A Day in the Life of Amy

By the weekend, Fiona had set up a makeshift studio in her loft. The space was all exposed brick and wide windows, light pouring in like honey across the worn wood floors. Amy stood by the backdrop, fidgeting with the hem of her blouse, while Fiona adjusted her camera.

“I feel ridiculous,” Amy admitted, laughing nervously. “I don’t know how to do any of this.”

Fiona glanced up, smirking. “That’s the point. Don’t ‘do’ anything. Just be.”

“Easier said than done.”

Fiona stepped closer, tugging gently at Amy’s blouse so it fell more loosely. “Better. Stop overthinking. Pretend it’s just you and Max hanging out. Relax your shoulders. Good. Now… look at me.”

Amy did, and suddenly the nerves softened. Fiona’s gaze was steady, encouraging, not demanding. The click of the camera became less intimidating, more like a rhythm, something Amy could fall into.

“Beautiful,” Fiona murmured between shots. “Tilt your chin a little—yes, right there. Perfect.”

Amy couldn’t help but blush, laughing. “You make it sound like I know what I’m doing.”

“You do,” Fiona said simply. “You’re effortless, Amy. That’s what makes you magnetic.”

The words warmed her more than the sun spilling through the window. Amy shifted, crossing her arms, then letting them fall, trying different stances as Fiona guided her with small gestures. It didn’t feel like modeling; it felt like being seen, fully, without judgment.

After a while, Fiona lowered the camera. “Break.”

Amy walked over, peeking at the display screen. She gasped softly. “That’s… me?”

On the screen was someone she barely recognized—confident, alive, luminous in a way she hadn’t thought possible.

“That’s you,” Fiona said softly, standing close behind her. “The way I see you.”

Amy turned, heart tugging. Their faces were inches apart, the air between them humming with something both fragile and fierce. Fiona didn’t move, didn’t push—just waited.

Amy felt her breath catch. In that moment, she understood: this wasn’t just about photos. Fiona was holding up a mirror to a version of herself she’d never dared to claim.

“Thank you,” Amy whispered.

Fiona brushed her knuckles along Amy’s arm, tender. “Anytime.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon laughing, experimenting with poses, Max photobombing half the shots until Fiona gave up and declared him “the real star.” By the time they collapsed onto the couch, sweaty and exhilarated, Amy felt lighter than she had in years.

It wasn’t just a shoot. It was a glimpse into a new rhythm, a new way of being—with Fiona, with herself.