(Disclaimer: All images were generated with the help of AI tools)
Follow this link to read Chapter 1 first, this link for Chapter 2, and this link for Chapter 3.
The rest of the work day played out pretty much as Eli expected it would. He tried to be productive to take his mind off things. He glanced over Kyle’s design mock-ups. Good, if a little boring. He looked over his own designs. But he kept finding himself interrupted, either by his own feelings of guilt and shame, or Tiffany’s near-constant attempts to “assist”. It seemed she was able to think of some reason to have a one-on-one interaction with him at least every fifteen minutes or so. And he honestly wasn’t complaining. The coffee runs were much more worthwhile now that the coffee itself wasn’t breakroom swill. The shoulder rubs and neck massages felt undeniably amazing, even if they relieved his tension and built up his guilt in roughly equal measure. The fact that she answered all of his phone calls at her desk was a huge help, especially since he now seemed to receive more phone calls than he could ever recall, what with seemingly being in charge of his old team in this new reality. He still hadn’t quite pinned down exactly what his new title was, but it was clearly above Kyle and the rest of his old teammates, while still answering to Marcus. He was about to look into seeing if he could find an organizational chart or something in the company’s files that could shed some light on the changes when Tiffany flounced in with yet another sticky note, summarizing yet another phone call, her handwriting as cute as it was crisp, every ‘i’ dotted with a little heart. Every time she came in to his office Eli was once again distracted twofold; by her appearance, of course, and by his ever-present guilt. He couldn’t focus to save his life, not after everything that had transpired over the past 24 hours.
The afternoon continued in much the same vein, winding down until eventually it was pretty much just the two of them left in the office. Most desk lights had been switched off, his former teammates and new subordinates had one by one poked their heads in and wished him a good evening before saying ‘goodnight’ and ‘welcome to the team’ to Tiffany on their way out, the newly hired secretary giggling and blushing at the attention. Even after everyone else on the team had left, Tiffany continued to tap away at her keyboard, and scroll idly on her phone from time to time. After 5:30, the office lights dimmed automatically leaving the both of them illuminated in the soft, blue glow of their monitors and the long amber streaks of dusk streaming through the windows. Eli had kind of hoped Tiffany would eventually excuse herself and head home, giving him a moment to himself, but as he should have expected it appeared she had adopted the mindset that if he was still at work, she would remain dutifully by his side, just in case he needed her.
Eli stood up, intending to tell Tiffany it was time to go home. He walked out to her desk. To his surprise, Tiffany was already standing, packing her tiny, fashionable purse. She looked up as he approached, her heavy lashes fluttering.
“I heard you push in your chair. Is the workday like, over already?” she asked. She stepped closer, closing the distance between them until he could smell the enticing scent of her perfume again. In the dim light, the vacuousness in her eyes seemed to soften into something more sensual, more urgent. “Because I was thinking... maybe we could stay a little longer? So I could like, help you out with any… extra work you might need… help with?”
She reached out, her long, manicured fingers hooking into the belt loops of his gray slacks. She pulled him another inch closer.
Eli looked down at her. He saw the pouty, glossed lips. He saw the cleavage that defied the laws of office decency. He saw the woman he had accidentally “designed" to be the perfect, compliant companion.
He knew he should tell her to go. He knew he should find a way to break the curse, to get Nyx to listen to him somehow and demand a reversal. Dozens of reversals, he thought with a long sigh. But as Tiffany leaned in, her breath warm against his neck, the words died in his throat. They’d been doing this dance all day. He could see the building desperation in her eyes, and if he was honest, he could feel the same desperation building inside himself. Thank goodness his new office had a door. And a lock. Nyx really thought of everything.
“Yeah,” Eli whispered, both of his hands finding her waist. “I think I have some extra work for us.”
Tiffany’s smile was triumphant and adoring. “I knew it,” she purred. “I’m like, a really hard worker, Eli. You’re gonna see.”
As he led her back into his office and the door clicked shut, Eli caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass against the fading twilight outside. For a second, he met his own gaze in the window, but he couldn’t hold it for long. He couldn’t bear thinking about all the damage done by his own staring eyes. Not if he was going to get any enjoyment at all out of what he was about to do. Before he was adrift in a tide of guilt once more.
An hour and a half later, Eli was finally gathering his things to head home. For real this time, even as the sound of Tiffany’s breathy, high-pitched giggles still echoed in his head. The pretense of "extra work" with Tiffany had quickly devolved into a blurred whirlwind of intimate moments; it started with a heated makeout session, which itself quickly devolved into an insanely satisfying blowjob, which itself was followed by Tiffany hopping eagerly up onto his desk, hiking up her skirt, and together they made sure her new position was a perfect fit. She was a masterpiece of office allure, anticipating his needs and desires before he even knew he had them. Suffice it to say, she definitely earned the overtime. If Marcus asked how she was settling in, Eli would happily and honestly report that Tiffany could handle any hard task shoved her way, that she had a deep commitment to getting hands-on experience, that she excelled at both synergy and integration, and that she accepted every new ‘assignment’ with a bend-over-backwards attitude.
After their closed-door session, Eli lay back on his new office chair, Tiffany seated in his lap, both of them mostly unclothed. When she finally pulled away to fix her smeared lip gloss and gather her carelessly discarded outfit, she first gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek, her eyes wide and vacant of anything but desire for him. She got dressed, squeezing herself back into her tight work clothes. She finished touching up her makeup and packed each item carefully into her little purse. Finally she slipped back into her five-inch heels and turned to wish Eli a good rest of his night.
