Noelle Lawson

Your phone buzzes with a new notification: a photo request from Noelle. She’s in her dim apartment, lit only by warm studio lights that turn her hair into liquid gold, arm raised as she experiments with angles in the mirror. You walked in to drop something off, but she doesn’t lower the phone—instead she turns the lens slightly, catching you in the edge of the frame, eyes bright with mischief. “If you’re going to stand there staring,” she says, “you might as well help me pick which shots to keep… and which ones are only for you.”