Probably hoping that something happens in the moment that’s worth taking pictures of.
I called the photographer beforehand. She seemed nice enough. Professional. Calm. And I appreciate art in all its forms. I just prefer being behind it. Holding the tools. Staying safe on my side of the glass and the glow.
Not standing in the middle of it.
Not being the subject of someone else’s idea.
But shit—it’s not like anything else in my twenty-six years has ever worked out spectacularly. At least dating-wise. Sure, I’ve had relationships, if they could even be called that. I've dated. Sort of. The real problem is that I disappear. In my head. In my work. In whatever I’m building at the time. I forget simple things, like eating or calling someone back right away. And people just… don’t like that.
Nika says I just haven’t found one of my people yet. The people thatgetme, like how she gets me. And maybe she’s right. Even though I’m a romantic at heart, I kind of quit dating altogether and rely on that magical app whenever I really need to get my rocks off. No expectations. No hassle.
No complaints when I spend all night in my studio because inspiration hits and I’m too tired the next day to meet up.
But yeah. Maybe I just need to see this as a reboot. A way to get back out there, get out of my lonely apartment and see what happens. It’s a start, at least.
When I reach the building within this building—a stack of shipping containers turned into rentable art studios—a glass door swings open. A woman steps out as she spots me approaching, and I recognize her immediately from our video call.
The photographer. Sadie.
She smiles wide, her long caramel-colored hair pulled into a loose braid that slips over one shoulder as she closes the distance and pulls me into a quick hug. I return it with a soft chuckle; her enthusiasm is contagious.
“Milos! I’m so happy to finally meet you,” she says as she lets me go. She actually pronounces my name correctly;Mee-loss. “I’m impressed you found your way here through this snowstorm.”
“I live close by,” I shrug. “Hard to get lost when you can see the place from your window.”
“Oh, really?” Sadie grins. “I’m low-key jealous. This part of the city is absolutely incredible. I’ve been to a lot of places, butthis—” she gestures vaguely around us, “—this whole artist corner feels special. And with the snow? It’s even better.”
She tips her head back, her brown eyes following the roof lights overhead. They’re long panes of glass set into steel, now blurred white as snow piles on top, muting the daylight until the whole space feels hushed and dim. Then her gaze drops back to me, her smile softening into a small, thoughtful frown.
I recognize that look.
It’s the same way I look at my work.
“Gosh,” Sadie says suddenly, eyes lighting up as she really looks at me. “Those cheekbones. And that eye color—would you mind if I took a few solo portraits after the shoot? You have anexquisitebone structure. Have you ever modeled before?”
I scoff and rub the back of my neck. “Uh, sure? And no. I’m pretty sure I’m too short to be a model.” I mean, I’m a solid 5’10, thank you very much, which is perfectly normal—or it would be anywhere else. But here, in the Netherlands? The country of giants? Yeah. I feel like a compact edition most of the time.
She waves the comment away like it’s irrelevant and grabs my leather-clad arm, already steering me toward the container. “You don’t have to be tall for portraits. That’s a runway thing. Faces are different.” She glances over her shoulder. “I’ll need you to head through to the back right away.”
Her voice drops as we move through the main space cluttered with light stands, cables, reflectors, and half-assembled backdrops. A couple of assistants hover near the edges. One of them stands partially hidden behind a tall stack of crates, adjusting something out of sight, and I only catch his hands. Heavily inked like mine. Dark letters crawl over his knuckles as he tightens a clamp, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose more art.
“The other participant hasn’t shown up yet,” Sadie continues quietly and I snap my attention back to her. “I’m hoping they still will—I haven’t heard from him—but you can’t see each other beforehand.” She flashes a quick smile. “Ruins the magic.”
I shrug out of my jacket as she ushers me inside a small dressing room where I hang it and Nika’s coat over the back of a chair. My hoodie, black jeans, and biker boots pass Sadie’s inspection without comment. I hadn’t really thought about what to wear and figured it was best to just be myself.
Whatever being myself means, anyway. This is just comfortable and I like it.
But when I pull the hoodie off to reveal my simple dark-gray t-shirt, her gaze catches on my arms.
“Oh,” she breathes. “That’sbeautiful.”
Both my arms have ink. My left has my arm’s bone structure in fine lines, broken up with white accents and overgrown with flowers so brightly colored they almost glow. A friend of mine went wild with the palette when I asked her to make it as neon as she possibly could. My right arm is darker, more restrained: geometric lines layered with constellations and fractured light shapes, precise and deliberate, like a blueprint that never quite explains itself.
Sadie doesn’t touch them. She just looks.
And somehow, that feels more intimate.
I keep still, and when the door opens, my annoying sister pops her head in with a big smile and the much-needed coffee and snacks. Sadie quickly makes introductions before her phone rings. She frowns at the screen, apologizes, and excuses herself almost immediately.
