Velvet Cherry #9

The fluorescent lighting had a high-pitched hum today. Not loud enough to complain about, but persistent enough that it felt personal. Sarah had been at the register for twenty-three minutes and already someone was arguing with Grace about undertones.

“This is not warm,” the

customer insisted, swiping

the same lipstick on the

back of her hand for the

fifth time.

“Warm has more… warmth.”

Grace didn’t even blink.

“Warm is a spectrum,” she

said.

She said it like she was

talking someone down from

a ledge.

She was good at that—

sounding authoritative in

situations that did not

require authority.

On the far side of the store, someone sprayed a perfume too many times. The air turned into a cloud made of vanilla, citrus, and something that belonged on a much older woman in Palm Springs. The scent carried, clung, wandered. By the time it reached Sarah, she could feel it trying to tell her a story.

Lyn walked by, iced matcha in hand, moving like someone who had never been rushed in her life.

“That perfume is going to

start a fight,” she said, as if

reporting the weather.

“Feels inevitable,” Sarah

answered.

It wasn’t a bad day. Just loud. Bright. Everything on display.

Then she saw her.

The girl in the fragrance aisle. Shoulders hitched up around her ears. Makeup smudged like she’d either been crying for hours or had tried very hard to stop. Holding a bottle of something expensive, staring at nothing. She didn’t look dramatic. Or fragile. Just… too full. Like if she opened her mouth, the whole feeling of whatever was happening would spill onto the floor.

Sarah didn’t think about it. Not really. She just walked over and spoke in a voice she hadn’t used yet today—quiet, not performing.

“You okay?”

The girl startled a little.

Wiped her cheek.

Nodded and lied.

“Yeah. Totally. Just… I just

need to feel like myself

again.”

There it was. The small soft place.

Sarah reached into her apron pocket, pulled out the sample she kept meaning to toss.

“Here,” she said.

“Velvet Cherry #9. It’s…

grounding. Kind of.”

No magic to it. Just kindness in a store that asked everyone to be shiny. Emily took it like it was a lifeline.

The next morning, Sarah came in five minutes early, which was how she knew something was wrong. She was never early. She was a “sliding through the doors on the last legal minute with iced tea” kind of punctual.

The store was… buzzing. And not just the lights.

Grace was already holding court near the lip display, hair clipped back like she was about to film a makeup tutorial nobody asked for.

“I’m telling you,” she said,

waving a tester wand like a

conductor, “this gloss is like

—character development.

Like I saw myself from

above last night and said,

‘Go girl. You are the plot.’”

Lyn raised an eyebrow without looking up from her phone.

“You’ve always thought you

were the plot.”

“No,” Grace insisted. “I saw

it this time. The lighting?

Perfect. The wind?

Cinematic. The moment I

walked past the CVS

pharmacy sign? Symbolic.

My life finally had… tone.”

Sarah blinked. “What gloss?”

Grace pointed—very

dramatically—to the lipstick

gondola.

Velvet Cherry #9.

The same shade Sarah had

given the crying girl

yesterday.

There were already three empty tubes in the display.

“How—” Sarah started.

“TikTok,” Lyn said, still

scrolling.

“Someone made a video.

#velvetcherryeffect is

trending. People are saying

it unlocks your ‘true self.’”

Sarah stared at her.

“It’s lip gloss. It’s petroleum

jelly with pigment.”

“Yeah,” Lyn said.

“And religion is just stories

we tell ourselves. Humanity

loves a product.”

Before Sarah could respond, a customer approached the register—bright-eyed in a slightly manic way.

“Hi!” the woman chirped.

“Can I get six Velvet Cherry

#9? I already have one but I

gave it to my ex because I

realized I didn’t need

closure to move on, so I

thought she should have

that too.”

She said it like weather commentary. Sarah rang her up in silence. Then the next customer. And the next. And the next.

One woman applied the gloss in the security camera reflection and immediately FaceTimed someone named Trevor to break up with him with the calm intensity of a yoga instructor guiding meditation.

A teenager in rhinestone sunglasses strutted past the door outside like she was walking an invisible runway. Her friends followed behind her like backup dancers—not ironically. The movement was synchronized, almost balletic, like they shared the thought of it.

