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Description
Parisa sat on a dance mat, gulping down the water that she brought with her. It probably wasn’t a good idea to drink so much during the break, but Parisa didn’t care. She wasn’t used to moving around so much, and Valentino was nice enough to let her take a break. She rubbed her aching thighs. This would take a while to get used to.

“So many residents hop into my shop, absolutely loathing who they are! It's utter nonsense really! I must remind you that no matter the species, you all have such beauty!” Most of the class was still dancing, and Parisa could hear Val’s cheerful, encouraging voice. “In fact, that'll be my question for you today! What do you love about yourself?”

Parisa’s ears pricked up at Val’s question. What did she love about herself?

She liked to write. Every day, she wrote in her diary. Her professor told her it would help her get better at writing in a casual way, and give her a chance to vent about her feelings. But that didn’t really count as writing, in her eyes. She couldn’t go out and publish her diary, or post it online and get donations out of it. Technically she could. But that was a horrible idea. And she hadn’t written anything else since college. She tried, she spent whole nights trying to put words on paper. But all it ever resulted in was frustration and wasted paper.

And Parisa didn’t like the way she acted. She was a terrible procrastinator, and dropped out of college. Why? It was too hard. Too many deadlines, too many assignments. Too much responsibility. Yet, there were so many people who got through it all. But not Parisa. She was a college dropout with no job and no house of her own. Yes, she payed rent at Uriel’s place. But she wanted to live out on her own eventually.

Parisa chuckled. Ten years ago, she thought she’d be living in the lap of luxury. She’d be a movie star, people would see her in magazines, young girls everywhere would want to be like her. Then, a year or two later, she realized that wasn’t the life she wanted. Then it was all about writing! She’d write a famous book series, everyone would know her name, and everyone on the planet would recognize her characters at a glance.

And now she was here, sitting on the floor, nearly crying into her water bottle. She wiped her eyes, staring at her reflection in the water. It was hard to see details on things in such a small reflection, and Parisa could barely see the bags under her eyes. She spent much of her morning brushing her fur and hair, and it showed, much to her relief.

Parisa had always liked the color of her fur. She played around with dying it when she was younger, but it never sat right with her. None of the colors compared to her natural hues.

Saying that felt vain. “Looks are important,” her mom told her years ago. “It’s easy to see who cares about them and who doesn’t.”

Parisa didn’t like most of the things her mom told her, and the words felt sour and bitter. But in a way, she was right. Looks were important.

“Parisa?" She jumped a little at the sound of Val's voice. "Ready to start again?” She nodded, not speaking in case her voice was shaky. She joined the group again, and did her best to not tear up. But she knew what she loved about herself, no matter how self-centered it may sound. She loved the way she looked.

Description
Parisa sat on a dance mat, gulping down the water that she brought with her. It probably wasn’t a good idea to drink so much during the break, but Parisa didn’t care. She wasn’t used to moving around so much, and Valentino was nice enough to let her take a break. She rubbed her aching thighs. This would take a while to get used to.

“So many residents hop into my shop, absolutely loathing who they are! It's utter nonsense really! I must remind you that no matter the species, you all have such beauty!” Most of the class was still dancing, and Parisa could hear Val’s cheerful, encouraging voice. “In fact, that'll be my question for you today! What do you love about yourself?”

Parisa’s ears pricked up at Val’s question. What did she love about herself?

She liked to write. Every day, she wrote in her diary. Her professor told her it would help her get better at writing in a casual way, and give her a chance to vent about her feelings. But that didn’t really count as writing, in her eyes. She couldn’t go out and publish her diary, or post it online and get donations out of it. Technically she could. But that was a horrible idea. And she hadn’t written anything else since college. She tried, she spent whole nights trying to put words on paper. But all it ever resulted in was frustration and wasted paper.

And Parisa didn’t like the way she acted. She was a terrible procrastinator, and dropped out of college. Why? It was too hard. Too many deadlines, too many assignments. Too much responsibility. Yet, there were so many people who got through it all. But not Parisa. She was a college dropout with no job and no house of her own. Yes, she payed rent at Uriel’s place. But she wanted to live out on her own eventually.

Parisa chuckled. Ten years ago, she thought she’d be living in the lap of luxury. She’d be a movie star, people would see her in magazines, young girls everywhere would want to be like her. Then, a year or two later, she realized that wasn’t the life she wanted. Then it was all about writing! She’d write a famous book series, everyone would know her name, and everyone on the planet would recognize her characters at a glance.

And now she was here, sitting on the floor, nearly crying into her water bottle. She wiped her eyes, staring at her reflection in the water. It was hard to see details on things in such a small reflection, and Parisa could barely see the bags under her eyes. She spent much of her morning brushing her fur and hair, and it showed, much to her relief.

Parisa had always liked the color of her fur. She played around with dying it when she was younger, but it never sat right with her. None of the colors compared to her natural hues.

Saying that felt vain. “Looks are important,” her mom told her years ago. “It’s easy to see who cares about them and who doesn’t.”

Parisa didn’t like most of the things her mom told her, and the words felt sour and bitter. But in a way, she was right. Looks were important.

“Parisa?" She jumped a little at the sound of Val's voice. "Ready to start again?” She nodded, not speaking in case her voice was shaky. She joined the group again, and did her best to not tear up. But she knew what she loved about herself, no matter how self-centered it may sound. She loved the way she looked.