Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
NAJI
C hi had long gone, but Dessign was still there—knocked out on the couch, though. She’d made me promise to wake her the moment I heard Imanio arrive; said she couldn’t get caught ‘sleeping on the job’.
In the time I’d gotten to know her, I found Dessign to be easygoing, surprisingly cool, and refreshingly accepting of who I was.
None during our conversation did she make me feel awkward about my tics or talk around them like most strangers did.
And if neither ever told me, I never would’ve guessed she and Imanio were siblings.
They moved differently… talked differently.
She was warm where he was ice; laughed where he brooded.
They felt like opposites orbiting the same last name.
I sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed. The oversized T-shirt I wore swallowed my frame.
My phone rested in my palm, thumb gliding idly over the screen. I wasn’t really scrolling with purpose—just tapping through old photos, letting memories find me instead of chasing them.
A younger version of myself during my modeling days smiled up from the screen—glossy lips, strong cheekbones, lashes fluttering like I had no care in the world.
But I remembered that day… the photoshoot.
My hands had been trembling between takes and my jaw was sore from clenching to suppress my tics.
I swiped again.
There I was in Paris, walking the cobblestone streets with a cup of espresso and a scarf wrapped around me like I belonged there.
Another swipe—Milan, rooftop party, flutes of champagne.
Another—me and a group of models backstage, all fake smiles and stiff arms. They'd laughed for the camera.
But I remembered the tension in the room.
The glances. The whispers. The comments were just loud enough for me to hear.
My thumb paused mid-swipe when a familiar face filled the screen.
Ambria.
My breath caught in my throat.
There she was—full smile, dimples flashing, long curls cascading past her shoulders. We were standing outside a venue in New York, arms wrapped around each other. Me in all black, Ambria in some over-the-top pink fur coat and platform boots she swore made her feel like Diana Ross.
The caption read:
“Still rising. Still glowing. Still ours. #RunwaySistersForever”
My hand trembled slightly as I held the phone closer. I hadn't looked at that photo in over a year.
I couldn’t… wouldn’t.
Ambria had died two years prior from cardiac arrest due to complications tied to an eating disorder she’d hidden too well. She was doing everything to stay runway-ready—pills, fasting, water-loading, excessive workouts. Always smiling. Always pushing. And then… one morning, she just didn’t wake up.
Tears welled up in my eyes before I could even think to blink them back.
I pressed the side of the phone and let it fall to my lap.
My mind drifted—not gently, but fast and harsh—back to that day. The day the agency cut me loose, like all my years of work could be erased with a single signature.
Three Years Ago – Fashion Week NYC
The dressing room buzzed with stylists, makeup artists, and chaos wrapped in couture. Everyone moved fast, talking over each other, pinning dresses, powdering faces and taping shoes to heels. But for me, time had slowed. My heart pounded in my ears, and the lights above felt hotter than usual.
I reached into my purse, tucked beneath the makeup station, fingers brushing through the lining, checking the side zipper.
My medication was gone.
I blinked rapidly, a nervous flutter tugging at my lips. The familiar sensation crept up my throat like an unwelcome intruder—first a tightening pressure, then the urgent, irresistible need to tic. My shoulders jerked slightly, a reflex I couldn't suppress.
No. Not now.
I had to keep calm, to regain control.
The anxiety surged, a tidal wave threatening to drown me.
I needed that pill—the one that always helped quiet the storm inside.
Panic bubbled up within me as I struggled to focus, my mind racing to find a way back to stability.
I had spent time working on my craft, my walk, my talk, and most importantly, how to get down the runway fast enough and with grace before a tic.
Oddly enough, modeling soothed me and I was able to afford therapy.
But without my medication, I wouldn’t make it.
“Looking for something?” came a voice from behind.
I turned slowly.
Tyla.
One of the “It Girls” of the agency. Pretty, poisonous, and always watching—and she made it her mission, every time we crossed paths to remind me she didn’t like me. There was no reason she could explain, and none I’d ever given her.
“I could’ve sworn I left my—” I began, already feeling the edge of panic scratch at my chest.
“Oh?” Tyla cut in, her lashes fluttering like she practiced the move in a mirror. “You mean your little tic-tic chill pills?”
She held up my prescription bottle, twisting it between her fingers like it was just lip gloss.
Empty.