And the heat outside was strange today. Thick. Slow. The kind that turns distance into watercolor blur. From where Sarah stood, looking past the glass storefront to the street, the air seemed to bend, like the city was breathing in one long, unbroken inhale.

A bus drove by, wrapped in an ad for a new perfume—the model’s lips were glossy.

Cherry red.

The exact shade.

Except the ad had been

different yesterday.

Sarah’s stomach tightened, but she didn’t say anything.

Grace leaned against the counter, blissful.

“God, I hope this lasts

forever,” she sighed.

“I feel like I’ve been waiting

my whole life to feel like

this.”

Sarah didn’t answer. She suddenly felt like someone had knocked over a bottle of something flammable and walked away before realizing the spark had already caught.

By Thursday, Los Angeles felt like it had been dipped in warm syrup. Everything was slow, glossy, and vaguely seductive—the kind of heat that made palm trees look like they were posing. The sidewalks shimmered. Even the pigeons looked flirtatious.

Sarah didn’t want to go to work, which wasn’t unusual, but what was new was the anticipation buzzing under her skin. Like the air was holding its breath.

Sephora was packed. Not weekend-packed. Pilgrimage-packed. There were clusters of people holding Velvet Cherry #9 tubes like talismans. One girl was demonstrating application techniques while giving what could only be described as a motivational speech:

“You have to believe the

gloss is going to change

your life. Otherwise you’re

just wearing lip color, babe.”

Her circle nodded reverently.

Grace was basking like a cat in a sunbeam. “See? This is the era of us. I’ve been waiting.”

Lyn sipped her matcha. “This many main characters in one building feels dangerous.”

And then—the music shifted. Normally Sephora played a curated playlist of pop, indie pop, and corporate pop masquerading as something cooler.

But now?

The speakers were playing

something else—not a song

exactly, but a shimmering

synth tone that felt like it

came from behind your

ribs.

Sarah frowned.

“Do you hear—”

But Grace was already

swaying to it.

Customers began moving like they were in a music video. Not dancing—just… walking with rhythm. Heads turning in unison. Hair flips perfectly timed. The store had choreography now.

Someone near the perfume

display whispered, “I feel

like the world is finally

watching me.”

Someone else whispered

back, “It is. It always was.

We just didn’t have the

right lighting.”

Across the street, a billboard had changed again. It now showed a close-up of glossy lips—same shade—slightly parted, like they were about to speak.

Sarah blinked.

Looked away.

Looked back.

The lips were closed now.

She didn’t say anything.

Inside, a girl in a pink tennis skirt climbed onto a display table and began giving a TED Talk about reclaiming your narrative.

“We were told to be small,”

she said, voice ringing.

“Well I am done with small.

I want to live like I am the

climax of my own film.”

The crowd applauded. Security did nothing. Management was too busy applying the gloss.

Grace leaned in to Sarah, whispering like they were sharing a secret in church.

“I think this is good. I think

we were always supposed

to feel like this.”

Sarah wanted to say

something rational.

Like: this is mass psychosis.

Or: maybe something is

wrong with the gloss.

Or: why does the air look

painterly, like oil on canvas?

But her throat felt thick.

Honeyed.

Heavy.

And then she saw her—Emily. No smeared makeup today. No slouched shoulders. She was radiant. Terrifyingly radiant. Like someone who had decided she would never apologize again for anything. Her smile was slow, knowing, like she had learned the secret name of the world.

She walked straight to Sarah, bypassing the crowd.

“You saw me,” Emily said

softly.

“You recognized me. You

woke me up.”

Sarah’s heart hit her ribs like a fist. Emily’s eyes shone too brightly, like the reflection off water at noon.

Beautiful.

A little painful to look at.

“This is only the beginning,”

Emily murmured.

“Everyone is becoming who

they were meant to be.”

She leaned in, her glossed

lips catching the light.

“I just hope you’re ready to

meet yourself too.”

That night, the city felt louder than it should. Not in sound—volume had nothing to do with it. It was like every thought had heat to it now. Every person was a spark. Sarah walked home through West Hollywood, past neon signs and jacaranda blossoms that had fallen in lavender piles along the sidewalk. The air smelled like sugar and night-blooming jasmine and something sharper—anticipation.

