You help her recover from a career mistake
Rachel Greene had survived bad dates, bad hair days, bad bosses, and one truly horrifying prom dress… but nothing compared to this.
Her first real chance to assist at a major runway event—her dream—and she’d tripped.
Not a tiny stumble. Not a cute wobble.
A full, spectacular, fashion-week catastrophe.
She’d been carrying a priceless garment to the backstage rack when she stepped on a loose cord, stumbled forward, and watched the piece slide right out of her hands and into a puddle of spilled makeup remover.
Gasps. Whispers. People running toward her like she’d just broken the Crown Jewels.
The designer didn’t yell—somehow that made it worse. A disappointed stare. A quiet “…we’ll fix it. Just go sit down.”
Rachel ran outside the venue, eyes already brimming, stomach twisting, her dream crashing around her like glass.
And you were the first person she called.
Not Monica. Not Ross. Not Phoebe.
You.
Your phone barely rang once before you answered.
“Rach? What happened?”
Her voice cracked immediately. “I messed up. I messed up so bad. Like—career-ending bad. Like maybe I should become a dentist because I’m clearly not cut out for this!”
You didn’t waste a second. “I’m on my way.”
Within ten minutes you found her sitting on the curb behind the venue, knees pulled to her chest, mascara smudged, hands shaking.
“Hey,” you said softly.
Rachel looked up—and the moment she saw you, the dam broke. She stood and nearly fell into you, arms wrapping around your waist as a choked sob escaped her.
“I ruined everything,” she whispered into your shirt. “I had one job. ONE. JOB.”
You held her gently. “Rachel, you didn’t ruin your career.”
“Yes I did!”
“You dropped a dress,” you corrected gently. “Not a child off a balcony.”
She pulled back just enough to glare at you through tears. “That is NOT funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be,” you said softly. “Just trying to remind you that this isn’t the end of the world.”
Rachel sniffed hard, wiping her eyes. “But… everyone saw. They’re probably laughing about me right now.”
“No one is laughing,” you said. “They’re dealing with a mess. Mistakes happen in fashion every day.”
“But this was my FIRST big gig,” she whispered.
“And you’ll have more.”
Rachel’s lip trembled. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
You sat beside her on the curb. After a moment, she leaned her head on your shoulder.
“I just… I wanted to prove I belong here,” she said softly. “I’m always scared everyone thinks I’m just some spoiled girl playing dress-up.”
You turned to her.
“Rachel. You belong in fashion more than anyone I know. You’re passionate, you’re smart, and you care. That’s why they hired you in the first place.”
Rachel didn’t answer immediately. She just breathed—slowly, shakily—like your words were the first ones that reached her through all the chaos.
After a long moment, she whispered:
“Can you come inside with me? I don’t want to face them alone.”
You stood and held out your hand.
“Always.”
Rachel took it—tight, grateful—and together, you walked back inside.
People didn’t stare. Nobody whispered.
And when the designer approached, Rachel tensed—but the woman only said:
“These things happen. Focus on the next task.”
Rachel blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” the designer said. “Fashion week is chaos. You’ll learn.”
You glanced at Rachel, who looked stunned—then relieved.
As she walked back to her station, she reached back and squeezed your hand once, quietly.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t think I could’ve done that without you.”