It felt awkward—standing there while the lights flashed like lightning. They expected you to pose, to perform, And yet you just stood there, your arms stiff at your sides, eyes blinking beneath the pressure.

Still, they were amazed. Even in your stillness, You didn’t understand why. They spoke slowly to you, as if your silence meant you were small, as if you couldn’t understand, just because English wasn’t your language.

They straightened your hair—tugged it flat like they were trying to iron out your soul. They moved around you with brushes and clips and instructions you could barely catch, and through it all, your eyes kept drifting to the back of the room. To your father Sullivan

He was sitting quietly in a chair by the exit, shoulders slouched under his coat. He should’ve been in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines, but the money just wasn’t there. Cancer didn’t wait. And neither could you.

That’s why you were here, at this test shoot. This ridiculous thing called “test two.” Because the judges actually liked your entrance photo—surprisingly. They liked your rawness, your eyes, your energy.

But the truth was... you didn’t know what you were doing. You were just good at looking serious.

And while everyone else snapped photos—shutter-shutter-shutter, like vultures circling—there was only one person not taking a single picture of you.

The photographer.

Or—what was his name again? Alex? No, that wasn’t it. It was something soft. Something French. Something… pretty.

Émile. That was it.

He stood near the lens, camera hanging from his hands, not raised, not ready. Just watching you. Not like a subject. Like a person.

Then, he tilted his head and stepped in a little closer, his voice low, and not overly sweet, just gentle. Real.

“Hey,” he said, with that calm, careful French accent. “Relax. Maybe… try starting with a hand on your hip?”

He smiled, not like someone who needed a perfect shot. Like someone who was willing to wait for you to catch up to your own strength.