CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ARIELLE
Northline Creative had exposed brick walls, free sparkling water, and three women in expensive sneakers calling my pain “a strong visual identity”.
I sat across from them at a long white table with my portfolio open between us.
The old me would have taken the sentence as a compliment.
The current me still liked it.
I just listened for what came after.
“We think Pretty Enough to Fall Apart can be bigger than a class campaign,” said Lena, the creative director. She was thirty-something, Black, and wore her hair in a low cut that made every earring look intentional. “Short-form video. Portraits. Campus partnerships. Maybe a live series.”
A junior strategist named Mica turned her laptop toward me.
On the screen was a sample reel using my crying self-portrait, slow piano music, and white text that said SHE LOOKED FINE FIVE MINUTES LATER.
My stomach tightened. “Where did you get that picture?” I asked.
“Your exhibit page.”
“I gave the school permission to post the installation. Not to edit the image into another project.”
Mica’s hand moved toward the laptop. “This is only an internal mockup.”
“It still uses my face.”
Lena studied me.
That used to be enough to make me soften my words before somebody thought I was difficult.
I left them where they were.
Lena closed the laptop. “Fair. We should have asked before building with it.”
“Thank you.”
“We are asking now.”
I looked at the campaign proposal.
The internship paid eighteen dollars an hour for twenty hours a week through summer. More than Muse. It included production credit, access to photographers, and a chance to pitch the series to two regional brands.
It also included a section called FOUNDER STORY.
Three vertical videos.
One about Cam cheating.
One about the friendship breakup.
One about my insecurity.
Each ended with a suggested call to action.
FOLLOW FOR THE HEALING JOURNEY.
I did not want to become a weekly episode of my own worst year.
“What if I do not want to tell the relationship story on camera?” I asked.
Mica said, “The personal origin is what gives the campaign authenticity.”
“The work is authentic.”
“Of course. But audiences connect to a face.”
“My face is already there.”
Lena leaned back. “What would you do instead?”
I had prepared for that question even while hoping nobody asked it.
I slid a second proposal from my portfolio.
“Anonymous submissions paired with portraits the participants approve. They choose what is shown, what is written, and whether their name appears. The campaign can use my story as the first example without turning every person around me into content.”
I pointed to the consent page I made with help from my professor.
“No screenshots pulled from private messages. No before-and-after healing language. No making somebody cry in the interview because it performs well. Resource links stay attached to every post, even if brands think it ruins the aesthetic.”
Mica’s eyebrows lifted near the last part.
Lena picked up the packet.
“You thought this through.”
“I learned the hard way what happens when other people decide which pieces of you belong to the public.”
Nobody spoke for a few seconds.
Then, Lena smiled.
Not the polite smile from before.
The interested one.
“This is stronger than our version,” she said.
Mica looked at her. “The founder video—”
“Can be one video, written by Arielle, with final approval.” Lena looked back at me. “Paid internship. Campaign credit. You retain ownership of the original class project, and we license the expanded materials while you work here. We will have legal write it correctly.”
I did not say yes immediately.
Every cell in my body wanted to prove I was grateful before the opportunity changed its mind.
“I want the agreement in writing before I sign,” I said.
“You should.”
“And I need to review any use of my image.”
“Agreed.”
“And my friends are not automatic participants because they are part of the story.”
“Agreed.”
Mica nodded too, though she looked like I had added homework to her week.
When the meeting ended, Lena walked me to the elevator.
“You know you can be collaborative without being easy,” she said.
The doors opened.
“I am learning.”
Outside, rain had started hard enough to flatten the front of my hair before I reached the parking garage. I stood beneath the awning and looked at my reflection in the dark phone screen.
My edges had swelled.
The curls near my temples were turning back into themselves.
I had another shift at Muse in forty minutes.
No scarf.
No edge control.
No time to go home.
For a moment, panic rose with the same old instructions.
Fix it.
Hide it.
Do not let people see you looking unfinished on a day something important happened.
Then, a familiar voice said, “You still hate the rain.”
Cam stood ten feet away under a black umbrella.
My body knew him before I decided how to feel.
Brown coat. Fresh cut. Hands in his pockets. The same warm eyes that used to turn every explanation into something I wanted to believe.
