She laughs softly. “That’s usually the reaction. Your tailoring is very strong, Jessica. The structure, the way you play with restraint and release. It feels intentional and confident. We’d love to see the pieces in person.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“In person?”
“Yes. We’re inviting you to present your collection, your concept boards, and up to eight finished designs. From there, our panel would select five or six looks to be featured in the show itself.”
My heart starts beating in my ears. “I… I wasn’t aware I’d been submitted,” I say honestly, because my brain is sprinting and my mouth can’t keep up.
“That’s not uncommon,” she says. “We often receive recommendations from industry professionals who believe a designer is ready for the next step.”
Industry professionals. My hand starts shaking. I switch the phone to the other ear, pressing my palmflat to my sternum like I can physically hold myself together.
“Is this,” I swallow, “is this confirmed? Or is this preliminary—”
“This is an official invitation to present,” she cuts in gently. “The next step would be an in-person review. If selected, you’d be included in our showcase alongside five other emerging designers.”
Five or six looks. A runway. My work. Under lights. On bodies that move.
“I—yes,” I say immediately, too fast. “Yes, absolutely. I can do that. I have the pieces. I have the boards. I just… yes.”
She laughs again, brighter this time. “I love the enthusiasm. I’ll send you an email with dates, logistics, and what to prepare. Take a look, and if you have any questions at all, my direct line will be included.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.”
“We’re excited to meet you, Jessica. Truly.”
The call ends and the silence after is deafening while I stare at my phone.
Then I scream.
It rips out of me, echoing off the walls of the atelier as I spin in a tight, unhinged circle, laughing and half-crying and clutching the phone to my chest.
“Oh my God,” I gasp to no one. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
I jump. I twirl. I press my forehead to the dress form and laugh again, breathless, electricity coursing through every limb.
This is it. This is the call you fantasize about at three in the morning when you’re pinning seams alone and wondering if any of it matters. This is the yes that cracks the ceiling open.
My hands shake as I look around the atelier.
They see me. They want me.
I wipe at my eyes, still smiling so wide my cheeks ache.
I almost don’t go inside my old apartment.
I stand for a second with the key in my hand, staring at the door like it might bite. I’ve been avoiding this place, telling myself I’ll deal with it later, that there’stime. There isn’t. The landlord made that very clear in his message three days ago. Everything needs to be out by the end of the week.
So I push inside.
The apartment smells familiar and faintly sad. Half-empty in that way that makes it feel like a memory instead of a home. The walls are bare where my frames used to hang. What’s left are boxes shoved into corners and the remnants of a life I already started living somewhere else.
I don’t linger. I go straight for the closet where the good stuff is: old sketch folders, fabric samples rolled and tied with ribbon, notebooks swollen with ideas I didn’t have the courage or resources to chase at the time. I crouch on the floor, knees creaking, and pull everything out in a messy avalanche. I gather what I can carry, stuffing folders into a box, tucking loose sketches between them, grabbing another box when the first one fills too fast.
By the time I lock the door behind me again, my arms are full and my chest feels tight in that good, forward-leaning way.
When I get to Dom’s place, I drag the boxes inside one by one, grunting and swearing under my breath, and push the large door shut with my heel. I kick my shoes off by the dresser, drop my bag wherever it lands, and head straight for the kitchen without even bothering to turn on music. I don’t need it. My head is loud enough.
