That Abercrombie Model

THIRTY SEVEN

Kystan's POV

My resolve crumbled. What Liza was doing got to me and I hated it. I should have had more self control because after all I am the one who broke up with her, but I snapped when that guy tried to touch her. It was not gracious of me to shove that guy and I hate that I did.

After walking out of that bar, I got in a nearby café where I had a good view of her car. I watched as she walked up the street looking for me, and when she sat in her car and cried. I wished that I could go over and tell her I love her and wipe away her tears and maybe kiss her as affectionately as I can manage, but I couldn't.

I saw her drive away before I left the café and made my way home to be miserable alone.

I am actually relieved that her internship is over, I wouldn't have been able to bear seeing her everyday. I think now I should just focus on the fashion week and also my upcoming trip to Rwanda.

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I shed no tears the following days, I guess the realization has set in and it's for the best that I accept what is, no matter how much I don't like it. Besides, I have nothing to do before the semester starts in a few days. I end up going to my parent's house for a few days. They are really happy to see me, I can't get myself to tell them I broke up with Kystan so I make sure to avoid the topic at all cost.

The next week school starts and I make myself focus all my energy on that rather than sulking over Kystan. I spend all my time on books, fabrics, assignments and lots and lots of lectures. During the day, I fill up my schedule but at night, I occasionally lay staring at the ceiling wondering what would have happened if I had just opened up.

A month passes by with no contact. I talk to Luca a lot, but in all those times Kystan is never present. I guess it's better that way because I can't bear to look him in the eye now that I actually got over the initial shock and realized it was my fault we didn't make it in the end.

On Wednesday, I receive an email from Abercrombie and Fitch. I eagerly open it. Apart from constantly asking Cynthia about the place, I haven't been there since that day.

It's just a reminder informing me of the London Fashion Week. It's always been my dream to go to the London Fashion Week, and as an aspiring English fashion designer that's as good as it gets. The next day, I go to Somerset House where the event will be held and I am shown the ins and outs of the entire location, what to do where, where to go incase of emergencies and all that. Afterwards, me and Cynthia have lunch together and then I go back home.

Friday finally arrives. I spend the morning doing my assignments so that the whole weekend I'll be able to enjoy with no overdue hanging over my head.

I take my time in the afternoon to prepare because I want to look my best when- I mean if- I appear on stage. I opt for a neutral look as I am doing my makeup and then put on a red suit I made myself; it comprises a pair of fitted pants, a mid-thigh length trench coat with no sleeves and many bomber pockets, and a long-sleeved beige silk shirt. I add beige shiny loafers I bought for the occasion. I remember to take my backstage pass.

I drive to the venue two hours earlier to prepare. I enter the busy backstage area. There are fabric scraps everywhere, accessory trunks, shoes.

I stand there awed by how casual it looks here to bump into prestigious world class designers, some of them I'd go as far as to call my idols. I stop myself before anyone sees me gawking so openly and make my way through the crowd until I find my own people. I go straight to dressing my models; lucky enough they are good to me and my experience is easy enough.

When there are only twenty minutes left before the show starts, the rush begins. People start shouting for things they want, shouting models names, it's total chaos. I finish dressing my assigned models fifteen minutes before time and send them to the coordinators. Then I am free to roam wherever I like.