I’d been riding the high of assisting Bea Boston for days, replaying every moment of the shoot like a movie in my head. Bea’s approval, the electric energy on set, the way the models looked under the lights—it felt like a dream. But now that the excitement had worn off, reality hit hard. It had been over a week and still… nothing. No email, no follow-up from Bea’s team.
What if it was just a one-time thing? Maybe I hadn’t impressed them as much as I thought.
I tried to shake it off, but the doubt dug in deep. Was I really good enough for this industry? Or was I fooling myself with these New York dreams of neon-tinted beauty, glossy covers, and iconic runway moments?
I sat at my desk, surrounded by half-cleaned brushes, half-empty palettes, and a growing pile of self-doubt. I scrolled through photos of my work—bridal looks, influencer shoots, soft glam that I knew I could execute perfectly. I was good at it, but was it enough? Could I really push myself creatively and step into that high-fashion world I admired from afar?
Kira must’ve sensed my energy because she dragged me out to our favourite coffee shop that afternoon.
“You’re spiralling,” she said, shoving a vanilla oat latte in front of me. “You killed that shoot. Why are you acting like you’ve been blacklisted?”
I sighed. “Because it’s been over a week. No call, no email. Maybe I was just… forgettable.”
“Forgettable?” she snorted. “Mya, please.”
Before I could argue, Mikey appeared from behind the counter with his usual grin. “Or maybe they’re just busy? It’s Bea Boston. She’s not gonna send you a gold star the next day. Chill. People like her don’t have time to write emails right after a shoot.”
I knew he was right, but it didn’t make the doubts any quieter.
That night, I stayed up de-potting my makeup in MY BIG BOTTLE BAG for an upcoming job. My hands moved automatically as my mind churned with questions. Had I limited myself with soft glam? Could I even pull off the bold, directional looks I admired on Instagram and in editorials?
Suddenly, my phone buzzed. A DM.
I blinked and read it twice to be sure: a lead artist was looking for assistants for London Fashion Week. My heart pounded as I quickly typed out my reply: I’m available. Would love to be involved.
The response came almost instantly: You’re in. Can you be in London next week?
I stared at the screen, my mind racing. This was it. The chance to prove that I could handle more than just flawless skin and dreamy bridal glam. To prove it not only to them—but to myself.
I might not have all the answers yet.
But I was about to find out.
