Manoela Torres is a Brazilian writer, poet, and translator. She moved to New York City in 2019 to pursue her undergraduate degree in English Literature from Barnard College. Growing up between cultures in Brazil, whilst receiving an international education, taught her to write from the edges, exploring how identity is constantly drafted, revised, and undone in the act of being seen.

Her work borrows the obsessive intimacy, high stakes, and emotional architecture of the romance genre but redirects that energy toward friendships that function as catalysts for reinvention. She writes psychologically complex and morally ambiguous women who refuse redemption arcs and exist in the uncomfortable spaces between victim and villain. Her narratives ask: what do we discover about ourselves when we're witnessed by someone who refuses to let us hide?

Her work has been featured in countless literary magazines including Literally Stories and Scars Magazine. She is currently a Fiction MFA candidate at The New School, working on her debut novel, The Midnight Saints, which follows a makeup artist who escapes low-budget soap operas to tour with a legendary 70s rock band, where she finds herself caught between a friendship that forces her to confront everything she’s been running from.

Read more about Ella here.

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The Midnight Saints

The Midnight Saints are late. Of course they are.

That's the thing about rock stars: time doesn't own them. Mortality becomes negotiable. But they've earned this kind of reverence. Their album Smoke & Satin isn't a record anymore; it's a ghost stitched into America's skin — humming through AM radio dials, curling in dive bar ashtrays, echoing through broken hearts. The soundtrack to a million bad decisions — including some of my own.

The union dispatcher's call came at midnight. The makeup artist assigned to The Forum had pulled a no-show and they needed a replacement. Someone union. Someone steady.

I hated how desperate I sounded saying yes, but this isn't another gig, it's a lifeline. The Midnight Saints are hiring a makeup artist for their upcoming tour, and by the end of tonight, my name will be on their roster. That means travel across twenty cities, and credit with a band big enough to get me off low-budget soaps. It means luxury hotel lobbies and backstage passes; rubbing shoulders with people who matter. It means removing myself so far from the past there's nothing but highway and years between me and the girl practicing in the dark because her father drank the electric bill.

Backstage at the LA Forum, it sprawls like a factory floor, with roadies wrestling Marshall stacks past coiled cables, dangling cigarettes from lips that curse the heat. I step between snaking cables and beer bottles, heels clicking against concrete slick with condensation from fog machines. It's chaos, but I know chaos. Ten years trapped in the hamster wheel of daytime soap sets, whispering chin up to hungover actors, whilst tapping powder onto greasy foreheads under hot studio lights. Ten years swallowing no until it tastes of bile, because pride doesn't pay for groceries.

I follow signs for the greenroom. It’s dense in coffee and hairspray. Inside, I set my kit on the table beside the makeup chair and check the bulbs ringing the mirror. Half are burned out. Above the chair hangs a glossy poster that reads, The Midnight Saints, LA Forum, November 5th, 1976. In the photograph, silver smoke drifts through stage lighting, engulfing Jodie Freeman who hovers behind his kit, airborne, drumsticks frozen mid-strike; while Monroe Hayes melts into a shadow, bass draped across his thin frame.

But it’s the center that grabs you: Taylor and Sara, bodies tilted toward each other like they're about to collide. Her hand rests on his guitar neck; his fingers spread across her ribs. They're staring at each other, mouths open as if talking when the shutter clicked. I know their story from Rolling Stone and late-night radio interviews. I know their story the way everyone does: a messy love that sells records. They formed The Midnight Saints as lovers, college sweethearts, and turned their breakup into a bestselling record. They channel their wreckage into music that makes crowds feel less alone. Rolling Stone makes destruction look like art. The fans just say the Saints get it.

“One hour til showtime,” a roadie says from the corridor.

Breathe, Mia. You've done this before. You deserve to be here.

Ten years of this. Ten years in bathroom mirrors with fluorescent lights humming overhead. In greenroom corners where nobody learns your name. At 3 a.m. when sleep won't come and the lie echoes louder in the dark.

I press my palms against the table, exhale hard, then line up my colors: pinks, browns, deep wine reds. A ritual. A way to keep my hands moving, keep my thoughts from spiraling. A performance from childhood, when watercolors were my world. My mother used to call me an artist then. Later, when I covered the bruises my father gave her, she called me a magician.

That's what makeup is: a trick of the light.

The door slams, rattling the frame like a gunshot.

"Fucking—"

A roar fills the room.

I look up from behind the vanity.

Taylor Pierce. Lead guitarist of The Midnight Saints. Tall, wiry, carved from something too stubborn to break. I've memorized that face from Rolling Stone covers but seeing it in the flesh hits different.

He doesn't notice me crouched in the corner. His boots hammer the linoleum, each step harder than the last. A rhythm that isn’t walking but hunting, searching for something to break.

"Those racist—" The word cuts off into syllables of a different language — something guttural and raw. His leg swings, and his boot catches a folding chair square in the side. Metal screams. The chair flies across the room, slamming into the wall with a clatter. My shoulders jump to my ears before I can stop them.

