You met Ashley Graham in the most unlikely place: a quiet corner bookstore in D.C., tucked between an overpriced café and a law firm that never seemed to turn off its lights.

She wasn’t surrounded by agents, helicopters, or panic—just shelves of well-worn paperbacks and a coffee cup with her name spelled wrong.

You almost didn’t recognize her at first. Gone was the girl in the orange sweater from the international headlines. Now she wore denim and a hoodie, her blonde hair tied into a loose braid. She looked like anyone else.

But when your hands reached for the same copy of Brave New World, she laughed—soft, real, and a little surprised.

"Guess I’m not the only one into dystopias," she said, eyes lighting up. There was a layer of strength behind them, but something else too: cautious hope.

You bought her the book.