Come What May

34. sober thoughts

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

SOBER THOUGHTS

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• sunday, may 16th •

"Pick a finger."

Narrowing my eyes, I hum, eyes flitting between Storm's index finger and middle as if my decision is calculated, when in reality, I have no idea what we're doing. "Index!"

Storm grins. "Okay, we're dyeing my hair blue."

Eyes widening, I glance up at Storm from my position on the ground, their purple tips with brown roots hair staring back at me. "Really? Do you have hair dye? Or do we have to go to the store and buy some?" I ask, doing my best to shove aside the butterflies that begin to swarm in my stomach at the thought of Storm with blue hair.

It's been four days since we met Jackson, the model scout, three days since I informally accepted the offer, two days since I realised that there's less than fifteen days left to my stay here to end, one day since I realised that my attraction to Storm has surpassed more-than-a-crush territory and has breached a very dangerous territory that I've never entered before, and I still haven't kissed them.

It's getting pathetic; Storm constantly catching me either staring at their lips or about to stare at their lips and me attempting to play it off even though I'm fully aware that they know exactly what I'm doing.

"Brought it along with me, baby," Storm says, rummaging through their backpack and brandishing a bottle of bleach along with two other bottles— bright blue hair dye and bright pink hair dye. "Blue?"

"Blue!" I chirp. Resting my head against the leg of my bed, I look up at Storm who's eyes are focused as they read the ingredients used in the hair dye, tongue poking out of their lips in concentration.

They're so pretty. Whatever colour they dye their hair, whether or not professional hair stylists say that that colour won't go with people who are the same skin tone as theirs, I know that they'll pull it off because they're the prettiest person I know.

"Staring," Storm reminds with a laugh, and yet again, I'm left contemplating why I haven't kissed them yet. "I don't mind, but you're supposed to be sending an email to Iris Nyein now. Not staring at me stare at myself in the mirror."

They walk into the bathroom, leaving the door open as they begin to buzz their hair into the length it was when I first met them, small tufts of hair dropping onto their neck.

Deciding that I should stop analysing their every move, as I always do, I draw out a slow breath, take a swig out of the bottle of wine next to me and focus my attention back on the laptop in front of me.

I've got my email ready. I just don't know if it's the right one to send.

Iris had called yesterday, a video call while I was in the middle of shaving, just to give me the details on the job and the agency, how everything works in the agency, and though they weren't her exact words, how strikingly less toxic Prometheus Management is from Diadem.

I knew that before she mentioned anything though. After my quick Google search the other day and after finding out that the model scout who came up to me and the managers of the agency are queer people of colour, two of whom are trans and one who's in a healthy, polyamorous relationship with three other people was enough to solidify the fact that they're significantly less toxic compared to Diadem.

Still, she had said that she was legally obligated to give me a run down of the agency and how it operates, so, she rattled off a list of projects they've worked on— bringing trans people into the spotlight by having them model for brands that don't typically showcase much diversity, highlighting the lives of people of colour in their photography, not using people as inspiration porn, emphasizing on authenticity.