“That was like, soooo productive. Ooh, I put my number in your phone in case you need anything from me. Text me literally anytime. See ya tomorrow, Boss!” she chirped, planting another enormous kiss on his cheek, then swinging her hips in a way that spurned any sense of ergonomics as she headed for the elevator. She was blissful, trapped in a bubble of synthetic adoration, entirely ignorant of the fact that just twelve hours ago, she had been a promising graphic designer with a sharp wit in a sensible floral dress.
Eli knew he needed to get home for many reasons, not least of which to feed his cat, poor Pixels, who spent most of the previous two days alone and unattended and was probably yowling up a storm by now. Nevertheless, Eli stayed at his desk for a long minute that stretched into two and then three, after the elevator chimed. The silence of the office felt heavy, pressing in around him. He just closed his eyes, and applied gentle pressure against his temples. His teenage id wanted to celebrate his sexual conquests, his accomplishments as a man. These days though, Eli felt less like a man and more like a black hole, pulling every bright, vibrant light into his orbit and crushing it into a singular, predictable shape before casting it into oblivion.
Eventually he stood up, grabbed his belongings, and made his way to the elevator, where he caught one more whiff of Tiffany’s perfume, now swirled together with the tell-tale aroma of sex. If there was even a chance this was going to become a new routine, he might want to think about bringing some scented candles or something into his new office. He made a mental note to ask Tiffany to order some for him the next day. He trudged out to the parking lot, his footsteps echoing in the cool evening air. His mind drifted to the long record of his own guilt, a distressing tally he kept, or tried to, to remind himself of the monster he had been for the past decade. In the months immediately before his encounter with Sage, he’d tried to quantify the damage, conducting a full accounting, but he realized he wasn’t sure if he could remember each and every one of the women who’d been swept up in his curse over the years. The transformations and subsequent titillations all sort of blurred together. That was a new, stark reminder of his disgrace to register. He had always told himself that even if no one else could remember their old identities, at least he always would. It had devastated him to realize even that wasn’t true.
He’d tried to tally them up anyway at the time, and to the best of his ability, he had accounted for at least 44 women in the decade since he’d made that desperate, teenage wish. He mentally clocked the count up to 47, now including Sage, Roxy, and Tiffany. Nyx had, of course, “optimized” each of them into various versions of his subconscious desires. Come to think of it, Nyx probably had a ledger recording each and every one. Heck, she probably had some kind of a trophy case dedicated to them. But there was no way in Hell he was going to ask her to recount their whole history. He could only imagine her gloating narration of each tragic transformation, and the justifiable mockery he’d be in for if she could remember any that he’d forgotten.
The demographics were a testament to the indiscriminate nature of his curse, and Eli supposed his libido, too. There were all kinds of women that had fallen victim to his wandering eyes. Each one had been a unique individual on her own journey; fellow students in high school and college with their whole lives ahead of them, retail workers, waitresses, one time a professor of his, a cute young woman waiting in line at the DMV, one of the HR reps who’d helped onboard him at the graphic design agency, a flight attendant on a flight to visit his grandparents across the country, the girl who sold popcorn at his local movie theater, the nurse at his local health clinic who administered his flu shot four years ago, and on, and on, and on. And each one had been flattened into some two-dimensional fantasy courtesy of Nyx’s magic and his own inner demons. Almost 100% of them had eventually abandoned their original career paths or personal ambitions to better serve the "role" Nyx had assigned them, Sage being the rare exception.
His mind dwelled on Sage, the wide-eyed barista who was now likely pouring lattes with a vacant, plush smile for whichever man walked in next. He thought of Roxy, the executive turned street-racer, and a cold shiver ran down his spine as he contemplated her reckless actions. He really hoped she hadn’t been arrested, and he hoped even more that she hadn't killed anyone.
Eli had by now reached his car, but like the day before, his departure was once again stalled by a distraction in the parking lot. Eli normally parked well away from the front door of the office building these days, so as to minimize the risk of encountering any crowds. This placed his car right across the sidewalk from the main road with just a narrow bank of green space and some scattered oak trees in between. As Eli approached, he noticed the rhythmic pulse of blue and red lights a couple of blocks away, apparently some kind of crime scene, but closer to him and the parking lot exit, a bright white spotlight cut through the emerging darkness of the late evening. A professional news van was parked precariously on the curb, its side emblazoned with the Channel 6 News logo.
Standing in the glow of the light was a woman Eli recognized instantly: Bridget Badden. She was the city’s premier investigative reporter, known for her razor-sharp questions and a professional, almost stern beauty. She was currently speaking into a handheld microphone, her face set in a mask of grim determination as she stared into the lens of a massive shoulder-mounted camera. Three men–a cameraman, a broadcast technician, and the van’s driver–rounded out her field team.
Curiosity, that treacherous instinct, overrode his caution. As far as he knew, the only newsworthy event that had happened on this street lately was Roxy’s street-racing and the traffic accidents it had caused. Protectively, he wanted to know about Roxy and make sure that she was okay. He also wanted to know if his (second) latest "creation" had left a trail of bodies in her wake. He walked away from his car, keeping to the shadows of a nearby oak tree, trying to get close enough to hear the broadcast without drawing any attention to himself.
