Maeson
The room is quiet. Only the sound of pages turning, portfolios on the table, and my friends' voices slowly fading as we all look at the photos.
Liora Skye. Australian influencer. Perfect aesthetics, vibrant colors, studied poses. Pretty, yes. But empty. Shawn says it before I do. And I think: If we end up on her page, she'll have us posing with detox juices and unicorn filters.
I smile. Not at the joke. At how accurate it is. Music isn't sold with juices, cereals, and filters. It's felt. It's lived.
I pick up the second portfolio. Chiara Rosetti. The photos look like they came from a memory, not a camera. There's something in the light. In the framing. In the way bodies touch without touching. There's something that knows me.
And then I know. It's her.
Zane points to a signature. CR. The same as in the beach photo Vanessa showed us.
Her full name is Chiara Vanessa García Rosetti. And it's the perfect complement to the enigma this girl is to me.
I don't say anything. Because I no longer have doubts. It's her. And I know I'm fucking in love.
I stay silent for a moment. But what I feel isn't surprise. It's confirmation. It's longing. It's fear. It's everything at once. Because if Chiara Rosetti is Vanessa, then every image that moved me was a part of her. And I'm already lost.
"I feel like we need someone who sees beyond what happens on stage," I say, in the lowest, most intimate voice I have. "And if this photographer turns out to be our mystery photographer, it's perfect."
What I don't say is that if it's Vanessa, then I can't keep pretending I don't think about her all the time. That I don't want her sitting next to me. That I don't want Konnor touching her. That I don't want anyone else seeing her the way I do.
And while everyone talks, I drift away from the guys for a moment and sink into my memories.
Morning memory
On the way here, in the car, Shawn was talking about Wenn. About how she's acting strange. About how confused he feels. I listened in silence, because my mind was somewhere else. With someone else. On another beach. In another gaze.
Because while Shawn talks about confusion, I think about mine. About how Vanessa undoes me without touching me. About how every gesture of hers sets my body on fire and my mind in ruins.
When Konnor jokes that maybe Wenn is in love with Vanessa, Shawn jumps. I place a hand on his shoulder, firm, as always.
"Bro, Wenn loves you. Just be careful and talk it through. Sometimes we drown in a glass of water."
I say it calmly, yes. But my pulse races. Because while Shawn worries about Wenn, I worry about what I feel every time Vanessa laughs with Konnor. Because he's my best friend. But I don't like how he looks at her. Like she's already his. Like I'm not even there.
Or how I'm left trembling after she gives me a hug. No one sees that. But I live it fully.
In the morning, when we melted into a hug. Long. Comfortable. Unexpected. While I held her in my arms, I wished the world would stop right there. Her scent reminds me of something I can't name, but that calms me. And if someone had interrupted us, I would've lost the patience I always claim to have.
Zane jokes that we both sleep like rocks. She laughs. I scratch my neck, as if the gesture could erase what I just felt. But it can't. Because when our eyes meet, I don't think about sleep. I think about what it would be like to wake up with her every day. And that scares me more than any pending conversation.
Later, when she introduced us to her world of synesthesia—in a very clumsy way—I smiled. Because even her oddities have color. And I want to learn every single one.
When Wenn asks her about her perfume and her voice, and she answers laughing, I look down for a moment. Not out of jealousy. Because I want to know what her laugh tastes like. What color her skin turns when she gets excited. What the sounds from her mouth would taste like if I could have her as desire.
I silently beg. Literally. That the universe gives me that space. That no one else takes it. That it lets me be.
I'm not the funny one or the impulsive one. But when it comes to her, I'm not the calm one either. I'm contained desire. I'm burning tenderness. I'm the guy who wants to kiss her slowly, but also push her against the wall and tell her I can't take it anymore.
When Vanessa laughs, my body reacts. When she touches me—even by accident—I lose my breath. When she talks about colors, I just want to know what color my name has in her mouth.
I already remember every gesture she's made since she arrived. Every word she said without meaning to. Every glance she threw when she thought no one was watching. There's a part of me that doesn't want to forget anything, even if it hurts. Because if I forget her, I lose myself. And I need more.
When she went into her room after breakfast to get ready for the interview, I stood still, staring at the door. And I thought that if the world were fair, she'd come back and hug me like she did this morning. That if I could choose a new talent, it would be the ability to make her stay.
I don't want to be her friend. I want to be her refuge. Her chaos. Her everything.
There's something in her that undoes me—and I don't know if that makes me stronger or more vulnerable.