The kind of silence that meant he was already deciding what to cut.
I hadn’t told him about the midterm being moved. Or about Dominic. Or about the favor for Frankie. Or about the extra freelance assignment I’d accepted because it sounded interesting and I didn’t want to look like I couldn’t handle it.
René studied me the way he studied images—head slightly tilted, eyes narrowed, not searching for excuses, just information.
“You are not unreliable,” he said slowly. “But you are becoming…sloppy.”
The word lodged under my ribs.
Sloppy.
I had never been sloppy in my life.
“I can manage it,” I said. Because I needed that to be true more than I needed it to be convincing.
René didn’t argue. He turned slightly in his chair, fingers resting on the edge of his desk like he might already be reaching for another name.
“Perhaps,” he said, almost casually, “this shoot should go to someone with fewer distractions.”
My stomach dropped. “I want it,” I said too quickly.
“I know,” he replied. Not unkindly. Not impressed either. “Wanting is not the same as being available.”
I swallowed. “I’ll make it work.”
René looked at me again—really looked at me this time and his mouth tightened. “Then prove it.”
I left his office with my pulse still too loud in my ears and told myself I’d earned the benefit of the doubt.
The shoot went smoothly, at least on the surface. The light behaved. The model hit her marks. I didn’t miss anything obvious. René said nothing—which I took, stupidly, as a good sign.
I went home late. I fell asleep with my camera bag still by the door. The next morning came too fast.
My phone was already lighting up by the time I rolled onto my side.
Dominic:
3 days. I’m not counting or anything.
Me:
Liar.
Dominic:
Guilty. How did the shoot go?
Me:
Good, I think. Ask me again after coffee.
I stared at the message longer than I meant to, then added:
Me:
I’m excited to see you. Just… fair warning, I might be a zombie.
Dominic:
