It was 1999 and she was sixteen, staring into the smudged mirror of her mint-green bedroom. Fairy lights twinkled over posters of *NSYNC, The X-Files, and one lonely Kurt Cobain clipping. She’d raided her mom’s old satin prom leftovers, cinched it with safety pins, added a choker that screamed Hot Topic clearance rack, and tied her hair into the highest ponytail physics would allow. The clear plastic “glass slipper” was actually a knockoff heel from Payless—$12.99 on sale. Holding it like a trophy, she whispered to the boombox blasting Britney: “Tonight I’m not waiting for any prince. I’m the whole damn ball.” Midnight came and went. She just kept posing for the Polaroid camera on her bed, because why leave the room when the main character energy was already maximum?