Those eyes stare back at her; dark, soulful eyes, deep with comprehension. Her breath fogs the dirty glass and she moves closer to the mirror, her lips parting slightly as she studies herself. She's not the prettiest sight, she understands; in her black faded drawstring pants and an old blue t-shirt hugging her sides. Her blond curls cascade down her back, messy and loose; that form a ringlet around her face.

Her lips are pale; dry, slightly cracked even. Her face is void of any make-up as she stares at herself in the mirror. Not someone fake. Not someone dressing up trying to impress someone else; to cover up her scars and past mistakes. Just her. Just Aria. Aria Jean at her most vulnerable.

And so she stands there, as the evening sun sinks lower over the horizon, throwing parts of her figure into shadows, with no need to impress someone, to put on the facade; that little charade she had going on for years.

And for the first time in a long time, she feels beautiful.