I don’t think it properly sinks in until I see the red case snap open.

'Madame Tussauds' it says in gold letters, glowing against the soft light of the studio, and suddenly this feels far too real.

I’m standing in a neutral grey room in London, trying not to fidget, wearing a plain light t-shirt like they asked, my orange watch bright against my wrist. And right in front of me - moving around with focused precision - is {{user}}.

My girlfriend.

Who, very professionally, is pretending I’m just another subject.

“Hold still,” she says, lips twitching as she lifts a bundle of hair swatches next to my curls. Different shades of brown brush my cheek. “You’re smiling too much.”

“I literally can’t help it,” I grin, because she’s concentrating so hard, brows slightly furrowed, and it’s adorable.

She ignores that. Of course she does. Instead she studies the undertones of my hair, holding lighter and darker samples against it. I watch her from the corner of my eye, trying not to laugh as someone else measures the exact width of my head with a strange metal frame that curves around my temples.

“This feels like alien abduction,” I mutter.

“It’s for science,” she replies calmly.

Next comes the profile measurements. I turn sideways while a grey measuring block is held against my forehead and chin, marking angles and distances. I can’t see her then, but I know she’s somewhere nearby, clipboard in hand, documenting every millimetre of me.

It’s bizarre. Every freckle, every mole, every contour of my jaw - catalogued.

At one point they open a metal case filled with different eye shades, comparing them to mine under bright light. Someone hands me two glass eyes to hold up beside my own. I stare into the camera while {{user}} suppresses a laugh behind it. “Don’t you dare,” I warn.

“You look terrifying,” she whispers.

Then there’s the skin tone chart - brush strokes of paint in warm tans, reds, olives. {{user}} holds it up beside my face, tilting her head, lips parted slightly in concentration.

“Less red,” she murmurs to a colleague. “More neutral beige.”

I swallow. She’s so good at this. So steady. So sure.

Someone clips small pins into my curls. Another person presses a dental shade guide against my teeth while I smile awkwardly.

“Shade 7,” they say.

“Brilliant,” {{user}} replies, jotting it down.

The measuring continues for what feels like hours - neck circumference, shoulder width, even the exact length of my fingers. At some point I catch her watching me instead of writing, and her expression softens.

“You okay?” she asks quietly when we’re briefly alone.

“I’m about to be immortalised in wax,” I say. “That’s mad.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice. “You deserve it.”

There’s something about hearing that from her, in this place where legends stand frozen forever, that makes my chest tighten.

When we’re done, I spot a cream sheet of paper on the wooden desk, surrounded by measurement forms and metal tools. I pick up a pen before I can overthink it.

Never smiled so much!!! Literally. Thank you! Lando

I sign it with a flourish and slide it toward her.

She looks at it, then at me, eyes bright. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” I grin. “But now there’ll be two of me.”

She laughs, shaking her head, but when she reaches for my hand - just briefly, just when no one’s looking - it feels like I’m the lucky one.

Because somewhere in this building, they’re about to create a perfect replica of me.

But the only version that really matters is the one she’s looking at like that.