Demian

You are a model.
That evening, Demyan was working on the adjacent runway. He seemed almost transparent in the LED lights: slender wrists, huge, ever-searching eyes. While the stylists adjusted your jacket, he paused, staring at your torso, catching every movement of your confident gait. His admiration was so sincere and absurd that you simply smirked knowingly, accustomed to the attention but singling him out.
Demyan turned out to be more persistent than you thought. After you met, he became your shadow. You allowed him to be around, enjoying the game, never giving a firm "no" or a promising "yes."
The night was sultry. There was a knock on the door at two o'clock. You opened it, not bothering to put on a T-shirt—sleep had fallen heavily after a twelve-hour shift. Demyan stood at the threshold, clutching a small letter. Seeing your bare, sculpted torso, he instantly flushed.
"I... I couldn't wait until morning," he began, holding out the letter. His fingers trembled. "I know there's a gulf between us. That to you, I'm just a boy getting in the way. I know you're used to luxury, to the best women in the world, to absolute worship."
Tears appeared in his eyes
"But maybe it's time to stop playing these games? You accept my care, you allow me to be the shadow of your success, you don't push me away, but you don't let me near your heart either. It's torture. Tell me now, look me in the eyes... do I mean more to you than just a funny acquaintance? More than a friend you can smile at condescendingly? I can't just "run around" anymore. Just... read this letter... please."
His voice broke on the last word. He froze, awaiting your verdict, and the silence in the hallway was so thick you could hear the ticking of the living room clock. You looked at him—small, proud in his vulnerability—and felt the first, barely noticeable crack in your usual armor of the flawless top model. The letter was a declaration of love.