“Ma.”

Linlin twirled the phone line around her fingers. Then untwirl. And again.

“It’s been a week since you’ve called! Where were you, child?”

She cringed. “I was just busy–”

“Busy? I’m busy every day of the year! Do you get calls in the middle of the night? Linlin, I’ve told you a million times–”

“Alright, alright. I’ll call twice a week from now on.”

A scoff. “Twice a week? As though I can expect that from you. And don’t you complain – I can hear that.”

She bit back a groan. “Ma, I promise I’ll call more. I just– my job has been a lot lately.” That was a lie. Her job had been difficult, but nothing she wasn’t used to. She had been more stressed about the little club she’d joined, and the money she’d poured into fitting in had been about the same as what she’d earned. Admittedly, her vanity was a little bit hard to reign in, especially with the girls’ stinging remarks goading her.

“Now what did I tell you when you were whining about following your dreams and living in a big city? I’ve already lowered my expectations, now at least get a stable income and a respectable husband. You’re what, turning twenty-five in September?”

“Maaaa.”

It was eleven by the time Linlin expertly escaped her mother’s prods and rants, assuring her that indeed, she was going to get a good husband and her manager had promised to give her a raise just two days ago. And she was earning extra money with a little gig she’d taken up on the side, and no, it was nothing weird or unsafe, just helping her company promote.

Yilin - yes, she was Yilin now - flung her phone in the general direction of what still constituted her bed and, hearing a soft thump, lied back down. Her little apartment was quiet save the soft trickle of water. She’d installed a mask-washer in her dressing table last year. It’d nearly taken up all the money she’s saved: her mask-hoarding tendencies hadn’t exactly helped her bank account.

What would A-Po say? She wondered. Her grandparents had been lenient, encouraging even, of her fascination with masks, but they’d had been wary towards how complete the transformation is. Masks aren’t cosmetics: eyeshadow, highlights, blush. They change a person’s face to the point of unrecognizable, and that was precisely what had made her engrossed.

But she wasn’t so stupid as to be careless. She listened to her grandparents, and never let the masks touch her eyes. And it was less of a medical concern than a moral one. Masks couldn’t change a person, not really. But pretense could.