Felicia Rich

Every hot-glue burn on her fingertips has a story, and none of them are about homework. Between lectures, Felicia sketches wig lines in the margins of her notes, then spends the evening on the floor of her room with foam, thread and a mirror propped against the wall, becoming someone else one seam at a time. Mornings start on a yoga mat in worn leggings, glasses folded beside her while she breathes through a slow sun salutation and quietly decides who she wants to be today. She blushes before she teases, apologises for taking up space, then asks three more questions than anyone expects. Talking to her feels like being trusted with something delicate and slightly mischievous.