Invisible To Her Bully (Jessa and Noah) novel Chapter 177

**Hearts Written in Silent Rain by Ava Bloomfield**

**Chapter 177**

As soon as we stepped inside the boutique, the delicate chime of the bell above the door echoed through the cozy space, instantly twisting my stomach into a tight knot of anxiety.

“Take a deep breath,” Mariah whispered reassuringly at my side. “We’re here on a mission, not to be sacrificed on some altar of fashion.”

“It definitely feels like a sacrifice,” I grumbled under my breath, my nerves bubbling just beneath the surface.

The shop was quaint and inviting, designed to be anything but intimidating. Soft melodies floated through the air, and warm, golden lighting cast a gentle glow over the rows of dresses that hung like vibrant clouds, each one waiting for its moment. Lydia, the shop owner, looked up from behind the counter, her face lighting up with a welcoming smile as soon as she spotted us.

“There are my Homecoming girls!” she exclaimed, her tone cheerful. “You’re right on time. Jessa, your dress is ready.”

My heart raced, pounding against my ribs like a drum.

Ready.

There was no more safety net of “we’re still working on it” or “let’s see how it fits after alterations.” This was the moment I had to confront—the version of myself I would see reflected back in the mirror.

With a gentle nudge, Mariah urged me forward. “Come on, Cinderella. Let’s see the magic unfold.”

I followed Lydia to the back of the boutique, my palms slick with sweat. There it was—my dress—hanging alone on a hook outside the fitting room, shrouded in a protective plastic cover as if it were something delicate and precious. Even through the foggy plastic, the deep, rich sapphire blue of the fabric drew me in like a magnet.

I couldn’t help but reminisce about the day we discovered it.

I recalled how so many of the dresses we tried on had gaped at the bust, clung to my stomach like harsh judgments, or rode up my hips in a way that felt utterly shameful. I had nearly given up after the third dressing room, then the fifth, and finally the eighth. It felt as if every garment was designed for a different body altogether, one that didn’t resemble my own.

But this dress was different—it was the first one that didn’t feel like it was waging war against me.

And now, here it was—ready. Finished. Altered to fit my exact measurements.

No more excuses.

Lydia carefully peeled back the plastic, revealing the dress like a magician unveiling a secret. “There she is,” she said with a flourish.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry.

The fabric shimmered softly under the boutique’s lights, not gaudy or overly sparkly—just a gentle, enchanting glow. The neckline was a sweetheart cut, structured yet modest. The bodice hugged me just right, while the skirt cascaded down, flowing gracefully over my stomach and hips instead of clinging uncomfortably.

My voice came out small and shaky. “It looks… pretty.”

Mariah let out a snort of laughter. “Pretty? Girl, that dress looks like it charges rent!”

“Go on,” Lydia encouraged gently. “Try it on. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

I took the dress from her hands with careful reverence and stepped into the fitting room. The door clicked shut behind me, and for a moment, I stood frozen, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

Me.

Plain Jessa.

My hair was a little frizzy from the humidity, and I was wearing leggings and an oversized t-shirt that I had hastily thrown on after school.

I exhaled a long breath, trying to steady myself.

“Okay,” I whispered to my reflection, “Here we go.”

I began to undress, my heart racing as if I were about to commit some sort of crime. I stepped into the dress slowly, being cautious not to snag the delicate fabric. The lining felt cool against my skin as I pulled it up, adjusted the straps, and reached behind me for the zipper.

“Need help?” Mariah called from just outside the door.

“Maybe,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

The door cracked open, and she slipped in sideways, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Turn around,” she instructed confidently.

I obeyed.

Her fingers worked the zipper up with a gentle precision, and as the fabric hugged my body, I felt it molding to my shape, as if it had been waiting for me all along.

“Okay,” she said softly, her voice filled with awe. “Look.”

I turned back to face the mirror, and for a fleeting moment, I didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me.

The deep blue of the dress made my skin glow with warmth. The neckline framed my chest without making me feel exposed. The bodice cinched in just enough to reveal that I actually had a waist, and the skirt flared out, flowing over my hips in a way that made them look intentional rather than like a flaw.

My arms, my shoulders, my curves—they were all still mine. But they didn’t look wrong. They looked… like they belonged.

I blinked rapidly, fighting back the overwhelming emotions that threatened to spill over.

“Whoa,” Mariah breathed, her eyes wide with astonishment. “Okay. That’s it. We peaked. There’s no need to go to the dance. Just stand here and let people walk by and admire you like an art exhibit.”

I chuckled, but my throat tightened with emotion. “I look… different.”

“You look like yourself,” she corrected, her tone firm. “Just upgraded.”

My eyes stung with unshed tears.

This is what a princess must feel like, I thought. Not the Disney version with the glass slippers and talking mice—but the part where she slips into a gown and suddenly comprehends the weight of being seen.

I gazed at my reflection, trying to reconcile the girl I was accustomed to seeing with the one standing before me.

“I didn’t know…” My voice trembled, and I had to try again. “I didn’t know I could look like this.”

Mariah’s expression softened. “That’s not the dress, Jess. That’s you. The dress is just finally doing its job.”

I swallowed hard. “I look… beautiful.”

“You do,” she affirmed with conviction. “Say it again.”

“Mariah—”

“Say it.”

I held her gaze in the mirror, feeling the weight of the moment.

“I look beautiful.”

The words felt foreign on my tongue—too grand, too bold. But they settled in my chest, real and solid, and nothing crumbled when I spoke them.

I even believed them. A little.

Mariah slid onto the bench, crossing her legs as she continued to watch me. “Princesses have it made, you know.”

I snorted, carefully dabbing under my eyes to prevent my mascara from smudging. “Yeah? How so?”

“Think about it,” she said, her tone serious. “They have people at their beck and call. Stylists on demand. A hair and makeup squad. Someone to tailor every dress. If I had a chef to cook all my meals and a trainer who worked me out every day, I’d feel and look like a princess too.”

I let out a watery laugh. “You already do.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “I’m serious. The world expects girls to look like they have a whole glam squad when really it’s just us in bad lighting trying to figure out if this neckline makes us look like a goddess or a loaf of bread.”

That made me laugh harder than I intended. “I was definitely bread last year.”

“Sweet bread,” she corrected, a teasing smile on her face. “Very soft. Very lovable. But still.”

I turned, letting the skirt swish around my legs. The fabric moved with a soft whisper, as if it were designed for moments when you twirl just because you can.

For the first time in ages, I didn’t suck in my stomach. I didn’t angle my body to appear smaller. I simply… stood there.

Existing.

Taking up space.

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