The camera flashes one last time before the photographer lowers it, signaling a break. I exhale, rolling my shoulders as I step out into the hallway of the studio. It’s quiet out here, a stark contrast to the constant movement inside.

We’ve rented this space for a photoshoot - new merch, new designs, the usual. The setup is professional, bright lights, backdrops, a team making sure every shot is perfect. It’s going well, but after an hour of posing, adjusting angles, and changing outfits, I need a moment to breathe.

As I run a hand through my hair, my gaze drifts down the hall. That’s when I see her.

Through the glass door of another studio, two rooms away, a girl moves across the floor like she’s weightless. The room is large, lined with mirrors, with a wooden floor that catches the light from the high windows. She’s barefoot, wearing black leggings and a cropped top, her toned muscles flexing with each controlled motion. But it’s the way she moves that holds me still.

She’s not just dancing. She’s telling a story, one I don’t fully understand but can’t look away from.

I lean against the wall, watching.

She spins, arms extending in perfect control, then drops into a seamless roll, her body curling and unfolding like it’s effortless. Her long hair follows the movement, a second wave of motion. Every step, every transition, is fluid, deliberate. It’s contemporary, I think. Not that I know much about dance, but this - this is different. It’s raw and expressive. Controlled, yet free. Sharp, yet soft.

She doesn’t notice me. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. Her focus is somewhere else, lost in whatever world she’s creating.

I should go back. The break won’t last long. But my feet stay planted, my eyes locked on her.

For the first time today, it’s not the camera capturing my attention. It’s her.