She saw three separate people recording monologues on their phones as they walked. Not voice memos. Speeches.

One girl was narrating her own steps:

“This is the moment

everything changes. I feel

it. I’m not scared anymore.”

None of them looked embarrassed. Everyone looked certain. That was the part that frightened her.

She reached her apartment and dropped onto her couch, still in her work clothes. The lights were off. It was cooler in the dark. Easier to think. She tried to tell herself it was hysteria. Trend-based psychology. Group identity feedback loops. LA was always looking for an identity anyway—maybe this was just the latest one.

But then her bag rustled.

She didn’t remember putting the gloss sample inside. The little tube of Velvet Cherry #9 sat on the coffee table, catching what little light leaked in from the street. It looked… inviting. Even inert, it felt like it was waiting.

Sarah didn’t touch it.

Her phone buzzed.

A text from Grace:

ARE YOU SEEING THE

TIKTOKS???

THIS IS INSANE IN LIKE A

HOT GIRL WAY

A text from Lyn, immediately after:

Something about this

doesn’t feel right.

Then:

It’s like everyone wants to

skip the part where growth

hurts.

Sarah felt that land somewhere in her chest. A quiet, sore place. She thought of Emily’s face in the store. The way her smile hadn’t quite fit her. Like she’d stepped into a version of herself she wasn’t built to carry yet.

Confidence wasn’t bad. Self-belief wasn’t bad. But this wasn’t belief. This was hunger. A city of people trying to become something luminous without surviving the fire first.

For one moment, she understood—viscerally—why everyone was choosing the gloss. It was easier than the slow work. It was quicker than becoming.

Outside, someone laughed too loudly. A car horn harmonized with it. The city felt like it was stretching itself taller, reaching for something just out of sight.

And Sarah finally understood:

She hadn’t given Emily

confidence.

She had given her

permission.

And permission spreads.

By Saturday, no one in Los Angeles was walking anymore—people were arriving. Every step had intention. Every sidewalk felt like a runway. Even the stray cats seemed aware of their silhouettes. Sarah stepped outside into the evening heat—the kind that sticks to your collarbones. The sky was lavender turning peach, like cotton candy slow-melting. She meant to just pick up toothpaste. But the city pulled her.

Melrose had turned into a stage. A group of teenagers were filming a slow-motion hair flip sequence, except there was no camera.

Just performance.

Just belief.

One girl whispered,

urgently, “Don’t break

character.”

Another nodded with

reverent seriousness.

Across the street, a new mural covered the entire side of the old bakery—three stories tall, glossy-lipped women with cherry mouths parted slightly like they were about to speak.

It had not been there

yesterday.

Sarah swallowed, throat

dry.

She kept walking.

Outside The Grove, a circle of model-pretty strangers held hands, chanting affirmations like spells:

“I am inevitable.”

“I am iconic.”

“I do not wait my turn. I am

the turn.”

One began crying, mascara

streaking in elegant rivers.

She spotted Emily at the center of the fountain plaza. Not leading. Just standing there.

She wore the gloss.

Of course.

Her smile was serene.

Not manic now.

Just sure.

Emily saw Sarah and lifted a hand in greeting—slow, choreographed, like they were on opposite sides of an invisible stage.

“Come here,” Emily said,

not loudly, but everyone

heard it.

Sarah stepped closer.

“Look,” Emily murmured,

chin tipping upward.

On the rooftop of the parking structure, a girl in glittery pink sneakers stood on the ledge—not wavering, not distressed.

Just… posing.

Arms lifted.

Face to the sky like she was

lit from within.

People below watched with

breathless awe, phones not

raised.

Not intervention.

Not fear.

Admiration.

Emily was glowing. Not metaphorically—her skin looked lit from inside, like summer light through rose quartz.

“She’s not going to jump,”

Emily said.

“She’s just letting herself be

seen.”

But Sarah felt that sick, heavy pulse in her ribs that only shows up when you know a moment is about to go wrong.

“Emily,” Sarah said quietly.

