Lyra

Veronica Gomez was here, in my workplace, sitting on the corner of the first-floor hall with a crossed leg and hands folded over her chest. Today she was dressed differently. All the other times I met her in the Hall residence, she was always in comfortable clothes. Jeans, shirts, shorts, tops, dresses, things that gave her a cute look. The girl next door was in her fashion, but it was a little different.

Her glossy open blond hair, Chanel dress with a fur coat over it, diamond pendent in the neck, Jimmy Choo high heel, and Dior bag screamed wealth from every corner of her body. The makeup on her face was well-done. Sure, some professionals did their magic on her altogether.

She felt like two different people. Somehow, at present, she looked like those rich spoiled kids who knew nothing but spending their parent’s hard work lying on the bed. The stubborn one who disrespects everyone in the room and places themselves above anyone.

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