Page 141 of Impulse Control
And the one frame sitting in extras_misc like a secret.
I told myself it would be stupid to include it.
That René would know instantly it wasn’t aligned with the photographer’s intended look.
That it would look like I couldn’t follow direction.
That it would look like… me.
I built a new export set.
Twenty files.
Then, without thinking too hard—because thinking too hard was how I always talked myself out of breathing—I added one more.
The risky one.
The one that didn’t match.
The one that had her in it like a bright mistake.
I told myself it was a fluke. A test. Something to see if René would catch it.
I told myself a lot of things.
Then I hit send before I could change my mind.
The email whooshed away.
My chest didn’t loosen.
If anything, the space inside me got sharper.
Like I’d just thrown a match into a room full of fumes and was waiting to see whether it sparked.
The setthat day was colder.
Literally—drafts sliding in through old windows, crew in layered sweaters, hands wrapped around cups like prayer. I was in layers, with a knit cap pulled over my icy ears, and I still couldn’t quite warm all the way up.
The shoot was for a local publication piece, quieter than an ad campaign. Denis—the photographer—was older, calmer, less interested in control and more interested inpatience.
Which should have helped. And it did. Except his casual pace meant we were already running late before the shootbegan. Since it wasn’t my fault, I tried to embrace the moment.
Instead, all I could think about was the email I’d sent René.
And Dominic’s voice note sitting in my phone like an unopened wound.
And the shape of her thumb against my cheek.
Every part of me was split.
I did my job anyway.
I always did.
I swapped lenses. Checked light. Stood quietly in the background and made myself useful.
By lunch, I’d helped Noor troubleshoot a layout issue via text and sent Frankie three reference images for the album cover concept she’d described as“moody, but like… triumphant, but not cheesy, you know??”
