H.S | Same song, second verse | Second book

Chapter 35. Rolling Stone

[August 18th]

"Maybe try one where you lie down on the carpet there," the photographer suggests, gesturing toward the scattered vinyl records.

I sink back, letting the cool fabric brush against my arms as I settle in, attempting to relax, to strike a balance between poised and effortless. The camera clicks immediately, capturing the angles, the light, the fleeting mood in each frame.

"Hold up your album," he instructs, tilting his head to indicate the perfect position.

I lift it, experimenting with ways to frame it in my hands. Sometimes I hold it close, then farther away, shifting expressions—a soft smile, a thoughtful gaze, a playful tilt of my head. Each subtle shift brings a fresh flurry of clicks.

For the last pose, I cover my face with the album, peeking over its edge.

"Uhh, yes," he murmurs, grinning as he lowers the camera.

The photographer steps back, glancing at the shots on his camera screen, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Perfect," he says, his tone almost reverent. "I think we've got it."

I sit up, smoothing my hair and glancing down at the bed, still littered with vinyl records in a rainbow of worn covers and scuffed edges. The album in my hands feels heavier somehow, as if it carries more weight than just its music. It's a piece of me—months of late nights, endless rewrites, every high and low channeled into a single collection.

The assistant hands me a bottle of water, and I take a grateful sip, realizing just how much energy this session has drained from me. I glance around the room, a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction settling over me.

"Want to see some of the shots?" the photographer asks, scrolling through the images on his camera and turning it toward me.

I lean in, studying each frame. There I am, lying among the records, my expression shifting from one moment to the next—soft and guarded, serious and playful. For a second, I see myself as others might, a stranger staring back at me from the screen.

"These look... amazing," I say, feeling a flicker of disbelief. "You really captured... I don't know, something real."

He nods, a knowing smile on his face. "It's all you. Sometimes it just takes the right lens."

A knock at the door startles me, and the assistant pokes her head in. "They're ready for you in the interview room."

I follow the assistant through a narrow corridor, the soft hum of distant voices growing louder as we near the interview room. My heartbeat syncs with the rhythm of my steps, each one a reminder of how far I've come since this album was just a scribble of lyrics in an old notebook.

The door swings open, revealing a modest setup—two chairs facing each other, a small table between them, and a camera positioned just off-center. The interviewer, a woman with sharp features softened by a kind smile, looks up from her notes and greets me warmly.

"Hi, Noa, so nice to meet you," she says, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you too," I reply, slipping into the chair opposite her.

We exchange a few pleasantries, the standard opening before the real questions begin. I take a deep breath, bracing myself. This part always feels like a performance in itself—a different kind of stage where every word matters.

The interviewer leans forward, adjusting her microphone as she shuffles through her notes. Her eyes flicker up to meet mine with a look of genuine curiosity. "Noa, it's been almost four years since your last interview," she began, her voice warm yet probing. "You're releasing your very first album, which is a big milestone. But let's rewind a bit. You had quite the rocky introduction to the celebrity world, didn't you? The public first got to know you when you unexpectedly joined One Direction on stage. It was an unforgettable moment—your talent shone through, and everyone was enamored by the immediate chemistry you shared with the band members—Zayn, Louis, Niall, Liam, and of course, Harry."