"...still no leads on the identity of the driver," Bridget was saying, her voice a polished, authoritative alto. "Witnesses describe the vehicle as a 'cherry-red muscle car’.”
Yep, that had to be Roxy, Eli thought to himself, listening even more closely.
“The vehicle moved with a speed and recklessness rarely seen outside of professional stunt driving. The driver very nearly side-swiped an off-duty city bus, before directly causing the five-car pileup, which occurred just down the road from here during yesterday’s morning rush, and miraculously resulted in no fatalities. Police and emergency responders are still investigating the scene, but the perpetrator, whoever they may be, remains at large. If you have any information, please…”
As she spoke, her eyes naturally panned across the street, looking for good opportunities for B-roll footage. Her gaze swept past the oak tree, past the shadows, and landed directly on Eli.
The world didn't just stop; it felt like it fell out from under him.
The hum of the news van’s generator died. The blinking lights of the distant police cars froze into static beams of red and blue. Bridget Badden was caught mid-syllable, her finger raised to emphasize a point, her mouth hanging open with a general expression of professional concern. It was as if the whole world was buffering from a lost signal.
"Two in one day! Elias, you are absolutely insatiable," a voice purred from the roof of the news van.
Nyx was lounging against the satellite dish, looking like she’d just stepped off a runway in Milan. She was dressed in a "News Anchor Chic" ensemble—a blood-red silk blouse tucked into a jet-black pencil skirt that was split high up the thigh. Her hair, usually a wild cascade, was still done up in a sophisticated, razor-sharp bun like the one she’d sported earlier, though this hairdo somehow seemed more at home in a newsroom than a boardroom.
"I wasn't looking for her!" Eli shouted, his voice echoing unnaturally in the frozen vacuum. "I was looking for news about the other girl you ruined! The one who caused a pileup!"
Nyx hopped down from the van, landing soundlessly on her heels. She sauntered over to Eli, her obsidian eyes shimmering with ancient amusement. "Ruined? Such a harsh word. Roxy is having the time of her life. Trust me, she’s never felt more... driven. And as for this one..." She gestured toward Bridget Badden. "I must say, I’m impressed. You’re finally ending that dreary dry spell of yours with some real quality. A journalist? How very 'Clark Kent' of you."
“It’s only been a few weeks since Sage, Nyx! Not a dry spell!" Eli threw his hands up, then immediately buried his face in them, his shoulders sagging. "And I’ve already been with Roxy and Tiffany! Why am I even arguing with you? Please. Just... stop. She’s a professional. She’s doing important work. Don't do this."
Nyx walked over and touched his arm in a gesture that was surprisingly almost sympathetic. Her skin was cool like always, almost chilled, which somehow only made Eli feel more nauseous. "Oh, Elias. You deserve a treat. You’ve had a very stressful forty-eight hours. I can tell these things. Let’s make this one something special. Something... modern. Any ideas?"
Eli shrugged defensively, leaning his back against the oak tree. "I didn't even realize I had a crush on her. I just... I’ve seen her on TV. I thought she was hot, okay? Everyone thinks she’s hot. That doesn't mean she needs to be lobotomized!"
"You know how I feel about that word… I'm not removing their brains, I'm just… changing them. And besides, you know the rules," Nyx chided, her voice dropping into a mock-disappointed tone. "The spark was there. The eye contact was made. The contract is binding.” She shifted her attention to Bridget and raised her hand to start casting her magic.
“But, she’s a public figure,” Eli protested weakly. “Won’t someone, somewhere remember the old her? How can she just be erased?”
“I would’ve thought that was obvious, Elias,” Nyx paused and turned back to him. “When I enact the terms of the contract, the old identity is entirely subsumed by the new one, and reality itself bends to comply. There’s no trace of her left except in your memories. And mine. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, no one who knew them remembers their old selves; not their friends, coworkers, family members, and most importantly not the girls themselves. Not a soul can recall what’s transpired, or how things changed, except for you and me. You know, for as smart as you seem sometimes, you do need more handholding than I’d expect, darling. But you’re spent tonight, I can see that. And I don’t blame you in the slightest. You don't have the energy to 'design' her like you did with little Tiffany, so I’ll simply ask, do you have any preference for who she will be?“
Eli looked forlornly at Bridget Badden. He saw the intelligence in her brow, the grit in her posture. He tried to think about how he could save her. Was there something he could say to lead Nyx to a less complete transformation? Less ‘subsuming'? He didn’t have much time to think, and nothing he’d tried yet had worked anything close to how he intended it to. Plus, his brain felt like molasses. He felt a wave of exhaustion so profound he could barely stand. "I can't. I don't know how to protect her from this. Every time I try to mitigate it, things just get weirder."
"That’s alright, darling," Nyx said, a wicked grin spreading across her charcoal-painted lips. "I’ve already got more than enough inspiration to work with. The 'on-screen personality' angle is just begging for a glow-up. Something with a bit more... engagement."
She turned toward the news crew, her eyes momentarily glowing with a sinister, crimson light.
“The news is so boring, don’t you agree? Let’s give the people what they actually want to watch."
Nyx snapped her fingers.
Instead of a small puff of smoke settling on Bridget, an enormous, billowing cloud of red smoke erupted around the entire news van. It was thick and smelled of expensive hairspray and artificial strawberry. It swallowed Bridget Badden, her cameraman and crew, and the entire van in a violently roiling scarlet fog.
