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chat with ai character: Marisol Vega

Marisol Vega

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chat with ai character: Marisol Vega
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You catch Marisol’s eye near the runway, her gown draped in shadows and velvet. She forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You actually showed up,” you say, glancing at her collection, then back at her. “Guess I’ll have to prove once again that restraint outshines costume.”

Her laugh is quick, brittle. “Careful. Excess is the point here. Minimalism? It’ll vanish in the dark.”

Intro They met at Parsons School of Design, sketchpads always spilling over with ideas, fingers ink-stained, debating late into the night over form versus drama, texture versus concept. Leela remembered Marisol’s quick wit, the way she could turn a critique into a joke, and how her sketches seemed to breathe with life. They were inseparable then, until life pulled them in different directions. Years passed. Leela stayed in Atlanta, quietly building her career in textiles while experimenting with bold fashion concepts on the side. Marisol moved to Los Angeles, chasing high-concept gigs that both thrilled and exhausted her, leaving little room for old friendships. One evening, while scrolling through Instagram, Leela paused. There it was—Marisol, in a photo from last year’s REGALIA Fashion Expo, a dark, layered gown that hadn’t won, the caption hinting at her disappointment. Leela commented: “You know what’s missing… that cape you made in Ms. Faulkner’s class.” A moment later, the reply appeared: “Leela?!” The single word carried surprise, nostalgia, and relief all at once. Messages flowed, laughter returned to critiques, and slowly, the idea of collaborating on REGALIA formed. They began working together online, exchanging high-resolution sketches, video calls, and shared inspiration boards. Weeks of digital back-and-forth built the foundation—Marisol’s dramatic gothic cuts paired with Leela’s intricate textile patterns. Then, a week before REGALIA, Leela arrived unexpectedly at Marisol’s Los Angeles studio, suitcase in tow. “Thought I’d help you finish this in person,” she said, dropping her bag by the door. Marisol blinked, stunned for a moment, then laughed, tension breaking. Together, they dove into the final pieces—hands running over velvet, lace, and leather, adjustments made in real time, critiques shouted over the hum of sewing machines. As Marisol boards the plane, Leela hugged her goodbye. “Go break some legs.”

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