If only

Prologue

︵‿୨♱୧‿︵

Im standing at the edge of the runway, my heartbeat quickening in anticipation. A faint sheen of perspiration glistening on my skin, catching the light. The murmur of the crowd and the soft hum of the backstage crew is a distant background noise, muffled by my focused breathing.

My fingers brush the smooth, cool fabric of the dress that encapsulated my body, a masterpiece of meticulous stitching and bold design. The lights beyond the curtain are casting a warm, inviting glow, but I know they will soon transform into a dazzling array of flashes and spotlights, demanding my every ounce of poise and confidence.

I take a deep breath, feeling the exhilarating mix of nerves and excitement bubbling within my chest. The familiar scent of hairspray and makeup surrounding me, grounding me in the ritual of the moment. My heels, perfectly balanced, feel like an extension of myself , ready to carry me forward.

Just beyond the curtain, I catch a glimpse of the runway—an endless expanse that both dares and welcomes me. The glossy, reflective surface seems to stretch infinitely, promising a journey of elegance and power. I envision the faces in the crowd, the critical eyes, the admiring gazes, and the cameras that will immortalize this walk.

As the seconds tick down, my mind clears. I am not just a model; I am a muse, a work of art in motion. The soft rustle of my dress is the only sound I hear now, a prelude to the symphony of the show. I straighten my posture, lift my chin, and allow a confident smile play on my lips.

With a final deep breath, I step forward, crossing the threshold from the shadows into the spotlight, ready to own the runway and the moment. 

As I step onto the runway, the lights blare, blinding and brilliant, casting a stark contrast to the shadowy audience. My heart beats a rhythm that synchronizes with the thumping bass of the music, a pulse that propels me forward. Every step is a calculated grace, my body moving like liquid steel, both fluid and strong.

My peripheral vision catches flashes of cameras, a staccato of light capturing each moment in still frames. The audience is a blur, a sea of indistinguishable faces, some nodding with approval, others impassive behind their notepads and tablets. I focus on the end of the runway, a distant goal, a beacon guiding me through the surreal haze of spectacle.

I feel the fabric of the garment against my skin, a tactile reminder of my role as both canvas and muse. The weight of the dress, the click of my heels, each sensory detail grounds me in the present, a counterbalance to the ephemeral nature of the fashion world. My expression is a mask of confidence, every muscle trained to exude poise and allure.

As I pivot to return, I briefly lock eyes with a front-row critic, a fleeting connection that sparks a rush of adrenaline. The runway feels endless and fleeting all at once, a paradox of time stretched and compressed. Each step back feels like a reclamation, a return to myself after the performative journey down the catwalk.

When I step off, the roar of the crowd reaches me, a delayed echo that confirms my passage through the gauntlet of scrutiny. I exhales, the tension dissipating as I slip back into the shadows, preparing to do it all over again.