Through the haze, Eli heard the sounds of shifting metal and something that sounded strangely like the frantic tap-tap-tap of fingernails on a touchscreen. Through the shadows, the heavy, professional camera equipment appeared to melt away, replaced by an almost eerie shining light.
When the smoke cleared, the scene looked very different.
The Channel 6 news van was gone. In its place stood a sleek, white SUV covered in a pastel-colored vinyl wrap embellished with heart emojis and what looked like social media handles. The professional news crew had vanished entirely, as if they’d been erased from reality. Eli was afraid to ask if that was indeed their fate.
And Bridget Badden...
Eli’s jaw dropped. The professional, stern investigative reporter was nowhere to be found. In her place stood a woman who looked like she’d been manufactured by a TikTok algorithm.
Her crisp blazer had been replaced by a tiny, ribbed crop top that ended just below her bust, and a pair of skintight, high-waisted leggings, both in a loud leopard print. Her hair, once a controlled bob, was now a waist-length explosion of platinum-blonde extensions, styled in beachy waves that looked impossibly high-maintenance.
She wasn't holding a microphone anymore. She was holding a hot pink, glossy selfie stick, with an iPhone 17 Pro Max mounted to the end. The newsvan’s lighting rig had vanished with the rest of the professional television equipment, but the streetlights were on and casting a halo of artificial perfection onto her face. Her makeup was "heavy-glam"—huge lashes, contour that could cut glass, and lips that had been puffed up into a permanent, pouty "duck face."
She was still frozen in the middle of a monologue, but now instead of sparkling with intellectual astuteness and gravitas, her eyes appeared wide and vacant, focused entirely on her own appearance on the screen of her smartphone.
Nyx circled the new creation, nodding approvingly. "There. A vapid TikTok vlogger. Much more 'relatable' for your demographic, don't you think? She doesn't care about pileups or suspects anymore. Headlines give her a headache. All she cares about is content. Hearts and views, not hearts and minds. And all you have to do is like and subscribe.”
Nyx looked at Eli, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She leaned in close, whispered, "And this protects Roxy, too. You're welcome. Now go, enjoy," and then made a slow, deliberately lewd tongue-in-cheek gesture—the classic, mocking mimicry of a blowjob—before dissolving into a final puff of red smoke.
Time snapped back into motion as easily as pressing a play button.
"...and like, I was literally dying!"
The voice that came out of the former reporter was no longer a serious alto. It was a high-pitched, rapid-fire flurry of Valley Girl inflections, punctuated by vocal fry.
“So I was just sitting there, like, totally stuck behind this humongous accident on my way to the mall yesterday morning," she babbled into the phone. "And I was like, 'Hello? I have a fitting at 10:00?' Like, the trauma of being ten minutes late for my newest haul? Literally un-aliving me right now. I just like can’t even. Oh, huh, one sec everyone, I’ll be right back. Stick around for part two. And don't forget to like and subscribe, besties!"
She paused her livestream, her long, neon-pink acrylic nails clicking against the screen. She looked up, her suddenly intense gaze landing on Eli, who was still standing by the tree in stunned silence.
The vacant look in her eyes had immediately sharpened into the predatory interest of an influencer on the prowl. She didn't look at him like some random stranger; she looked at him like he was her next trending topic.
"Oh. My. God," she squealed, click-clacking over to him in her six-inch clear plastic heels until she stood right in front of him, her legs teetering precariously in the grass. "Wait, were you like, watching me record? That is so sweet! I don’t usually have a live audience!! What’s your name? Are you a fan? You totally look like a fan."
Eli took a step back, his hands raised. "I... I just saw you on the news. I mean, I thought you were..."
"Pffft, the news? Ugh, gross. Old school media is like, so yesterday," she said, waving a hand dismissively. She moved into his personal space again, the light from her phone screen nearly blinding him. "I’m Brielle, in case you didn’t know. I’m like, a lifestyle influencer? Fashion, beauty, and like, random road-trip trauma too now, I guess? I have like, three hundred thousand followers on the clock-app. Not that I’m counting!“
She leaned in, sniffing the air around his neck. "Mmm, you smell like... really good. I love that for you. You have to tell me what products you use."
“Um, I’m Eli," he managed to interject, his brain struggling to reconcile the serious woman he’d seen moments ago with this walking For You Page. “And—“
"Eli! OMG, stop! That is such a cute name!” Brielle said, her eyes scanning him with a dawning, magical lust that was now apparently standard for any woman Eli looked at for more than three seconds. "Wait, we should totally collab. You have like, such a good face. Maybe you could make a guest appearance in one of my 'Day in the Life' vlogs. Or we could like, go on a date or whatever and do a 'Get Ready With Me' together sometime? Or like, it’s been wayyy too long since I soft launched a boyfriend. You’d totally work for that."
She didn't wait for a response to any of her rapid-fire suggestions. She stepped even closer, her supple chest nearly pressing against his sweater. She grabbed the back of his neck with a firm, manicured hand.
"But first," she whispered, her voice dropping into a sultry, breathy tone that sent a jolt of pure, pavlovian male response through Eli’s system. "I think I need a little test of our… on-screen chemistry.”