I had not seen him in almost five months.
He looked familiar enough to hurt and different enough to remind me time had passed without us.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked.
“Domo works with Northline sometimes. He told me you had a meeting.”
“That was not his information to give.”
Cam nodded. “You right.”
Later, Domo apologized without me asking. He said Cam had lost that kind of access to him too. It was a small consequence, but I took it.
He did not step closer.
“I asked him because I wanted ten minutes somewhere public. If you say no, I am leaving.”
I looked toward the garage entrance. People crossed behind him. Cameras sat above both doors. My car was one floor up.
Cam was not Trell.
I also knew I had spent months imagining what I would say if he ever stood in front of me without a screen between us.
“Five minutes,” I said.
He accepted the smaller number without arguing.
We moved under the awning, leaving several feet between us.
The rain hit the sidewalk hard enough to fill the silence.
Cam started with, “I am sorry.”
I almost laughed. “So is everybody this year.”
“I deserve that.”
“Probably.”
He looked down once, then back at me. “I cheated. It was not just Monday. It started after that fall launch party in September.”
The directness hurt differently from denial.
No reasonable explanation to take apart.
No question turned back on me.
“Why?” I asked.
Cam rubbed his thumb against the side of his hand. “Because I liked how Sade looked at me. Like I was the important one in every room.”
“And I did not?”
“You did. Then school, work, people knowing you without me... I didn’t like feeling like I wasn’t the center anymore. That was weak.”
I stared at him. “You told me I was insecure every time I noticed you moving different.”
“I know.”
“You used the thing I hated about myself to protect what you were doing.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying it like knowing now gives me something.”
His face tightened. “It does not.”
The rain blew beneath the awning and dotted one shoulder of his coat.
“I thought if you felt lucky enough to have me, you would stop asking questions,” he said. “That was foul.”
It was.
My eyes burned anyway.
I did not wipe them before the tears formed.
Cam watched my face but did not reach for me.
“Did you love me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then, why was loving me not enough to make you honest?”
“Because loving you didn’t fix the selfish shit in me.”
That stayed with me. For months, I had tried to decide whether cheating made our relationship fake. Fake would have been easier. The harder truth was Cam had loved me and still harmed me, and love still did not earn him a key back into my life.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Cam exhaled. “At first, I wanted you back. Then, I wanted you to stop thinking I was a bad person. Now…” he paused. “Now, I wanted to say it without asking you to make me feel better after.”
I believed that he meant it. I did not know whether he would keep meaning it tomorrow.
“That is all?”
“I have the letters you returned. I am not sending more.”
“Good.”
“I saw your campaign.”
My shoulders stiffened.
“I did not share it,” he added. “I just saw it.”
“Okay.”
“You looked good.”
“I know.”
A small smile touched his mouth and disappeared.
“I miss you,” he said.
I missed him too.
The version who brought breakfast on my birthday.
The man who knew I hated pulp.
The person I had planned next summer around.
Missing him was not an instruction.
“I hope you become somebody who does not need to make a woman smaller to feel chosen,” I said.
Cam nodded. “Is that your nice way of saying never?”
“It is my clear way.”
His eyes lowered for a second. Then, he stepped backward into the rain. “Congratulations on the meeting, Arielle.”
“Thank you.”
He walked away without looking back.
I stood beneath the awning until the ache settled somewhere I could carry it.
At Muse, Simone looked at my swollen hairline and reached beneath the counter for edge control.
I stopped her. “I am good.”
She looked at me like I might be ill.
“You sure?”
“No,” I said. “But my hair is fine.”
During my break, Northline emailed the revised internship agreement.
My ownership language was included.
So was the pay.
I signed after reading every page.
Then, I sent one message to the group.
ARI: I got the internship. Paid. Creative credit. My rules are in the contract.
KYE: MANAGER FEE 15 PERCENT
JORI: She is not your client.
NAE: Proud of you. Also what outfit we buying with the first check
I looked at their names and smiled.
ME: Nothing. I have tuition.
KYE: Internship already made you boring
I put the phone down and returned to the sales floor with rain-frizzed edges, a signed contract, and no need to make either one look different before they counted.