Each purposeful step she took was synchrony with the pounding beat of her music. Dark and bold, she was a streak of fierce color against the uniformity of her surroundings. I can do it this time. Her black combat boots stride down the hall, in contrast with the sterile white of the tiling.
She approaches the end of the hallway, and each step hesitates. She seems to be pulling against herself, struggling to not hide again. The door is ready to open, and yet it stops her. All her confidence is wrung out of her, and she slumps. The boots rock back and forth. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. She hesitates before shuffling back down the still-quiet hall, into her room. She comes out again, except no longer bold. Hidden in the washed out pastels instead of the color she wants. She shuffles to the door, letting everyone see the person they know and not the person she is.
She shows herself only when she is the only one who can see it.