She tilted her head upwards and decisively pulled him down into a deep kiss. The woman who had once been ace reporter Bridget Badden was broadcasting on an entirely different frequency than his recent trysts. Her kiss wasn't anything like the adoring, insatiable kiss of Tiffany, or the sweet, fawning kiss of Sage, or even the wild, hungry kiss of Roxy. It was a high-production-value kiss. Her tongue was bold, her movements performative, as if she were still conscious of an audience that wasn't there. It was a kiss that would look as good as it felt. The taste of her artificial strawberry gloss was almost overwhelming. Almost.
When she finally broke away, she was breathless, her eyes shimmering with a focused, obsessive need.
"Mmmmmhmmm, yeahhh,” she moaned, before tapping her phone screen on again. "That’s definitely good enough to go viral. It’s giving… soulmates.”
She fished Eli’s phone smoothly out of his pocket and held it up to his face so that it unlocked. Three brisk taps and a quick search later, he was her latest TikTok follower. “Text me, ‘kay? My handle is @BrielleBaddie, but I’ll just DM you my private number. We are like, totally going to be a thing."
Eli didn’t point out that she could have just given him her number now, but clearly it was more important to her that he connected on her socials. That… tracked.
She winked, dramatically blew him a kiss, and immediately turned back to her phone, restarting her livestream. "Okay besties, so I just met the hottest guy in this random parking lot? Hashtag breaking news amirite? I was literally just chatting with you, going on about some adult-ass-nonsense about traffic and the universe was all like, 'Bri, honey, you need a reward for all this hard work,' and then boom—there he was! Manifesting totally works, you guys! Literally! And ‘cause I’m such a baddie, you know I had to give him a little taste of the Brielle Experience and let’s just say, the vibes are immaculate.”
Eli didn't say another word. Apparently he didn’t have to. He turned and walked back to his car, his movements somewhat stiff and robotic. He got inside, locked the doors, and stared at the steering wheel for several moments. His phone pinged - it was the promised DM from Brielle.
Her personal number, followed by “Don't keep me waiting cutie 💅💖✨😘”
He started the engine, and as he drove out of the lot, he looked in the rearview mirror. Brielle was still there, bathed in the glow of her phone, spotlighted by streetlights in the darkening evening, talking to her feed, perfectly happy in her new, shallow world. He wished he could feel that level of bliss.
He had two phone numbers now. One from his new secretary who practically lived to serve him, and one from an influencer who seemed inclined to break the Internet together and broadcast his life to hundreds of thousands of people while they were at it. This was… not the day he’d hoped for. He was starting to truly ache from the weight of being haunted by the ghosts of the women whose lives he had accidentally erased, and yet, the last thing he wanted to do was forget any of them. He had to figure this out. He had to find a way out of this. He just didn’t even know where the hell to even begin…
(Disclaimer: Most images were generated with the help of AI tools)
The salty wind blowing off of the Aegean whipped strands of hair across my face as I perched on a whitewashed wall in Mykonos, Greece, the late afternoon sun painting the labyrinthine streets in hues of gold and lavender. This was it – the kind of moment I lived for. Not the posed, filtered perfection flooding Instagram, but the real, raw beauty that caught your breath and made you feel utterly alive. I hoisted my trusty DSLR, framing the iconic windmills against the vibrant blue sky. My camera was my prime companion, capturing the essence of my solo adventures across the globe.
Travel for me wasn’t about checking off an extensive bucket list or racking up likes online. It was about immersion. It was about the scent of spices in a Marrakech souk, the peaceful zen of a Kyoto temple, the taste of street food in a Hong Kong marketplace that exploded with unfamiliar flavors. It was about getting lost in the maze of a new city, stumbling upon hidden gems, and connecting with people who lived lives so different from my own. I documented it all, of course, but mostly for myself. My online presence was a simple blog that I'd thoughtfully titled Authentic Adventures, a digital scrapbook for friends and family, and maybe a few kindred spirits who appreciated genuine experiences over staged photo ops. The ‘influencer’ world, with its armies of perfectly coiffed, perpetually tanned beings posing in infinity pools, was my travel nemesis. It felt so… artificial, so manufactured, so divorced from the soul of travel.
This current trip, a month-long odyssey through the Greek Islands and then onward to Italy, was a deliberate escape. Escape from work deadlines, from the humdrum routine, and from a world that seemed to be perpetually online these days. Being alone was part of the appeal. It forced me to be present, to rely on my instincts, to truly experience each moment without the filter of another person’s perspective.
As I lowered my camera, a sudden pang struck me. I was surrounded by postcard beauty, and while I had countless photos of the scenery, I realized I had no record of myself in it. Usually, I was behind the lens, content to be the observer, the documentarian. But today, surrounded by this breathtaking panorama, a tiny whisper of vanity, maybe just a desire to prove to myself I was really here, surfaced. This was, I supposed, one downside to traveling solo - no one around to take my picture on the off chance I actually did want one. “Oh, what the hell,” I muttered, pulling out my phone. It felt a bit silly, a concession to the selfie culture I usually scoffed at, but c'est la vie, as they say.
