IT WOULDN’T FIT ANYONE ELSE.

The ukay-ukay isn't as crowded as I expect for a Saturday afternoon, though there's still a decent crowd. It's one of the few thrift stores in the city with decent air conditioning, which helps the musty smell fade the longer I stay. They must have gotten a new shipment in recently — a dozen pairs of taupe Adidas Spezials line the shelves, all size 5.5 to 7. Too small for me. Another small reminder that I don't fit the image of what a Filipina is supposed to look like. I've gotten the wistful comments before, from titas and lolas and strangers alike, praising my height like I'd discovered some secret to growing taller than the national average. 4'11" for women, 5'4" for men, in case you're wondering.

My parents are still browsing the racks when I wander over to the dresses. I comb lazily through a messy rack, satin formal gowns tangled up with gaudy patterned fabrics, until my eye catches on an olive green sleeve covered in dainty maroon florals. I pull the hanger free to get a good look. A puffed-sleeve V-neck kaftan dress, tiny shell buttons marching down the middle, the fabric soft and a little sheer. Some kind of lightweight cotton that would keep you cool even in Iloilo's humidity.

I carry it to the full-length mirror and drape it against my body. It's roomy, even for an XS. It reminds me of those breezy silhouettes of women taking sunset strolls barefoot near the Mediterranean. I smile at the thought. Then I grip the hanger a little tighter, hold the dress a little closer to my chest — almost afraid someone might see it and want it for themselves.

A smirk finds its way onto my face, almost against my will.

This won't fit anyone else here.

Maybe that's why it's still in the store.

I find the Caramel Monster dress on a different trip to the same ukay-ukay, a month or two earlier. Same section, different rack. This time it's the color that catches me first — a soft lilac — and then the fabric, linen, before I even register the shape. I pull it off the rack and see the bodice: fitted, square neckline, small puffed sleeves, the skirt falling to a midi length. The brand tag is still attached. I don't recognize the name.

I hold the dress up to the mirror, not entirely sure. This shade feels light, almost too light. Nothing like the deep, saturated colors I usually reach for. I open the Notes app on my phone, where I keep screenshots of my color palette saved for exactly this kind of moment, and scroll until I find the lilacs. There it is: the same shade, staring back at me from my own reference photos. Permission granted before I even asked for it.

Later, at home, I'll search the brand name and learn it's a Singaporean label that designs feminine, vintage-style clothing — as if the dress had been waiting for me to find it.

It started while I was healing from a breakup, taking inventory of every area of my life where I could rebuild some confidence. Personal style was one of them. It took time to unlearn the idea that taking pride in my appearance was vanity, rather than an act of self-nurture — creative expression aimed inward instead of out. That unlearning is what led me to color analysis. First through scattered Pinterest posts and social media mentions. Then a deep dive of my own: articles, guides, my own photos held up against palette after palette, until I landed on Dark Autumn. Dark hair, dark eyes, high contrast between my features, warm undertones in my skin. I'm suited to deep, saturated, earthbound color — the kind that looks like it's already been through a season.

In those first months, I went through my closet piece by piece, asking which clothes made me feel beautiful, which ones felt like me. Most of what I already owned fit the palette — which surprised me less than it should have. Color analysis didn't hand me a new taste. It affirmed the one I already had, then sharpened it: which shades made me glow, which ones quietly washed me out. I leaned in fully, and never looked back. I'm disciplined about it now, almost strict. I'd rather leave a piece at the store, no matter how well it fits, than bring home something that isn't my color and let it sit in my closet, worn once, resented every time I reach past it.

So when I found each of these dresses, I wasn't just finding clothes that fit my body. I was finding colors that already knew me — deep olive, soft lilac, muted sage — before I ever picked up the hanger.

My sister has been devoted to Reformation since before I can remember. Between the two of us, she's always been the more enthusiastic one about fashion. Most of the personal style glow-ups I've had over the years, I owe to her. Back when we lived together in an apartment in Maryland, before I moved, we'd go on our infamous thrifting trips around the DMV. We had an unspoken challenge running underneath: find a Reformation piece. In the months before I left for the Philippines, we'd joke about it sometimes. How cool it would be to find Reformation clothes at the thrift stores here, half-doubting it was even possible. The brand felt too expensive, too American, not something that would turn up on a rack a world away.

I found the dress about three months ago, at the ukay-ukay right next door to the one where I'd found the other two — both shops sit side by side in a mall in Pavia. I was moving through the dress section when a pattern caught my eye. I knew it instantly: oranges and white blossoms scattered over sage green, a print I'd seen dozens of times in photos of the Reformation Embry dress online. Midi length, sweetheart neckline, spaghetti straps that tie at the shoulder, a bodice fitted close to the shape of me, and a skirt that fell soft and flowy from the waist. It was the bodice that gave it away — Reformation reuses that same shape across styles, just changes the skirt length. I knew this dress by its bones.

Then I saw the price tag. 180 pesos. Both ukay-ukay shops price every dress the same, no matter the brand, no matter what it might have been. 180 pesos is about $3.

My jaw actually dropped. I let out this small, strangled sound — barely a scream. More like my body trying to make a sound big enough for the moment and failing. I went to find my mom first, dress in hand. And already, before I'd even paid, I was thinking about the video I'd send my sister that night. The haul, this dress front and center, the challenge finally met, nine thousand miles from where we'd first made it up.

One morning, I slip on the lilac puff-sleeve dress. The skirt is so billowy that when I twirl, it fans out around me and for a second I feel like a princess. I walk into the kitchen. Good morning, I say to my mom, and she looks up at me, smiling. That color looks perfect on you.

I glance down at myself, smoothing the skirt, as if I'd forgotten for a moment what I was wearing. I smile back and thank her.

This is what I want my clothes to do, every time I put them on. Make me feel beautiful. Confident. Like myself.