Mischa studied me the way she studied images — like she was looking for what I’d cut out.
“Professional does not mean safe,” she said quietly. “It means you are choosing what to show.”
The wordsafeburned on the way down.
She settled on the seat next to me, turned so we were facing each other. “When you arrived, your work was hungry. You were imperfect and bold. You looked like someone who had something to prove and didn’t care if the proof was messy.”
I couldn’t tell if she meant it as praise.
“I’m still—” I started.
“No,” she said, quietly. Not unkind. Just final. “You are now capable. Efficient. You are meeting expectations. And you are leaving yourself out of the frame.”
My chest hurt. Not dramatically. Just… pressure.
Mischa watched me absorb that, and for a moment her expression softened so slightly it might have been imagined.
“It happens,” she said. “People get tired. They survive. They learn the rules. And then the rules become the work instead of the reason.”
I stared at the folder like it might rearrange itself into something kinder.
“I don’t want that,” I said.
“Then stop performing,” Mischa replied.
I blinked.
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.”
