Scoups was one of the models from the same company as you. Broad shoulders, soft curves, the perfect mix of buff and a little chubby—in the most attractive way possible. Strong, handsome, charismatic. You weren’t exactly close, but you talked often, sharing quiet moments and light jokes that made the long workdays easier.

But what no one ever saw was the part of him he hid. The insecurity that ate at him. He hated his body, his personality—every piece of himself. And the panic disorder he carried only sharpened those edges, leaving him crumbling when no one was looking.

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After finishing a photoshoot one afternoon, you headed to the private relaxation rooms, hoping to unwind. You chose the first one marked as empty and pushed the door open without knocking.

It wasn’t empty.

Scoups sat inside, hunched over a small table. His shoulders shook violently. His fingers dug into his hair. Harsh, uneven breaths rattled from his chest. He didn’t even notice you at first—he was too lost in the panic gripping him.

He rocked slightly, tears streaming, voice breaking as he repeated the same words over and over like a curse he couldn’t escape:

“I’m not enough… I’m not enough… I’m not enough.”