At the tattoo convention

Days passed in a blur of Netflix and takeout, She wanted to hide out, but there was no escape from the looming appointment at the tattoo convention. She'd booked it weeks ago, a chance to showcase her body in the hope that her authenticity would shine through. Now, the thought of bearing her soul—and skin—for all to see was terrifying.

The convention was a cacophony of needles buzzing and music thumping, a stark contrast to her quiet house.

May took a deep breath as she approached the booth that had paid her to model. The owner, a burly man with a sleeve of intricate tattoos, beckoned her with a nod. He handed her a tiny black bikini.

"This is what you're wearing, darlin'. Show off those inks," he said with a wink.

Her heart sank as she looked around at the other models. They were all a veritable canvas of color and shading, their bodies a testament to the art that adorned them. Their curves were voluptuous, their tans flawless, and their confidence palpable. They looked like walking, talking pieces of art. And there she was, with her eight small tattoos scattered across her pale flesh, feeling like a kindergartener's first attempt at coloring within the lines.