*Daniele*

New York didn’t care that I was falling apart. The city kept grinding, indifferent to my sudden need for silence.

The demos were finally coming together. Theo’s message glowed on my screen: I believe it. Let’s talk soon. For a second, something in my chest lifted. Pride. Relief. The kind of spark that used to keep me up all night, buzzing.

But it faded too fast.

I hadn’t reached out to Camille. 

Still. Sometimes I looked. Quietly.

Wasn’t checking for her.

Posted a clip from rehearsal—thirty seconds of a new verse—then scrolled the band’s tagged posts.

The usual. Fan covers. Tattoos. A bootleg video from 2019.

Then—

A story. Flash of wine glasses.
A jacket on a mannequin. Black. Gold thread catching light.
c’est la fuckin’ vie

A tag: @camille_laurent

Next story—a fashion exhibit announcement.

I need to see more.

 The stitching. The frayed edges. The way the fabric felt lived-in, as though it carried a history. That was her. It was the same thing that hooked me that first night: the beauty, sure, but mostly the sharpness. The way she moved as if she had nothing to prove and everything to guard.

We’d had one night. I didn’t know her. Yet, I couldn't stop thinking about her. 

She didn’t want texts.
I wouldn’t send one.

But the jackets? The exhibit?

She put her work out there—. That wasn’t private

I wouldn’t speak to her. Not unless she came to me. But I had to see it—what she’d made. How she’d stitched her thoughts into something tactile.

****

I wasn’t on the guest list.

Didn’t know if I was allowed. But the exhibit was technically public, so I walked in like I belonged. Kept moving. No one stopped me.

Perfume and champagne. White walls. Spotlights sharp on chrome.

A hundred versions of someone else’s dream draped on mannequins.

Then—

Hers.

Three jackets. All black. None the same.

The first: words stacked like barricades. NEVER LOOK BACK—angry or brave, couldn’t tell.

The second felt personal.

Doodles bleeding up the sleeve. A profile sketched into fabric.
The back: I remember. Always the same.

The eyes looked hauntingly like mine. Or perhaps I only wanted them to

Below, in raw thread: Follow your heART.
The “he” scratched out. Afterthought or warning.

Hands in pockets. Didn’t touch. Just breathed it in. Messy and perfect, as though she hated the feeling but had to exorcise it anyway.

The third: a blazer. Cleaner. Gold thread hiding secrets.
A hand-drawn Chanel logo. fake beneath it.
Near the hem: be the best you.

Glanced up—There.

Across the room. Half-turned, clipboard in hand. Sleeves pushed up. Hair twisted loose. Black heels. A dress that meant business.

Gold jewelry. 

Beautiful like art.

Intentional.

My heart did a violent roll in my chest. Seeing her on a screen for three weeks was one thing, but this? This was different. She looked exhausted. She looked incredible.

She laughed at something a guy beside her said, and the sound carried over the hum of the crowd. I felt that laugh in my teeth. It wasn't the "digital ghost" the app had created. It was her—I realized then I wasn't just "thinking" about her. I was starving for this.

I stayed back, partially hidden by a concrete pillar. My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably Vince, probably more "content" bullshit—but I didn't move. I couldn't. I just stood there, watching her breathe, waiting for the moment the room would get small enough for us to finally collide.