Chapter 17 #2
My lips twitched again, and my shoulder rolled. “I can’t go out there like this. They’ll see it. The t-tics. They’ll talk. I’ll ruin the whole show.”
“Look at me,” she said, her voice low and firm. “You are not your condition. Do you hear me? You’re not a broken doll or a liability.”
“But I ? —”
“No. Let me talk. These girls? They live off weakness, feed off difference and they think they win when they make people like us feel small. But you’re not small, Naji. You’re art in motion—even when your body moves on its own… especially then.”
Ambria crouched down slightly so our eyes met.
“Your existence alone is enough to make them uncomfortable—and that’s their problem, not yours.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“Naji, you’re going to walk that runway like the lights owe you. And when they whisper? Let ’em. Because you’ll still be walking, and they’ll still be stuck in the same circle afraid to be anything other than what the industry tells them to be.”
Ambria smiled gently and reached into her clutch. “And just in case you need something to hold onto…”
She pulled out a small silver ring with a tiny pink stone in it.
“My mom gave this to me when I almost quit modeling. Told me it reminded her that I always rose, even when things got ugly. I want you to have it.”
I stared at her. “Ambria… I can’t.”
“It’s just a ring,” she shrugged. “But it’s yours now.”
I slipped it on and tried not to cry.
Ambria wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “May our success offend the shit out of people who can’t stand to see us win. Now come on. Let’s go remind these folks why they booked us in the first place.”
The music behind the curtain swelled, that dramatic blend of synths and strings pulsing through the air—meant to make every model feel powerful. Invincible. Like we were untouchable in heels that hurt like hell.
I didn’t feel powerful.
I stood just off to the side, barely breathing, my heart rattling against my ribs like it was trying to break free. My throat was tight and my palms damp. I could feel it coming.
Without my meds, my body was turning on me by the second.
Every inch of me felt like it was pulsing with static.
MyZA shoulder snapped upward on its own, sharp and awkward.
My head tilted slightly to the left—once, then again.
My lips twitched, then parted with an involuntary grunt that caught the attention of someone adjusting lights nearby.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to pull myself back in. But it was too late to walk off. My name had already been called. I was next.
The stage manager gave me a short nod, all business. He had no idea what was happening inside me; no clue I was seconds from unraveling.
The heels I wore felt like punishment—sleek black stilettos that pushed all my weight forward, forcing perfect posture. The black silk gown hugged every curve, elegant and suffocating all at once. My makeup was flawless. My hair pulled back into a slick twist, sharp enough to cut.
On the outside, I was everything they wanted. On the inside, I was shaking.
Then it happened… a sound clawed its way from my throat.
“Fu-fu-fuck!”
Barely audible over the music, but loud enough to shame me. I swallowed hard, my chest tightening like a fist was closing around my lungs.
I turned, eyes searching around for Ambria—my anchor, my peace—but all I saw was chaos—makeup brushes flying, fabric rustling and stylists shouting. She wasn’t there.
My head jerked again. My right arm stiffened for a beat. Another noise—short, harsh—escaped before I could lock it down.
One of the stylists flinched, stepping back slightly like I might suddenly combust.
I could feel the spiral coming—fast, heavy.
Then the curtain shifted.
“Go!” someone hissed.
And somehow… I did.
On the runway, the lights hit me like a wall—hot, blinding, and everywhere at once. The beat of the music pounded in my chest like it was trying to keep me upright. I couldn’t see anyone’s faces, just silhouettes and flashes.
I locked my eyes on the end of the runway… one foot in front of the other. Just make it to the end… but my body had other plans.
My head snapped hard to the left. Then again. My shoulder rose and dropped in a sharp spasm. My jaw clenched and unhinged with a loud click.
"Shit!" I barked—too loud, too sudden.
Gasps cut through the music. My chest forced out a loud grunt, followed by a strained, involuntary moan. My right arm flung outward, stiff, then jerked back. My left leg twitched mid-step, but I didn’t stumble.
“Orange juice with attitude!” I blurted, the words flying out fast and meaningless.
Someone up front visibly flinched.
I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t even explain it.
The more the crowd stared, pointed and some clutching their pearls, the higher my anxiety rose and the worse the tics became by the second.
I hated that part the most—how the words never made sense. Just nonsense. Curse words. Weird phrases. Noise, my body decided to throw out like confetti in a storm.
