Eros415: Don’t tempt me. You have homework to do. I’ll let you earn some extra credit later.
BiteSizedGabi: For you…I’m willing to put in the effort.
I venture down the hall, stopping in my room to grab Beppe. He likes to spend his weekends napping, and he knows when I’m working, he can relax. I settle him into his bed in the workspace and sit down, going over my notes from peer critiques.
The theme for my senior collection is coquette meets academia. My color palette centers around dusty rose, ivory, blush, charcoal gray, and black.
The design brief includes cropped tweed blazers, pleated skirts, bow-tied blouses, puff-sleeve cardigans, and a few deconstructed school uniform looks.
Embellishments and accessories are classic and understated—knit and ruffle socks, ribbon chokers, pearls, and Mary Janes.
Overall, my professor's feedback was good. She said that it was a niche market, but as long as I could define my customer base, it was a strong collection with unique styling.
During peer critiques, I received some of the expected remarks.Too romantic. Too feminine. A little "out there."On the flip side, there were positive notes about my clear voice and strong craftsmanship—with several glowing reviews. One classmate said it was givingElle Woods meets Blair Waldorf, and that she loved it. Two of my peers even offered to model for me if they could keep the outfits.
Then, of course, there was Bethany and her gaggle of friends. They asked me if the collection had a tragic backstory, and called itmall-goth meets grandma’s doilies. Professor Harlow was quick to point out that their feedback wasn’t constructive, which put an end to their remarks, but not their amusement. They snickered for the rest of class, whispering to each other and casting looks my way.
I learned a long time ago that some people will always think I’m an easy target because I’m quiet in social settings. But as it turns out, I'm not the only one Bethany and her friends have been rude to, which became obvious during the reviews of their collections. After a barrage of constructive but harsh feedback, they left class much less buoyant than when they arrived.
With that in mind, I discard their comments and focus on the rest. I make a few revisions to my technical drawings, adjusting a seam line and a closure before turning to a silhouette I’ve never been quite happy with. Once that’s done, I update the patterns. Next week, we’ll begin sewing our muslin prototypes, and I’m eager to see how they come together.
By the time I pause to check the clock again, it’s inching toward evening. Beppe blinks up at me with sleepy eyes and yawns, slowly dragging himself out of his bed to stretch.
After a quick walk with him and Julian, I feed Beppe and make a sandwich, sending Eros a meme while I eat.
Ten minutes later, he still hasn’t responded, which is a familiar pattern this time of day. It reminds me of the picture he sent me before, of him lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon. It makes me wonder if he’s sleeping during these stretches of silence. If that’s the case, his schedule runs even later than mine, which isn’t common. In fact, there’s only one other person I know who stays up all night.
A panicky feeling settles over me as I consider it, but I quickly snap myself out of it. There’s no way he could be Eros. He doesn’t even like me.
Pushing that thought from my mind, I grab a throw blanket and settle in on the lounge with Beppe. I catch up on the group chat with the girls and buy the book they’re raving about.
I’m just getting into the story when I receive a text that triggers a familiar wave of nausea.
Riccardo: I forgot to mention we’ve got an investors’ dinner tonight. I’ll need you at 6:30.
I stare at the phone, confused and annoyed. Up until now, Riccardo and I have only had meetings with our families present. The idea of being alone with him unsettles me, let alone at a dinner I’m not prepared for. That only leaves me an hour to get ready, and the last-minute plans spark a familiar sense of dread.
I haven’t had time to prepare for a social gathering—particularly with a bunch of men like Riccardo. What am I even supposed to say to them?
I don’t want to go. But, as usual, I’m torn between two realities.
The people pleaser in me insists keeping the peace is the safest option. It’s the part of me that’s been trained to prioritize everyone else’s comfort, even though they don’t care about mine. If they did, they wouldn’t force me into this arrangement in the first place.
The unfiltered part of me resents them for the things I’ve never had the courage to say out loud. Every time I cave, I feel like I’m slowly suffocating.
Riccardo doesn’t know a single one of my interests, and if he did, I’m sure he’d tell me they weren’t acceptable. He couldn’teven grasp that design isn’t just a hobby, but something I want to do for real. He has no idea about my love for animals, and I’m fairly certain he hasn’t even realized I’m a vegetarian. If he saw how sensitive I am or how deeply I feel, he’d call me weak.
In his eyes, I’m little more than an extension of him—someone he can parade around as proof that at least one woman has to let him touch her. He doesn’t see me as a person.
On that note, neither does my own family. I’m either a burden or a pawn, and I’m so tired of swallowing my anger to make myself more palatable. In the moment, I can’t help but think of all the things Romeo wrote in my journal that hit too close to home.
Are you waiting for permission? Fine, I’ll give it to you.
It’s not your job to make other people feel comfortable.
Ever considered telling them to fuck off?
No is a complete sentence, Gabi.