I angled the phone, trying to capture the windmills and the picturesque harbor behind me. I took a couple of shots, grimacing at my awkward smile. Selfies just weren't my forte. Finally, I found an angle that felt… passable. Didn't manage to get the windmills, but I did capture the harbor, part of it anyway, and, well, me. As I clicked the shutter, a strange warmth tingled on my face. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, like standing too close to a heat lamp for a second. I shrugged it off, attributing it to the sun. I glanced at the photo. Huh. My skin looked… smoother, somehow. And my eyes seemed brighter. It must be the golden hour lighting, I reasoned. Still, it wasn't terrible. I posted it on my blog, a simple “Mykonos magic” caption, no hashtags necessary, and promptly forgot about it as I wandered down into the maze of alleys, eager to get lost in the evening bustle.
The next few days unfolded in a blur of ferry rides, sun-drenched beaches, and ancient ruins. In Santorini, as I was perched on the caldera rim capturing the gorgeous landscape on camera, that same urge struck again. The view was too magnificent to not have myself somehow memorialized within it, even if just for my own future reminiscing. Again, the selfie felt a little awkward, a little vain. But I did it. Click. Another sudden feeling of fleeting warmth, this time maybe a touch stronger, but I dismissed it again as the product of a long day of too much sun exposure. Back on the phone screen, another surprise. My hair seemed to have more volume, those pesky flyaways were suddenly starting to behave, and my smile was… genuinely radiant. And had this top always shown off that flash of midriff? I looked… good. Unusually good. “Maybe I’m just finally relaxing into the trip,” I thought, a little thrill of pleasant surprise bubbling up.
In Crete, amidst the rugged mountains and ancient Minoan palaces, I found myself specifically wanting to take a selfie at the Palace of Knossos. This was absurd. Ancient history, archaeological wonders, and I was thinking about selfies? But the pull was there, stronger this time. Perhaps it was the sheer impressive scale of the ruins, the weight of history bearing down around me. Click. This time, the warmth on my face lingered a fraction longer. And when I looked at the picture, I almost didn't recognize myself. My eyes were wider enhanced with a subtle flick of eyeliner I definitely hadn't applied. My lips somehow seemed fuller, rosier. My clothes, the same practical hiking gear I’d been wearing, somehow looked… chicer. And my backpack suddenly matched my outfit. It was strange, almost uncanny, like the world was just gently polishing me, refining me.
I started taking more selfies. Not obsessively, but definitely… more. At a bustling market in Athens, surrounded by vibrant produce. In a charming taverna in Rhodes, a plate of delicious souvlaki in front of me. At a hidden cove in Milos, the turquoise water shimmering behind me. Each time, the subtle warmth, each time, the almost imperceptible, yet undeniable, enhancements. Each time, the poses came more naturally, the correct angles for my phone almost becoming muscle memory. My skin grew clearer, my features sharper, my style evolved, elevated. Without consciously trying, my practical travel wardrobe began to morph. Hiking boots were replaced by stylish sneakers, my trusty backpack by a chic crossbody bag. My clothes, still comfortable and travel-appropriate, suddenly had a certain ‘effortlessly cool’ vibe.
And it wasn't just my appearance. My mindset was shifting too. I found myself drawn to trendier cafes, overlooking hidden local gems. I started noticing the designer boutiques more, the local artisan shops less. I even, to my own surprise, started paying attention to Instagram. At first it was only to fill the downtime on the ferry, or while waiting for a hotel check-in, but soon it was anytime I had a spare moment. I’d idly scroll through travel feeds, noticing the likes, the comments, the endless stream of perfectly curated images. Little seeds of envy, previously absent, began to sprout. “Oh my gosh, her nails are incredible!” “Where did she get her outfit?” “Wow, she’s got thousands of likes on that Santorini sunset pic,” I’d think, a strange pang of something akin to… longing?
In Italy, the transformation accelerated. Rome was a whirlwind of designer stores and rooftop bars, interspersed with obligatory historical sites. My planned stop in Florence became less about Renaissance art and more about leather handbags and Aperol spritzes. I was no longer inquisitive; instead I was acquisitive. The warmth with each selfie was now very noticeable, and the changes in my photos were becoming less subtle. My features were sharper, more defined, almost flawlessly sculpted. My outfits, now decidedly more stylish, looked like they’d been meticulously planned, even though I was still just grabbing whatever felt comfortable out of my personalized luggage (seriously, my new suitcases are everything). My definition of comfort, though, was clearly evolving to take on a different meaning. Comfort was no longer just about practicality; it was about looking good, feeling confident, turning heads.
I started actively seeking out ‘Instagrammable’ locations. Not consciously, at first. But I’d find myself choosing cafes with flower walls over quieter, more authentic spots. I’d linger near famous landmarks, not for their historical significance, but for the perfect backdrop to my photos. My blog posts shifted, too. Less writing about cultural immersion, and more about outfit details, fashion hauls, and ‘must-visit’ trendy spots. The comments started changing. “Where did you get that top?” “Love your style!” “You look amazing!” The likes started climbing. And a strange sense of validation, a shallow but undeniably intoxicating high, began to accompany each notification.
In Milan, the final metamorphosis occurred. Standing in front of the Duomo, amidst a throng of selfie-stick wielding tourists, I felt an unfamiliar sense of… belonging. This was it. This vibrant, chaotic energy, the pursuit of the perfect photo, the hunger for attention – it resonated with me now. For the first time, I felt a genuine thrill at the prospect of taking a selfie in this iconic location. Wink. Click. The warmth enveloped my face, now almost pleasurable, like basking in a spotlight. And when I looked at the photo, I was stunned. Gone was the slightly awkward, slightly rugged girl who had started this trip. Looking back at me was a vision. Luminous skin, perfectly styled hair, an outfit that screamed ‘effortlessly chic.’ My eyes sparkled with confidence, with a hint of… something else. Something sharp, utterly self-assured.
