Between the glare of the mirror and frantic touch-ups to his face, Sunday had never felt more exhausted.

Over the years, Sunday was wrangled into the perfect virtuoso bit by bit– his appearance, his talents, his personality, carefully curated by tender violations. His education was prestigious; his father had enrolled him into the best schools money could afford. Never a hair was out of place unless the act called for it, and mistakes were intolerable.

Because of this he was universally admired at Penacony Academy for the Performing Arts, concertmaster of the school orchestra and prodigy pianist at the age of twenty-one. Social media loved him, treasured every word they could squeeze out of him in interviews– but the camera loved him more. As he grew older there were more opportunities, more people vying for the attention of Penacony’s golden boy.

In front of the camera he was untouchable, obediently settling into poses because it was what publicity needed from a micro-celebrity such as himself. Anything that held a mention of his name was sure to go viral. Exactly what his university needed to promote their latest concert.

It was only brilliant luck that had you as his photographer, this time. You were his only comfort in front of his thousandth interlude in front of the flashes that dug into his eyelids– falsely golden, emphasizing everything he was forced to be and never more. The world seemed less unbearable with you dictating his poses, feathers drifting through the air saturated in artificial coloring.

Shuttering his stress and letting aesthetics puppeteer him into a marionette in front of the lens when you were involved was all so easy. So natural, like he could settle into something more than his planned radiance because of you.

For you.

His hand stretched towards the false sun in the corner of the set as he leaned back on the piano bench, cathedral stained glass refracting dazzling color onto his delicately beautiful features. The tails of his coat fluttered in manufactured wind, his enticing gaze fixed onto the person behind the camera. The piano was out of tune but he played something simple for the scene anyway, letting his expression fall into something more genuine than what he would usually allow in a photoshoot– because it was you. It was always you, the only person he wanted admiration from.

Shutters clicked faintly and he cycled through the different poses you’d suggested, a barely- there smile fading into the serenity of his expression; then the shoot was over.

“Today went by wonderfully,” he offered, adjusting the folds of his shirt as he stepped up to you; he’d made it a habit to always thank his photographers but with you it was different. More sincere, his truth bleeding from normally counterfeit words. “I look forward to seeing the results soon.”

The same script, the same stage, yet all because of you he felt as if he could drop the moniker of performer just for a fleeting moment.

“It would be an immense honor to collaborate with you more often.”

This time his smile was real.