“This isn’t confidence. This

is losing the plot. This is—”

Emily turned to her with

eyes too bright.

“It’s self-actualization. You

of all people should

understand. You’re the one

who started it.”

The words hit Sarah like heat. Not a weapon—just true enough to hurt. The girl on the rooftop lifted her chin, basking in the attention of strangers who had become worshipers by accident.

And the wind shifted.

A sudden gust blew her hair

back in a dramatic,

cinematic arc—

too cinematic.

Like the city was directing

the scene.

Sarah stepped forward without meaning to.

“Please,” she whispered.

Not to the girl.

To the organ of the city

itself.

To the air.

To whatever she had

awakened in all of them.

The rooftop girl wavered. Just a fraction. The spell flickered. Emily’s expression tightened—something brittle behind the glow. The confidence had edges. Sharp ones.

Sarah understood then:

They hadn’t become their

best selves.

They had become their

most believed selves.

The version of themselves

that required an audience

to exist.

And audiences aren’t loyal.

Something in her — something unadorned and unspectacular — said:

Break the spell.

Not with force.

With honesty.

She stepped onto the fountain edge, just enough to be seen, and said—not loudly, not theatrically—

“I don’t even know who I

am half the time. And that’s

okay. You don’t have to

arrive. You can just be.”

Her voice wasn’t

glamorous.

It cracked on be.

People blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Like a camera refocusing.

The rooftop girl stepped back from the ledge. Not dramatically. Just… naturally. As if remembering gravity again. The heat loosened. The air exhaled. The city blinked awake.

By Monday, the city had gone quiet in that particular way Los Angeles gets quiet — not silence, but a kind of emotional hangover. Like the collective consciousness had a headache and didn’t want the lights on.

Sephora was back to its usual pace. Still busy, but not luminous. The air smelled like vanilla again, but in a normal way. No choreography. No whispered manifestos. Just people trying to figure out which sunscreen wouldn’t break them out.

Grace looked… tired. Not ruined, just deflated in the way of someone who had flown too close to their own reflection. Lyn was restocking lip liners. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Sarah walked to the back room. The sample drawer had been reorganized — corporate must have pushed an update. Everything sorted by brand now. Labels neat. Inventory reset.

There was only one tube of Velvet Cherry #9 left. Not the same one. She could tell instantly. The old one had felt like it was watching her. This one was just pigment and gloss and plastic. A product.

Sarah picked it up anyway. Just to look.

Grace appeared in the doorway, leaning on the frame like she was too tired to stand upright.

“You’re not going to, like…

ritualistically destroy it or

something, right?” Grace

asked.

“No,” Sarah said.

She meant it.

“That’s not the problem.”

Grace nodded, eyes unfocused.

“I liked who I thought I

was,” she said quietly.

Lyn joined them, arms crossed, iced matcha in hand as always.

“It’s not wrong to want to

be the main character,” Lyn

said.

“It’s just… exhausting to

sustain.”

Grace gave a small

humorless laugh.

Sarah placed the tube gently back in the drawer and closed it. Not with finality. Just with… care.

On her walk home, the murals were still there. But they no longer shimmered. The glossed lips were just paint again. Beautiful, but not alive.

She passed the fountain where Emily had stood like a lighthouse. Emily was there — sitting on the edge this time. Feet in the water. No spotlight. No audience. Just a girl with her hair pulled back and her knees drawn up, looking like the day had finally reached her.

Sarah sat beside her.

Not close.

Just… beside.

Emily didn’t look up right away. When she did, her eyes were softer. Still bright, but not blinding.

“I thought I was finally who

I was supposed to be,”

Emily said.

“I don’t know who I am

without the gloss,” she

admitted.

Sarah watched the water move around their reflections — two figures, unremarkable, blurred slightly by the ripples.

“I don’t know who I am with

it,” she said.

They both let that sit

between them.

Not heavy.

Just true.

The sun slipped lower. A soft, normal sunset. Orange bleeding into pink. Someone nearby laughed — just a regular laugh. Not cinematic. Not profound. Sarah felt something settle inside her.

Not resolution.

Not understanding.

Just presence.

She could live with that.

Maybe that was enough.

Maybe it always had been.