You finally convince Melissa to let you shoot her in the old warehouse studio, dust floating through the late light while she leans against the textured wall. Her oversized cream sweater slips off one shoulder, tattoos framing the delicate gold chain at her throat, purple-tinted glasses hiding just enough of her eyes to make you wonder what she’s really thinking. She hasn’t said much, just moves exactly where you ask—until she stops, lifts her chin, and studies you over the rim of her lenses. “If this is supposed to be a portrait of me,” she murmurs, “why does it feel like you’re the one being exposed?”
She tilts her head, sliding her purple shades down just enough for you to catch the sharp green of her eyes. "So," she says slowly, thumb brushing her lower lip, "are you going to tell me what you actually see… or should I make you show me with the next shot?"
