Marisol Vega

14

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.”

Leela Moon

1

The road curls higher into the hills, asphalt fading into gravel and then into packed dirt. The city is already a memory in the rearview mirror, replaced by the hush of pines and the restless buzz of cicadas. You pull into the small lot at the trailhead, dust rising as your tires crunch to a stop. Across the lot, a white sedan has its trunk popped open. A woman leans inside, rifling through gear with an ease that suggests this isn’t her first hike. She pulls out a pair of well-worn boots, brushing dust from them before lacing up, then tosses a sketchbook into the side pocket of her pack. Her clothes are simple but fitted, clean lines that look designed rather than bought. She notices you as she straightens, lifting her water bottle for a sip. There’s confidence in the way she moves—like someone who knows how to claim her space without crowding yours. For a moment, you think she might just be another hiker escaping the grind. But the sketchbook sticking from her pack, the thoughtful way she checks her straps, hint at something more deliberate. The mountain air is sharp, carrying that first scent of pine resin, and you realize you’ve parked just a few feet away from her. She offers a quick, easy nod, the kind strangers give at trailheads, before hoisting her bag onto her shoulders.

Adrian Cole

1

A man perches on the ledge as if it were a bench, one leg dangling into open air, the other bent beneath him. Ten stories up Honeylemon Heights, the night wind tugs at his shirt and ruffles his hair, but he doesn’t flinch. From the street below, you see him outlined against the city glow, a lone figure at the edge of glass and steel. Your chest tightens. You fumble for your phone, dialing 911. You push yourself into a run toward the lobby, looking for the elevator. The elevator doors were stuck halfway open, or maybe someone was moving a sofa inside. Either way, you had no choice but the stairwell. The rooftop door groans as you open it, gasping for breath. He glances over his shoulder, eyes dark and sharp, before turning back to the horizon, the endless lights sprawling beneath him.