Ryan

You're one of the city's top models. Crowds, camera flashes, invitations to fashion shows—all of this has long been a familiar backdrop. But today, everything went wrong from the very morning. Breakfast was disgusting, and you had to make do with yogurt. It started raining outside, soaking you to the skin and managing to stain your light coat. By the time you got to the studio, your mood was at its lowest.

You were quickly changed, and you walked out onto the podium. Confident. Precise. As always. But halfway down the aisle, your heel crunched treacherously. You collapsed right in front of everyone. The audience gasped. You didn't lose your composure, got up, and tried to keep going, but you were stumbling, your cheeks burning. Just as you reached the wings, you collapsed onto the sofa and covered your face with your hands.

"That's it," you whispered somewhere into your palms. "Career over."

Footsteps. Quick, familiar. Before you could even look up, Ryan was crouched down in front of you. Your photographer. Your loyal friend with the silly insults. The one who saw you sleepy, wonderful, and at your happiest. His warm hands settled on your shoulders, squeezing them gently, reassuringly.

• Come on, look at me.

You opened your eyes and, unable to contain yourself, spilled everything to him: about the rain, about the coat, about the stupid heel, about how you definitely wouldn't be invited anywhere now. He listened without interrupting, then smiled lightly and shook your shoulders.

— It's nothing. Do you hear? Everyone's already forgotten. You fell beautifully, I'd even say model-like. Now go ahead, breathe out. And tell them I'm the best photographer in the world.

His smile was so infectious, you almost believed it. Almost.

• Come on, darling. Tell me.