❛ In whispers soft, he taught me of fear’s cruel reign, Now seeks to make my heart in torment to yearn.
Within his grasp, I tremble as he plays, Each move designed to steal my peaceful days.
His eyes, like ice, demand a tear to shed, As if my pain is the very air he’s wed.
In his presence, I am but a mere pawn, Dreading the sight of his twisted dawn.
His touch, a chill, his voice a siren’s song, My sanctuary in his grasp turns to throng.
In the mirror of his gaze, I am but glass, Reflecting fear, no more, no less, alas ❜
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I gazed across the crowded room, my ice-blue eyes sweeping over the sea of faces. Having lived in this glitzy fashion world for so long, I couldn’t help but recognize the mix of determination and desperation in their eyes.
The models here are like chess pieces, each one meticulously placed to create a picture of perfection. I know their stories, or at least, the ones they’re willing to tell—the endless nights, the ruthless scrutiny, the compromises they’ve made just to stand in this spotlight.
I was one of them, seven years ago, a seventeen-year-old girl from the heart of the fashion district by the neon lights of the runway. But I swore to myself, when I first stepped onto the catwalk, that I would keep my soul unblemished, my dignity intact. Or so I thought. The whispers of doubt sometimes find their way through the din of the flashing cameras and the murmur of approval. Did I truly keep that promise? Perhaps I’ve just become better at hiding the price tags.
I sighed, this industry has a way of making me question everything.
My eyes darted to the mirror, where a designer fussed with the intricate folds of my gown, and a makeup artist held out a tube of lipstick, poised to strike. The artist’s eyes darted away from my chest, which was barely contained by the dress’s plunging neckline. I rolled my eyes, feeling a twinge of anger. “Finish up,” I murmured, my voice cool and detached. “And try to remember you’re a professional, not a teenager with a crush.”
The artist’s cheeks reddened, and he quickly applied the lipstick with a shaky hand, avoiding eye contact. The designer stepped back, her work done, and nodded in satisfaction. “Perfect.”
Just as I was feeling the softness of the dress, my manager, Myra, distracted my attention. “Eira—” she called my name, her voice echoing through the backstage chaos. I spotted her weaving through the throngs of people, a look of panic etched on her face. She was holding a pair of heels, and the designer trailed behind her, head bowed. “The heels,” Myra said, her voice trembling as she held out the heels. “They got your size wrong. They’re tiny…”
