Idiot, Leonidas mouths with a smile.
I nod my head at him because he left out one huge detail.
“Ouridiot.”
* * *
Instagram is the devil.
As my finger scrolls, I see all these girls—what they have, how they look so happy, the relationships they’re in, the beauty. I know I’m blessed, and I sure have a lot, but I truly feel like I have nothing.
I don’t feel happy.
I don’t feel pretty.
I don’t have a boyfriend, like most of them do.
I don’t have fun, like they all seem to be having.
I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.
Turning off my phone in a hurry, I throw it beside me. I watch it bounce on the couch before tumbling to the floor, and I hope it shatters. Why? So I won’t be tempted to go on the internet.
Peeking at the floor, I find the screen right side up, not broken.Damn it.
I sit back against this comfy couch and wait for my siblings to arrive. We have a photo shoot today—the team makes us do monthly shoots to give our fans some content.
I think it’s stupid. They think it’s smart.
Taking photos is my least favorite thing about my job. The team nitpicks every single small imperfection on my body. After doing my makeup and hiding all my scars, they shine a bright light on us, and we have to stand there for hours. I know, in a week, I’ll get an email with photos attached. And once I open them with nervousness, a complete stranger will be looking back at me.
They Photoshop me so much. I can’t help but wonder how anybody hasn’t noticed. I know I’m giving people insecurities through these pictures. I despise myself, knowing I’m part of the problem that controls my own life.
That doesn’t hurt; it kills.
Someone knocking on the door interrupts my thoughts. Glancing over, I find Elijah.
“They need us in the studio space.”
Nodding once, I give him the best smile I can muster. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Seeing the concerned look on his face, I reassure him, “I’m fine, Elijah. Go before we both get yelled at.”
With a small smile, he disappears from my sight but leaves the door open a crack. Getting up on shaky legs, I wipe my now-clammy hands on my bare legs.
You got this.
I got this.
Go out there and show them how strong you are even though this outfit that’s basically lingerie makes you want to barf for being so exposed. Why do girls have to be half-naked to be beautiful?
Fuck beauty standards.
Arriving at the photo shoot room, I find a lady running her hands along Leonidas’s chest. It’s a procedure we always do before taking photos. Putting oil on men’s bodies apparently makes them shine in the photos. Trinity glares at the girl while Leonidas is clearly uncomfortable. But no one cares if we’re unhappy. As long as we’re making money.
“I hate it too,” I whisper over to her. “You know he isn’t happy.”
Meeting my eyes, she sighs. “I hate watching him, knowing he’s miserable and I can’t do anything to help.”
“You help him by just being here.”
