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.
Andshewas 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.”