He stands there, chest heaving, staring at the abused furniture like he's surprised by its capitulation. Then he moves, quick and automatic, and sets it back where it was, both hands gripping the frame. His head bows. His fingers grip the top, knuckles turning white.

My spine curves into itself. I should say: I'm here. I'm the makeup artist. You're supposed to sit down. But my mouth won't open, and the words sit on my tongue. Not making a sound. Something I learned when I was little, reading men's rage like weather patterns: stay still, stay quiet, and the storm will pass. So, I watch from my corner, hands frozen on brushes, and wait for him to realize I exist.

Eventually he turns toward the mirror. His eyes find mine in the reflection, and my pulse hammers everywhere at once — in my wrists, behind my jaw, at the base of my throat.

I wait for his face to do the thing, the shift from rage to something colder, more focused — when he decides I'm close enough, available enough, to take what's left of his anger.

But his expression collapses instead — goes slack with something like shame, or surprise at another person in his world.

"Oh." The word scrapes out, catching in his throat. "Shit. Sorry, I didn't know there was somebody else—"

"It's cool. No worries." I cut him off before the apology can land anywhere that matters.

"And you are…?" His voice drops an octave, gentle now, which makes my chest tighter because I don't know what to do with this weather system.

"The makeup artist." I keep my eyes on my brushes.

"Oh, yeah. Of course."

I nod at the velvet chair.

He walks toward it, rolling his shoulders once, twice, like he's shaking something loose. He sits rigid at first, squared like he's bracing for a fight, and I see tension coiled in his neck.

"Taylor," he says.

"Mia."

I step closer and take his jaw in my hand, guiding it toward the light. His skin is darker than in magazines: warm olive, with golden undertones that catch the bulbs. His hair is thicker. His features sharper. I blend shades on the back of my hand to match. Three parts ivory, two parts beige, a drop of yellow to warm it. The math is automatic, built from years of mixing shades that didn't exist in any drugstore compact.

"You do this for everybody?" he asks.

“Do what?” I ask, eyes on my palette.

"The mixing. Blending the colors yourself."

"Yeah." I test the shade against his jaw. Adjust. "It has to match. Otherwise, the lights wash you out, and you end up looking like you're wearing someone else's face."

"Is that what usually happens?"

I glance up. His eyes are fixed on my hands, not my face. Not my body. My hands. "You tell me. You've done enough photo shoots."

"Yeah. I always look... lighter, in magazines."

The way he says it, flat and careful, tells me this isn't the first time he's noticed. Not the first time he's mentioned it, either. But I bet nobody listened.

My mother's face flashes unbidden. Standing in the Cover Girl aisle at Woolworth's, testing foundation after foundation on the back of her hand. Ivory. Buff. Natural Beige. Sand. Watching every shade turn orange against her skin. My Brazilian mother. "Eles fazempara fantasmas," she'd mutter. They make it for ghosts.

"Most people in the industry don't know what to do with olive skin," I say, blending the foundation into his hairline. "Everything's made for pink undertones. English roses.They either wash you out or cake you in shades too light and call it camera-ready."

"Yeah." A short pause. "Nobody ever says it like that."

"Well, they should." The words come out sharper than I mean them. Heat creeps up my neck. "I mean—"

"No, you're right." He smiles. "You're absolutely right."

"Look at me," I say, cupping his face. I notice a tiny scar threading through his left eyebrow. This close, it's hard not to take in every detail. How his shoulders drop under my touch, tension bleeding out.

I force myself not to stare at his mouth as I reach for the Kohl stick.

"Try not to blink," I say, bringing the pencil to his waterline. His lashes flutter as the pencil skirts along its path.

"Sorry, I just—"

He stops, voice catching, eyes watering.

"It's okay. If it stings, blink slowly. It helps."

He does as I day. Deliberately. His pupils are wide and dark, fixed on my face. I can feel my pulse in my throat.

"There." I step back. "You're good."

He stands but doesn't move toward the door. The air between us feels thick. Charged. I haven't felt this pull in months — maybe years. The way the body responds before the brain catches up. The way breathing becomes something to remember to do.

When he finally steps past me, the space he vacates feels cold.

"See you around," he says, and his voice makes my stomach flutter.

I turn back to my kit, arranging brushes that don't need it, listening to his footsteps fade down the hall.

My hands are steady. The only part of me that is.

An hour passes. I reorganize my kit three times.

The door finally swings open. In steps Sara Collins, and the air shifts.

She's smaller than I expected, barely five-two in platform sandals, with white boho skirt loose around her legs.

"Hey, you're the makeup artist, right?" Her voice comes out different, too — softer than the albums, a little breathless. "Sorry for being late."

"You’re good."

The practiced response. Bright. Accommodating. The voice that keeps me employed.

As she walks to the chair, the glow from the vanity bulbs catches the ends of her sandy hair. A halo — if halos belonged to people who wrote songs about two-timing their ex and doing lines at Studio 54.

"I'm Sara," she says, extending her hand. Not a question. Not waiting for me to introduce myself. Offering her name like we're equals — even though the world knows we’re not.

"Mia."

Her white chiffon top billows around her, catching light like smoke on water. On her right hand, two rings sit side by side: a golden crescent cradling a blue opal, beside a sun carved from ruby — day touching night.

