Chapter 22 #2
She tilted her head. “You are talented. You will get hired. You will get published. But if you keep polishing yourself into something palatable, you will wake up in five years and not recognize your own work — or why you ever started.”
The fear that rose in me was immediate and intimate.
Mischa pushed another sheet toward me. A list.
Project proposals. Final term choices. Themes. Directions. Risk.
“You will choose a term project,” she said. “Something you care about. Something that costs you a little. And you will bring me the first set of images next week.”
My mouth went dry. “Next week?”
“Yes.”
Of course it was next week.
Everything was always next week.
Mischa’s gaze held mine. “You are running,” she said. “You think speed will save you. It won’t.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
So I nodded like I understood.
Mischa’s expression sharpened again. “Do not nod at me like you are agreeing in theory.”
Heat crawled up my neck.
“I’ll do it,” I said, more honestly.
“Sometimes, we have to struggle. We have to suffer. Clarity and understanding rarely arrive when we are comfortable.”
Really not the advice I wanted. I swallowed hard and fought the urge to nod obediently.
“Next week,” she reiterated as she rose. She gathered the photos together and studied me one more time while I sat there, stupefied. “You should also eat more,” she said it almost as an afterthought.
I blinked.
She waved a hand, dismissing me like that was the end of it. “Go.”
I stood up on shaky legs and left with my folder pressed to my chest like a wound I couldn’t cover.
The next day’s shoot was louder. More bodies. More egos. More movement.
Fashion editorial. Harder light. More attitude.
And she was there again.
Leaning against a wall near wardrobe —again—, laughing with a stylist—again— like she belonged there the way sunlight belonged in a room.
The nameless girl.
She turned when she felt me—because it didn’t feel like a coincidence anymore that she noticed me like that—and her smile hooked into my ribs before I could brace.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” I replied, pretending my voice didn’t warm.
I shifted my camera strap and forced my eyes down to the call sheet on the clipboard near the monitor. Names. Roles. Times.
And there it was.
Her name.
Printed in black ink like it had always been available.
I saw it.
And then, deliberately, I looked away.
Because knowing it would make her real in a way I wasn’t ready for. Because keeping her nameless kept the story lighter. Kept it from becoming another obligation, another thread I had to tie off neatly.
She drifted closer while I adjusted my settings, a familiar orbit.
“You look better today,” she said.
I snorted. “Liar.”
She shrugged, cheerful. “Maybe. But you’ve got less ‘about to implode’ energy.”
“That’s because I’m saving it for later,” I said dryly.
Her laugh was immediate, bright. “Yeah, I figured. You strike me as the type who schedules their breakdown.”
I glanced at her, startled.
She held my gaze without flinching, like she didn’t mind being seen.
Then she nodded toward my camera. “What’re we shooting?”
“Editorial,” I said. “Minimal story. Max mood.”
“Mmm,” she murmured, like she understood more than she should.
She was in the shots this time — actually on the call sheet, actually part of the day. Styled, placed, given direction by someone who wasn’t me. A role. A mark on the floor. Light measured against her face instead of just catching her in reflections.
And still, she stayed near me between setups.
Not in the way that demanded attention — just close enough that I kept having to recalibrate my framing when she drifted into my line of sight. Adjusting exposure. Checking focus. Pretending my hands were steady for reasons that had nothing to do with the camera.
She didn’t flirt like she was collecting points. She didn’t tease like she was trying to pry open a door.
She listened when I explained the next setup. Held still when the stylist fussed with her collar. Asked if the light was okay where she was standing, like she actually cared about getting it right.
She was just… present.
Professional.
Uncomplicated.
And I hated how much I wanted that.
By the time we wrapped, she was in half my selects — not just technically correct, but alive in a way the others weren’t. Not performing emotion. Just existing inside it.
She stretched her arms overhead like a cat, joints popping softly, the day finally releasing her.
“Well,” she said, turning to me with that easy smile. “Looks like we’re done early. Wanna finally grab that drink? Right now. No rain checks.”
There it was.
Simple. Casual.
No weight.
No implied future.
My body said yes before my brain did.
Then my calendar screamed.
I pictured René’s email queue. Mischa’s project list. Noor waiting for my feedback on her portfolio edits. Frankie’s album concepts. The stack of unedited raws that would turn into guilt by midnight.
And beneath it all, I felt Dominic’s absence like the shape of a bruise I kept pressing.
I forced my mouth into something light.
“I can’t,” I said. “Not tonight.”
She didn’t pout. Didn’t push.
Just nodded like she’d expected that answer.
“Fair,” she said, easy. “Another rain check then.”
“Yeah,” I replied, trying not to sound like I regretted it.
She tipped her head. “You’ll tell me when you’re actually free?”
I hesitated—because I didn’t know what free meant anymore. Then I nodded anyway. “I will.”
Her smile softened. “Good.”
And then she walked away, light as she’d arrived.
That night, I called Dominic.
I told myself it was because I was being a good girlfriend. Because I wasn’t avoiding him.
Because I could do this one thing.
He answered on the second ring, voice warm and familiar.
“Flash.”
My throat tightened immediately.
“Hi,” I said, forcing brightness. “I’ve got like… ten minutes.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Ten minutes,” he repeated softly. “Okay. Tell me something good.”
I leaned against my counter and stared at the clean mug rack like it might hold me upright.
“René gave me more responsibility,” I said. “And Mischa is—Mischa is being Mischa.”
Dominic chuckled quietly. “That’s my girl. Collecting terrifying mentors like it’s a hobby.”
I smiled, and it hurt.
He asked about my day. I gave him the clean version. The efficient version. The one where I sounded fine and busy and successful.
He listened. He always listened.
And somewhere in the middle of my carefully edited report, he said, very gently—
“Do you miss me?”
My mouth went dry.
“Yes,” I said immediately.
Dominic exhaled, like he’d been holding something in. “Okay.”
I waited for him to ask for more.
He didn’t.
Instead he said, “I miss you too. A lot.”
My chest tightened.
I looked at my phone, at the call timer ticking down, and felt the pressure of everything I hadn’t said.
“I wish I could talk longer,” I lied.
“You can,” he said quietly. “But I don’t want you to get behind.”
The words weren’t sharp. They were worse—calm, accurate, offered like a fact and not a weapon.
I swallowed hard.
“I have to go,” I said, because it was easier than answering him.
A beat.
Then Dominic said, softly, “Okay, Flash. Go.”
Not angry.
Not resentful.
Just… letting me.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promised.
“You don’t have to promise,” he replied. “Just do it.”
“I will,” I said again.
We hung up.
The silence that followed was immediate and loud.
I stared at my phone.
My thumb hovered over his name.
Over the text field.
Over the place where I could have said something real.
Instead, I opened my calendar.
And added a reminder to call him tomorrow.
Then another reminder to pick a term project.
Then another reminder to review Noor’s edits.
Then another reminder to send Frankie the mood board.
The screen filled with color blocks.
Green. Blue. Yellow.
Purple—still a suggestion.
I stared at it until my eyes blurred.
And told myself, like a prayer, like a lie, like a plan.
Tomorrow.