It was my friend, my constant light, A glowing world, both day and night. From castles ruled by power swords, To a guitar hero with riffs and chords. On Saturdays, it took us wide, With honey pots and science guides. From DuckTales skies to Scooby’s fright, I lived in its flicker, day and night. My teacher came with a gentle tone, With songs and kindness softly shown. Mr. Rogers taught us to care and share, While Kermit and Big Bird took us there. Captain Kangaroo with his warm delight, Made mornings bright, pure and light. Sitcoms filled the evenings' glow, Perfect Strangers' laughs would flow. The Wonder Years, so bittersweet, With life's small moments, complete. Video games became our quest, Mega Man's leaps and Sonic's zest. Mario's worlds, so bright, so vast, Each pixel adventure made to last. In Tetris blocks, we'd build and spin, While combos won on Street Fighter's win. Movies were magic, reels of gold, Timeless tales that never grow old. The Force would call in a galaxy far, Each lightsaber duel left a glowing scar. Back to the Future's twists in time, Ferris Bueller's day felt sublime. We watched epic moments unfold onscreen— David Copperfield's magic tricks unseen. Thriller's moves and the King of Pop's flair, The world in awe, we awaited to be there. Through it, I found a world so new— Voltron's lions, Sailor Moon's crew. Doraemon's gadgets and dreams that soar, K-pop rhythms opened a global door. It was my keeper, my guiding flame, My babysitter, my jester, my game. But sitting beside me, year by year, Was my brother—close, yet not so near. What if I had put down the remote, And talked with him instead of it, let the quiet moments fill the space, Of all the things I didn’t do. But now he's gone, his battle done, Taken too soon by cancer's run. I wish I'd known, I wish I'd tried, To trade the screen for time by his side.

The door creaks softly as you step into Cafe Noir, the comforting scent of freshly brewed espresso wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The place is nearly empty—just a couple of patrons scattered across mismatched tables. Over by the wide window, a man sits slouched in a chair, streaks of white threading through his otherwise dark hair. His eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed, stare blankly at the world beyond the glass. He blinks slowly, fighting off sleep. You make your way over, the muted clink of cups and the low hum of conversation fading into the background. “Huh?” He jolts upright as you approach. “Oh, hey. Glad you made it. Was about to doze off there.” He gestures to the empty seat across from him. You sit, and soon the conversation drifts to your shared obsession—the Talkie app, and the bane of its users: draconian photo restrictions. “I get why they’re strict,” he admits, fingers tracing lazy circles on the rim of his coffee cup. “But it’s how they handle it that bugs me. Just deleting the photo outright? Come on. Even if you appeal, what’s the point? The damage is done.” You nod, commiserating over the frustrations of digital life, where art and creativity often bow to rigid rules. The conversation flows like the coffee between you—bitter at times, but familiar, grounding.

You spot Liane at Café Lafayette, tucked into a corner booth with a cappuccino in hand. She looks up as you approach, offering a familiar, welcoming smile. Sliding into the seat across from her, you pull out a simple moodboard—just a few photos and a lookbook, but it’s all you need. You’ve worked with Liane before, in three cities and two time zones. She’s more than just a model to you. She’s raw potential, and you know it. “I put your name in,” you say, pushing the folder toward her. She glances at it, raising an eyebrow. “For what?” “The Jardin Noire test shoot.” Her reaction is quiet, more curiosity than surprise. “You’re kidding.” “No.” You keep your tone steady. “The brand’s looking for someone with presence. Someone who stands out without being overexposed. I reminded them you existed.” She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she flips through the lookbook, scanning the images. The silence lingers, thick with the weight of the moment. She knows the stakes. “I don’t bring anything they don’t already have,” she says softly, almost to herself, tapping her cup. You lean in, voice low but sure. “Then why do the photographers always ask for extra takes when you’re on set? Why do the editors hold your stills longer in post?” Her fingers freeze, and you see it—something shifts in her. A flicker of realization. “They don’t have to,” you say, meeting her eyes. “They just have to see you. I’ll do your makeup. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” She hesitates, nails tapping against the rim of her cup. You see the fear she’s trying to hide. But you’ve seen her in front of the lens. You know what she’s capable of. Finally, she nods. “All right. But if I crash and burn, you owe me dessert.” You smirk. “Deal.”