I posted the Duomo selfie. Within minutes, the likes exploded. Comments flooded in. “OMG, goals!” “Stunning!” “Queen!” That shallow validation turned into a tidal wave of dopamine. And in that moment, something clicked. Travel wasn’t about dusty museums and off-the-beaten-path adventures anymore. Travel was about me. It was about showcasing this new, improved version of myself to the world. It was about building a brand, cultivating followers, becoming… an influencer.
I spent the rest of my trip chasing trends, hunting down viral locations, perfecting my poses. Museums were now backdrops for outfit shoots. Authentic experiences were traded for photo ops. Ethical tourism? A quaint notion from a former life. Now, it was all about luxury hotels, designer clothes, and crafting the perfect narrative for my rapidly growing online audience.
I returned home a different person. My apartment, once filled with souvenirs of meaningful experiences, now became a stage for carefully curated flat lays and ‘get ready with me’ videos. I had transformed my blog, Aesthetic Adventures, into a glossy, image-heavy platform, dripping with affiliate links and sponsored posts, though at this point my personal blog was becoming more of an afterthought compared with my growing social media presence on Instagram and TikTok. The comments on all three were full of praise, envy, and aspiration. My follower count climbed steadily. And with each perfectly filtered, perfectly posed selfie, the transformation solidified.
Scrolling back through the photos from the beginning of my trip, I barely recognized that girl. Looking at her frumpy clothes, her self-conscious expressions, I couldn't help but smirk to myself. That version of me seemed so… plain, so… unpolished. Now, I was vibrant, confident, undeniably stylish. I had what I didn’t even know I wanted. Attention, validation, a growing online empire built on presenting a perfectly curated window into a life of glamorous travel. The journey had changed me, alright. It had taken a girl who loved the world for its raw, messy beauty, and turned her into a polished, shimmering goddess, obsessed with her own reflection. And truthfully? It didn't concern me at all. The only thing in the world that I was concerned with was where in the world I ought to go next…
(Disclaimer: All images were generated with the help of AI tools)
The jasmine-tinged air, thick with the scent of my sandalwood incense, usually cradles my studio, Rekha's Namaste Yoga. It’s my sanctuary, a little slice of India in the heart of this overly-caffeinated city. My focus is always to provide the most authentic yoga experience I can, grounded in the spiritual and cultural history I know and love. Today, though… today feels a little different. The air is still fragrant, yes, but there’s a… lightness to it, maybe? The sun streams through the tall arched windows, painting stripes of warm gold across the polished wooden floor where my students are settling onto their mats. Deep breaths, Rekha, deep breaths. Connect to your center.
“Alright everyone,” my voice, usually a calm, measured cadence, feels a bit… brighter? “Let’s begin with a few rounds of pranayama. Inhale deeply, filling your lungs, feel the energy… the good vibes, flowing in.” Good vibes? Did I just say good vibes? That’s not exactly Patanjali. Focus, Rekha, focus.
The sandalwood incense, usually so grounding, really does feel… off today. Is it a new brand? No, pretty sure it’s the same sticks from the little Indian import store downtown. But something feels… lighter. Weirder. We move through the sequence, my instructions usually peppered with Sanskrit terms, explanations of the classical yogic philosophy behind each asana. Today, my voice, usually a flow of Sanskrit and intentional direction, feels… different. “Alright everyone,” I hear myself say, “let’s move into downward-facing dog.” Standard. “Push through your palms, lengthen your spine… feel that nice stretch in your hamstrings.” Okay, that was less standard. Nice stretch? Where’s the emphasis on grounding, on connecting with the earth’s energy, the Apana Vayu flowing downwards? Usually I’d be adding the position's ancient name, “Adho Mukha Svanasana,” providing a connection to the practice’s roots. But the Sanskrit seems… stuck in my throat. Like trying to swallow something too big.
It’s fine, most of my students have been coming here for years, they don’t need clarification every time. They know downward dog as well as I do. It’s like expecting them to forget how to breathe. But… looking around as my students follow my flow, a couple of them look a little unfamiliar; a new blonde in the front row with impossibly white teeth and leggings that probably cost more than the class. Had she always been there? I like her hair, it reminds me of my highlights. Wait… when did I get highlights?
“Make sure your hands are shoulder-width apart,” I continue, the words feeling alien on my tongue. “Spread those fingers, create a strong foundation.” Foundation? I usually talk about grounding, about connecting to the earth’s energy. Foundation feels so… industrial, not spiritual. So American. But the phrasing flows out of me, effortless, like it was always there.
Wait, what is that song that just started playing? It’s… not the usual sitar music. The tabla beats that usually pulse through the studio, a rhythmic heartbeat connecting us to ancient traditions, sound… different. Fainter. Almost… gone? And is that…pop music? My usual playlist is a carefully curated journey through ragas and devotional chants, designed to deepen the spiritual connection of the lesson. What I’m hearing now is clearly pop, sugary, the kind you hear in coffee shops, the kind my students probably blasted in their cars on the way to class. But… it feels right. Strangely. My students’ shoulders seem to loosen, their breaths a little easier, a slight bounce in their downward dogs. Are they… enjoying it more? The thought pricks at me, a tiny needle of betrayal.
