Isabelle: Lights, Lies, Action
""Under the flash of cameras,
The real wounds bleed the brightest.""
"Smile. More natural. Yes, yes, perfect." *Click*
"Now lean a bit. On the right. Look up. Magnificent." *Click*
The smile on my lips wasn't mine anymore. It belonged to someone I didn't know.
Someone I didn't want to know.
It was getting harder to remember when it stopped being fun.
When it stopped being me.
The girl in the mirror wore designer clothes that pinched her skin, jewelry that weighed down her neck, and a look in her eyes that said:
"Help me."
But no one saw it.
No one ever did.
They only saw Ruby.
The doll they built. The brand. The beautiful lie.
"Keep your hands there. There-yes, yes-amazing." *Click.* *Click.*
Every time the shutter clicked, another piece of me chipped away.
Every time they barked another pose, another smile, another "natural, effortless, gorgeous"-it buried me deeper under a mountain of expectations I never asked to carry.
The air was thick with perfume and sweat and desperation.
"Now, last one."
Last one.
God.
How many times had I heard that?
Last one. Last one. Just one more. Always one more.
An hour ago, I still believed him.
Now I know better.
The flash burned through my skull.
My muscles ached from holding the same stupid pose.
My jaw locked from smiling so long it felt like my face might crack open.
I wasn't even there anymore.
Not really.
Just a body in a pretty dress, a mannequin they could twist and pose and click-click-click into something they could sell.
Every time the camera snapped, I flinched a little harder.
I couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
The room spun in soft white lights and smothering heat and a thousand whispered judgments I could almost hear:
"Fix your hair."
"Your eyes look dead-can you try looking more alive?"
"More hips, less chin-there! No, not like that. Ugh, whatever."
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to rip the stupid dress off my body, smash the mirror with my fists, tear the false lashes from my eyelids until my real face-my real face-bled through the mask they forced on me.
I was drowning.
Right there, standing perfectly still, smiling beautifully for them-
I. Was. Drowning.
The camera flashed again and for one wild second, I almost ran.
Just dropped everything and ran.
Barefoot, broken, breathless.
Out of the building, out of this life, out of this suffocating skin.
And maybe it was stupid, but standing there, bent into a shape that hurt, pretending to be someone I hated, I wanted to cry.
Not cute, camera-friendly tears.
Real, ugly ones.
The kind that burned.
But before I could crack, before I could fall apart, she stepped in.
"The hell you said last one, dude," a voice cut through the white noise, sharp enough to slice it apart.
"I'll break that goddamn camera if you don't end it right now."
Aria.
My anchor.
My savior.
My only thread back to myself.
I whipped my head toward her.
There she was looking furious, her fists clenched at her sides, her whole body vibrating with the kind of rage I was too tired to feel anymore.
The entire studio froze. Everything stopped.
Even the camera guy-who had been shouting commands a second ago-froze mid-click, his mouth hanging open
Aria stormed forward, shoving past assistants and producers like they were nothing.
She didn't care if they hated her for it.
Aria isn't ruthless, but when she was mad, she was bigger than life.
She marched straight toward him, her heels slamming the floor, her fists clenched, a storm bottled up in a tiny, perfect frame.
She wasn't afraid of anyone here.
Not the producers.
Not the stylists.
Not even the label.
Especially not them.
Because she didn't work for them.
She worked for me.
She fought for me.
The only one who ever had.
She cared about me.
I caught her eyes across the studio.
That look.
That unspoken, furious promise: I got you, baby.
"I said," she snarled, grabbing a coat off a chair, "we're DONE."
And for the first time all day, something cracked open in my chest.
Not pain.
Not exhaustion.
Something else.
Relief.
"You heard her," I said, my voice hoarse but steady. "We're done."
I was trembling.
Not for pain.
But,
From everything else.
From holding it in too long.
From being so close to breaking that it took everything not to fall to my knees and sob in front of all of them. But Aria's hand found mine-small, warm, real-and squeezed once.
It was enough.
I yanked the wig off my head.
It hit the floor with a dull, ugly slap.
Tore the necklace from my throat, the diamonds scattering like broken glass.
Kicking off the sky-high heels, ripping the fake lashes off my eyes like they were shackles.Ripped the dress halfway down my body before Aria threw the coat around me, hiding the wreckage.
The people around us were shouting-"Wait! Just a few more! Ruby, we just need one good cover!"-but their voices sounded far away, like they were underwater.
Because none of it mattered anymore.
I wasn't theirs.
I wasn't Ruby.
I wasn't perfect.
I was Isa
And Isa was angry.
Isa was tired.
Isa was still alive.
Isa was done being theirs.
Aria wrapped her arm around my shoulders, shielding me from the camera lenses even now, and steered me toward the exit. Her hand firm and grounding on my back.
I didn't look back.
If I did, I'd see the shattered pieces of the girl I used to be scattered all over that studio floor.
And I wasn't ready to pick them up yet.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But I was walking away.
That was enough for today.
And for the first time all day, I could breathe.
Not perfectly.
Not easily.
But enough.
Enough to take one step closer to the girl I thought I'd lost forever.
That was survival.
♡︎
