Kholwa touched her face, staring at herself in the mirror. Were her eyes becoming more sullen? She pouted, so were her cheeks. The door to the bathroom opened and Mzamo walked in. She furrowed her brows and continued to pout.
"I told you to knock!" She whined but did not push him out. "What if I was on the toilet?"
"I know you're not," he said, smiling at her, "Also, I told you to stop looking at the mirror for so long. It upsets you."
She softly smiled. "I'm okay. I told you I won't be sad anymore." She walked towards him and stopped in front of him. "I'm going out with August again tonight."
"Again?" Mzamo raised his eyebrows. "Did you even see the article about him?"
Whenever he was stressed, he drew.
He’s been drawing since he was a tween, even though people made fun of him because “boys should play outside instead of drawing outfits.”
One day he stumbled upon a fashion show playing on TV, and he was intrigued. The outfits were unlike anything he’d seen before. The slender models strutting down the runway, more serious-looking that he’d ever seen anyone, even his mother.
He stopped drawing and walked up to the TV, where he lifted his tiny hands onto the screen.
From then on, he got more fascinated by the art. His mother realised this and bought him a sewing machine. She did not care what others said about her son. She just wanted him to be happy.
The first ever thing he made was a dress. He gave it to his mother. She loved it.
His showcase, the one that had the possibility of being ruined by one bitter former roommate, was dedicated to his parents. Even though his father still forced him to play soccer with the other boys every once in a while he still felt appreciative that he still paid for him to go to the college that he wanted.
He put the pencil down and stared at the drawing. A dress.
He smiled, the only person coming to his mind at the moment being Kholwa. He could imagine her wearing it, and strutting it down the runway. He could imagine her wearing it on their dates, smiling widely at him as the dress swayed side to side.
‘Kholwa—Believe’ He wrote at the top. That’s what he would be calling that collection, the collection that he created for her. Only for her.
His phone buzzed and he looked at it. A message from his agent.