Chapter 6: Fitting In, Fitting Together

I caved. When I went to the city to restock, I picked up a few pure cotton bras in every size. I just wanted to help girls like Lexi, whose parents didn’t care about this stuff, in a pinch. After all, my shop’s a boutique, not a lingerie store—so I didn’t stock much, and there wasn’t much profit in it.

I spent hours hunting for the softest fabrics, the most comfortable fits. I wanted every girl who came in to feel safe, to know she could ask questions without being judged. It wasn’t about the money—it was about giving them something their parents never would.

But that weekend, when a whole group of girls showed up, red-faced and excited, I realized just how many girls didn’t even have a single decent bra.

They crowded around the counter, giggling and whispering, eyes wide with anticipation. Some had never tried on a bra that actually fit. Others swapped stories about hand-me-downs and uncomfortable straps. Watching them, I felt proud and a little sad—there was so much they didn’t know, and no one to teach them but each other.

Some wore hand-me-downs from their moms or sisters—so loose they were empty. Some wore bras that were way too small, so when they ran, they’d get teased by boys. Others wore cheap underwires, the metal poking through the cotton and stabbing their ribs raw, thinking that was just normal.

I listened as they compared notes, sharing tips and horror stories. One girl lifted her shirt just enough to show a bruise from a rogue wire. Another confessed she’d been stuffing tissues in her cups for months. I wanted to hug them all, to promise it would get better, but I settled for fitting each one with care and kindness.

Honestly, the internet didn’t help much.

I took the time to explain the basics—how to measure, how to check the fit, why comfort mattered more than looks. They listened, soaking up every word. For a little while, my shop turned into a safe haven, a place where they could ask anything and not be laughed at.

I picked up a bra and handed it to Sophia. She tried to refuse, shaking her head and glancing around, cheeks flushed. “I can’t—really, it’s okay.” But I pressed it into her hands, smiling.

“It’s from Lexi. She already paid for it.”

Sophia’s eyes widened, and for a second, I saw the wall between them crumble. She clutched the bra to her chest, nodding in silent thanks. Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something new for them.

The barrage was quiet for a long moment before finally chiming in:

[That’s just because the male lead hasn’t shown up yet. The sisters haven’t clashed over him.]

[Can’t wait for the male lead to show up and put them both in their place.]

I rolled my eyes at the floating words, shaking my head. Sometimes, the real story isn’t about boys at all. Sometimes, it’s just about two sisters, a handful of hair clips, and the quiet kindness of a stranger who refuses to let them go through it alone.