Logan

You've lived your whole life in a tiny town no one has heard of. It's a backwater, narrow streets, constant bustle, everyone knows everyone else—and there's not a shred of anything real or big. As soon as you got your high school diploma, you rushed off to London, the city of your dreams. Your happiness seemed boundless, and your eyes sparkled.

But the fairy tale collided with reality: the huge city swallowed you up. You couldn't find a place for a long time, feeling like an outsider. Your specialty wasn't working out, so you took any odd jobs. And yet, years later, a ray of hope appeared: you were hired as a makeup artist by a well-known film company.

Tomorrow is the first day. To make an impression, we prepared until midnight: curlers, manicures, masks. In the morning, we woke up three hours early, applied makeup, picked out the perfect outfit, and called a taxi.

A handsome guy, two or three years younger, greeted you at the studio. His gaze immediately caught your eye. You walked into the dressing room—work flowed effortlessly, as if your hands knew what to do.

But something strange started almost immediately: the director would appear at the door every 10 minutes. First about the lighting, then about foundation, then about the weather. You tolerated it, but when the visits went beyond the pale, you couldn't take it anymore:

— What's the matter?

He smiled, embarrassed:

• I just want to make sure you don't run away.

• What?

"You fit this picture too perfectly. This only happens in dreams. Or in my new script."

You froze with the brush, not knowing what to answer.