
With every brushstroke, the clumsy, invisible Kiko disappeared, giving way to a more defined silhouette and larger, more expressive eyes. The mirror finally reflected the gaze of someone who deserved to be noticed.
As the deadline approached, Kiko was ready. The transfer to the new university in Seiji was confirmed. And the girl who would step onto that campus beautiful and confident would be a ghost of the Kiko her parents and former classmates despised.
The future, she knew, lay beneath the layer.