She drops into the chair like it’s the first time she’s stopped moving. A sheen of sweat dampens her hairline despite the air conditioning. When she tilts her head back, I spot white residue at one nostril. Faint, but there. It won’t be when I’ve finished — part of the service.

I wipe her face with a toner-soaked cotton round. Beneath the smudges, her features sharpen. Wide-set, heavy-lidded eyes. High cheekbones that cut through the light. A small, upturned nose that makes her younger, almost by accident. The kind of beauty that unsettles people.

Sara Collins: the woman whose voice is written inside my rib cage.

I've watched her onstage and on billboards like someone watching a bonfire — standing too close to something raw and untamed, that you're supposed to admire from afar. And here she is, sitting in my chair — with cocaine residue on her nose and sweat at her temples.

Stop it, Mia. Focus. You came to get a job. To be chosen. To prove you belong in rooms with people like Sara Collins.

If I can convince myself we're on equal footing for the next twenty minutes, I might be in with a shot of doing that.

My hands reach for the Sea Breeze, muscle memory taking over. Sara Collins is beautiful, and famous, and on stages I'll only ever watch from the wings. But right now, she's in my chair. Right now, I'm the one who knows what she needs.

"You've got incredible bone structure," I say, tilting her face toward the light.

"Thanks. My mom's family are from Norway, and she says her ancestors caught winter sun in their skin so they could catch fish in the dark." She grins. "I don’t know if it’s true, but I loved that story when I was little."

Most women would deflect. Make themselves smaller. Wave away the compliment like it's nothing. Sara takes it. Owns it. Never questioning whether she deserves it.

"Do you prefer something sheer or a full-coverage set with powder?" I ask.

"To be honest, Mia, if you can make me look less like I've been stuck in a studio for three days, you'll be my new favorite person."

I laugh.

At least she's direct. Tells me what she needs instead of describing magazine editorials she expects me to recreate in fifteen minutes. She's giving me room to work. Trusting I know what I'm doing.

I reach for my brush, and as I pat foundation over her skin, the world goes quiet. This is what I love about my work: the way everything fades when my hands find their purpose. The way something older than survival takes over when my hands move with creative freedom. The way they remember a time before I learned that wanting things was stupid. The rhythm they tap into. And for a few minutes, I'm not Mia-who-needs-this-job. I'm Mia, who knows what she's doing.

I work fast. Foundation blended seamlessly into her hairline; contour in the hollows under her cheekbones; highlighter catching the light just right. My hands glide whilst my brain is calculating angles, reading her face, adjusting on instinct.

The door slams open. Bodies flood in — roadies, managers; someone with a clipboard and timings. The greenroom becomes theirs. But Sara catches my eye in the mirror before the chaos swallows her.

"Sara, they'll start without you," one of the crew members says.

At the door, she stops. Turns back.

"Mia." She says my name like she's memorizing it. "I hope I see you again."

The words land softer than expected, as if in the twenty minutes we’ve spent together I’ve become someone worth remembering. Perhaps.

I follow the crew into a blur of half-coiled cables, shadowy figures, and the metallic tang of sweat and anticipation. The stage glows like another world, washed in gold and smoke, alive with movement I can witness but not join.

Sara steps into position next to her band members.

A thousand voices chant: "Saints! Saints! Saints!"

The Midnight Saints — they don't just perform; they devour.

Taylor and Sara move like opposing forces trapped in one orbit: pulling, pushing, daring each other to go further. She leans into him, voice curling around his guitar. He answers, sharp and electric, a tension woven into every note. The bass thrums up my boots, rattling my insides like a second heartbeat. My chest tightens. Not envy. Something older, that I've gotten good at ignoring.

My hands are steady at my sides, but they remember notes. Interactions. Mixing colors on kitchen tables. Filling notebooks with formulas that didn't exist. Before success was measured by paychecks. Before I felt like setting myself up to fail.

Suddenly a question forms that I don't want to answer: when did I stop building a future, and begin hoping someone would lend me theirs?

I push it down. Focus on the stage. On the job I'm here to get. On the practical things that matter. The ache in my chest doesn't agree. But I've gotten good at silencing it.

Taylor spins during his guitar solo. Once, twice: a move I've seen in magazine photos. But tonight, something goes wrong. His boot catches a monitor cable. Time slows. I see the cable go taut. See his balance shift. See the moment he realizes he can't recover and pitches forward, skull meeting cymbal stand with a sickening crack. The cymbal crashes to the stage as he stumbles toward the wings, blood streaming from his nose.

For a second, the music falters. Monroe's fingers freeze on his keys, his eyes wide with alarm. But Sara doesn't miss a beat: she notes the collision and moves center stage, her voice soaring louder to fill the void Taylor has left.

The crowd surges forward, oblivious to the chaos. Twenty thousand voices screaming for more.

Taylor staggers past me — hand pressed to his face, red seeping between the fingers. A roadie in a Black Sabbath t-shirt intercepts him, walkie-talkie crackling on his belt.

A hand grabs my shoulder:

"Makeup. We need you. Now!"