I snatched it from her hand, gripping it so tight my knuckles turned white.
“Wh—Where did you get this?”
“It was laying around,” she shrugged, and then strutted away—casual, smug—like she hadn’t just snatched the floor out from under me.
I stood there, the weight of the moment crashing over me like an unforgiving wave, leaving me gasping for breath and unable to swim to the surface.
A tightness gripped my throat, as if a heavy chain had wrapped around it, making each inhalation laborious. My facial muscles tensed involuntarily, forcing my eyes into a rapid, uneasy squint as I struggled to process the overwhelming emotions swirling inside me.
Then came the soft, guttural noise I loathed more than anything—a sound that erupted from deep within my chest, unbidden and loud enough to attract unwanted attention.
I scrunched my nose in response to the humiliation creeping in, and my jaw snapped decisively to one side, a mixture of anger and helplessness boiling within me.
“Who let the dogs out?!”
People were looking now.
Someone by the wardrobe rack leaned toward another girl and whispered something behind their hand.
I tried to steady my breathing, but my diaphragm spasmed, forcing out a sudden bark-like exhale—sharp, jarring, and impossible to suppress. My right leg jolted slightly forward, tapping the floor twice in a rhythm I didn’t choose.
I was spiraling… inside and out.
The air around me felt thinner. My vision blurred at the edges—not from tears, but from the sheer effort it took to keep it together. My hands trembled and fingers curled and uncurled with nervous energy I couldn’t burn off.
I wasn’t ready.
Not without the meds. Not with cameras and lights and judgment waiting outside those curtains.
“Hey—hey,” a soft voice said, cutting through the static. A hand touched my wrist.
Ambria… my one and only best friend.
She always smelled like she’d just walked through a garden—floral, fresh, real.
“You okay?” Ambria asked, her voice soft but serious.
“N-No. I couldn’t…” I whispered, barely holding it together. “I couldn’t find my meds. T-Tyla gave me this—” I held up the empty bottle, my hand shaking. “I would’ve never run out. I think… I think she poured them out on purpose.”
Ambria’s expression darkened immediately as her eyes flicked in Tyla’s direction.
“I’m sure she did. Ol’ jealous ass bitch,” she muttered under her breath and then turned back to me, her voice gentling again. “But come on—step over here with me for a second. I can tell you’re about to get overwhelmed, and you don’t deserve to fall apart in here.”
Ambria guided me behind one of the curtain dividers, where it was quieter, a sliver of privacy away from the buzz of backstage chaos.
I clutched the bottle in my fist and stared down at the floor.
“Why is she always so m-mean to me?” I asked, my voice cracking. “I don’t… I don’t give anybody a reason to hate me.”
“She’s not mad at you; she’s mad that it’s you .”
I looked up at Ambria, confused.
“Naji,” she continued gently, “some people create chaos out of pure jealousy. You didn’t do anything…
you don’t have to. Sometimes, your presence is enough to make insecure people uncomfortable.
Your confidence, your resilience… even when you’re struggling, you still carry yourself like you know who you are.
That threatens people like Tyla. She needs to be the center and needs to feel validated by dragging someone else down.
You? You validate yourself. You stand on your own. And she hates that.”
I let out a slow sigh.
As Ambria spoke, she sounded so much like my grandmother—it was almost eerie. Every word was something I didn’t even realize I needed to hear until it began to soften the panic tightening inside me.
“Tyla is a beautiful girl, as we all are,” Ambria started again, “but she’s got an ugly soul—twisted up by her own bitterness, jealousy, and whatever nonsense she’s been feeding herself to feel better than everyone else.”
I blinked slowly, fighting the rush of tears that threatened to spill.
“My grandmother used to tell me… no matter where I’m at in life, to always be happy for other people,” I said quietly. “She said my time would come eventually. But o-once I reached that kind of peace, I had to be careful how happy I was around unhappy pe-pe-people.”
Ambria’s eyes softened with something close to pride.
“And this right here? This is a prime example of that. Naji, when you’re happy in real life, it’s no reason to be mean, negative, and nasty to people. How people treat others is a true reflection of how life is going for them.”
“I-I love to see people happy and succeeding. Life is a journey, not a competition,” I said.
“Not everyone does, though. Tyla sees your light, and it burns her. But let her burn. You just keep shining. But we’ll handle that hoe later. Right now, I need you to breathe.”