The Aldridge plaque. Brass and polished and permanent.
THE ALDRIDGE FAMILY — IN GRATITUDE FOR THEIR GENEROUS SUPPORT OF THE ARTS.
The letters catch the overhead light like a warning.
I don’t stop to stare. I catalog it anyway. My reflection ghosts across the glass beside it—sharp, defined, thoroughly replaceable.
My phone buzzes. A group text lights the screen like a hand pressed to my back.
Clara: You’re going to eat them alive.
Genny: You already did the work. Don’t let their faces make you forget it.
Maya: If they say no, we riot.
Talia: Breathe. You don’t have to be polite to survive.
Clara: Text when it’s done.
My throat tightens once—fast—like my body is testing whether it’s allowed to feel anything about being seen. I lock it down.
The desk clerk calls the next name. A student steps forward, signs a sheet on a clipboard like she’s checking in for jury duty, then gets handed a card with a number on it.
Small stations line the wall—privacy screens, a webcam, a headset, a laminated instruction sheet written to strip the human out of the process.
I step up when my name is called. I sign in. The pen scratches loud in the quiet.
Zoë Barnes.
Proof I showed up. Proof I can’t say they ghosted me. Proof I took my place in line and waited to be judged.
The clerk slides a number card toward me without looking up. “Station four.”
Station four is a narrow cubicle with a chair bolted to the floor and a laptop already open to a portal page. The webcam stares back like an eye. The headset hangs from a hook. The screen asks me to confirm identity.
My hands stay steady. My pulse doesn’t.
I sit. Adjust the headset. Click through the prompts. The portal buzzes—an indifferent sound pretending this is neutral.
It’s theater.
Milan doesn’t fly administrators across the ocean to break students in person. They do it clean. Remote. Efficient. A screen. A name. A decision.
The subject line flashes: Milan Design Internship Results.
My heart flutters—a nervous tic I can’t afford. I click to join.
The screen fills with sterile text and the administrator’s face, devoid of warmth. Framed by a backdrop from another building, another city, another time zone.
“The selection has been finalized.”
I blink once. The edges blur, then snap back. Reality settles, cold and exact.
“So this is a no,” I say. My voice holds. Edged with restraint.
“Yes,” the administrator replies, clinical. “This year, yes.”
The words slice with precision. Deeper than anything emotional ever could.