I blinked hard—rapid, repetitive. My lips smacked together, making sharp popping sounds. Then I shouted again, without warning:
"Slap a squirrel on Sunday!"
More gasps. A camera lowered. I could hear murmurs now. Quick whispers.
They stared… I felt it—their confusion… their discomfort. But I walked like their judgment didn’t exist.
My legs knew what to do—thank God for muscle memory. My stride stayed steady, my arms grazing the silk at my sides like I wasn’t actively trying to hold myself together with invisible tape or on the edge of falling apart in front of everyone.
My nose scrunched and my throat pushed out another bark. Then a strange, stuttering phrase tumbled out.
“Left-right-left… banana!”
That time, a woman in the second row pressed a hand to her chest. Another leaned toward her friend. The runway lights felt hotter now—like punishment instead of a spotlight.
My neck jerked again. My brow furrowed without warning, then smoothed. My tongue pressed hard against the roof of my mouth.
“Wrong hat, wrong day!” I shouted suddenly.
Still, I moved like I belonged there and like my tics weren’t stealing pieces of my pride with every step.
When I reached the end of the runway, I posed. Chin up. Back straight. Face blank—except for the twitch that pulled the corner of my mouth sharply to the side.
I turned, and just then, my jaw wrenched and locked before snapping loose with a loud pop. A strangled, high-pitched howl escaped me.
Someone in the front row dropped their phone.
I didn’t pause. Instead, I walked all the way back—head high, arms fluid, mouth twitching, and shoulders bouncing from suppressed spasms. My chest pumped another noise I couldn’t trap in time.
“F-f-fresh frog legs!”
I could feel my body buzzing, flaring, fighting me every step of the way.
Again, I kept going, and walked as if I was in control, even as every part of me screamed otherwise.
The moment the curtain closed behind me, the spotlight disappeared—but the sting of humiliation didn’t.
Then came the laughter.
Not from the audience. Not from the crew. But from Tyla and her little clique.
They stood off to the side like vultures in heels, whispering behind manicured hands, mimicking me with twisted faces and fake grunts.
“Remind me to check the terms for a refund on my therapist,” one of them whispered. “That was therapeutic.”
I froze, still standing in my heels, my breathing shallow. My skin burned hot and my ears rang like I was underwater.
“ Lick a cactus, Tyla!” My voice cracked at the end, and the words didn’t even make sense—but the venom in my tone? That landed.
Tyla’s smug expression faltered instantly, her smirk twitching into a scowl. Her eyes darted sideways, like she was checking to see who else was watching.
“You should’ve asked for a straitjacket with that dress,” she snapped back, voice colder now. “Would’ve completed the look.”
Her tone had bite, but the embarrassment in her face gave her away.
I opened my mouth to respond—to scream, to flame her, to tell her about herself from top to bottom—but the energy just wasn’t there. My whole body buzzed with leftover adrenaline. My soul felt cracked wide open, too raw to keep throwing punches.
And then— “ Back off, hoe. Unless you wanna deal with me.”
Ambria’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade dipped in fire.
Everything around us fell dead silent.
Tyla and her little pack turned, startled, and then they went quiet—real quiet.
Ambria pushed through them like they weren’t even standing there and came straight to me, stepping between me and whatever damage I was too tired to finish.
Her hands found my shoulders, grounding me, steadying me.
I stared past her, my voice trembling but fierce.
“You… you don’t have to hurt others to win in life,” I said to Tyla, my words slow but sharp, each syllable shaking with the memory of that runway.
“But I g-guess that’s all you know—stealing, s-sabotaging, and smiling while you’re poisoning somebody else’s moment.
That’s not power; that’s weakness d-d-dressed up in designer heels. ”
She opened her mouth, but I cut her off, stepping closer.
“See, the thing about karma is… she’s patient.
She doesn’t f-forget. You might walk that runway today, but when s-s-she calls your name, you’re gonna trip, you’re gonna choke…
and you’ll remember me… standing here, telling you it was coming.
You can steal my p-pills, my moment, but you can’t outrun what’s owed to you. ”
I let my eyes rake over her once, sharp and deliberate.
“So smile for the cameras while you can. Because when karma comes, she doesn’t ask if you’re ready—she j-j-just takes what’s hers.”
Tyla looked stunned—mouth slightly open, her face cycling between offended and caught-off-guard. Like she’d never expected me to say anything at all, let alone hit her with a truth she wasn’t ready to carry.
She didn’t respond; she didn’t have to. The silence around her did it for her.