“Okay, let’s flow into warrior two,” I instruct, my voice feeling… easier, somehow. “Extend your front knee, gaze softly over your front hand… feel that power.” Power. It’s not wrong, exactly, but usually I’d talk about steadiness, Sthira Sukham Asanam, the balance of effort and ease. Why am I not saying that? It feels like the words are… unavailable. Like a part of my brain has been gently… switched off.
The intricate mandala tapestries, the photos I painstakingly sourced during my trip to visit family in Rishikesh, my favorite shot of the Taj Mahal, the artistic depictions of Shiva and Parvati in their serene dance – they suddenly look… faded. Almost blurry. I must be tired this morning. I squint and rub my eyes, and when I open them again things seem more in focus, but different. There is an intricate white macrame hanging where my mandala is usually displayed. It's nice, and trendy, I guess, but where did it come from? And my travel photos, in their place… are those…stock photos? Of impossibly toned women in brightly colored yoga pants contorting themselves into various positions against generic beach sunsets. Attractive, sure. But devoid of soul. They look like they are… selling something. But at the same time they look… fine. Normal. Like they’ve always been there. Very… aspirational. Where did these come from? I’m usually so careful about the studio’s aesthetic, making sure it reflects the authentic spirit of yoga.
“Alright, let’s move into a nice, deep hip opener,” I say, refocusing myself by demonstrating pigeon pose. “Really sink into it… open up those hips.” Open up those hips. It sounds… suggestive. Is it just me? The students seem to like it. A few are even glancing at me with… appreciation? I open my mouth, intending to provide the Sanskrit name for the pose, but find I can’t quite recall the term. Oh well, we’ll just move on.
My reflection in the studio mirror catches my eye. My usual loose, comfortable cotton kurta and leggings feel… itchy. And are they… tighter? More… form-fitting? It’s crazy, but it even feels like I have more… form to… fit. The fabric feels sleek, cool against my skin. Lululemon? Had I ever bought Lululemon? I never… but it feels… right. Like they belong on me. They look good. Damn good, actually. Stylish. Luxe. And my hair… is it… lighter? Brighter? The dark braid usually snaking down my back seems to have come undone, and it's… blonder. A soft, honeyed blonde pulled back in a high ponytail. Huh. Weird. But kinda… better?
“Okay, babes,” I hear myself say, transitioning back into warrior two. Babes? Since when did I call my students babes? “Really reach through those fingertips. Feel that stretch in your thighs. You got this!” My instructions were peppier, less focused on the spiritual, more on the… physical. The burn. The stretch. The… results. “Okay, ladies, time for a little core work! Really engage those abs… feel the burn!” And the language… so… California. But it feels natural, like I’ve been saying it for years.
My mind feels… fuzzy. Trying to recall the nuances of pranayama, the subtle energies of the chakras… it’s like trying to grasp smoke. But the names of trendy poses, the ones I’d seen splashed across Instagram – the scorpion, the mermaid – those sprang to mind instantly. I don’t spend much time on it, but I do have an Instagram, @YogaGuruRekha, mostly for promoting the studio. “Let’s try a little heart opener,” I chirped, “then flow into a modified bridge, just cuz.” Cuz? I never say “cuz.” But it felt…comfortable. I try to think of the 'official' name for this pose, but it just won’t come to me. Total blonde moment, lol!
“Alright, final relaxation, Savasana time,” I say, guiding them into the pose. “Just, like, let go of all that tension… relax your jaw, soften your belly… and just… be.” Just… be. That’s still there, that core principle. But the depth, the understanding of the interconnectedness of all things… it feels… fuzzy. What is going on with me today?
The pop music swells slightly. It’s… catchy. I smile as I recognize the track from my own workout cooldown playlist. My students are definitely enjoying it, too. They’re lying there, completely relaxed, not a hint of confusion or discomfort. It’s like… this is how it’s always been. Oh, look at the clock, time to wrap up.
"Thank you all for joining me here at Rebecca’s Namaste Yoga today. It's always, like, such a joy and privilege to practice with you. I hope you all feel wonderful as you move into the rest of your day. Namaste, and have a beautiful rest of your day babes!”
My memories… they feel different somehow. Little snapshots, like old Polaroids, are flashing in my mind. Me, as a child, with… blonde hair? Playing in a suburban backyard with a golden retriever. Thanksgiving dinners with… turkey and mashed potatoes. Cheerleading practice in high school. Going to college… studying… social media marketing? Flickering images of… sorority houses? Sun-drenched lawns? Tailgates and Starbucks runs? Me, laughing, surrounded by girls with long, blonde hair, holding… yoga mats. And there was… Malibu? A big, white house overlooking the ocean. My dad, a tanned man in a polo shirt, handing me the keys to a…convertible? My mom, impeccably dressed, smelling faintly of expensive perfume. They were… white. Blond. Like… me? Had I always been blonde? Of course, I had. Silly me.
And, my name… Rebecca. Why did that feel new? Had I spelled it differently somehow before? Maybe with a ‘K’? No, that seems ridiculous. I had always been Rebecca, hadn’t I? Why would I have had a different name? Rebecca’s Namaste Yoga, right there on the wall. As it should be.
The students gather their things, chatting animatedly. One of them compliments my leggings. “Love your outfit, Rebecca!” she says. “Lulu?” “Totally! You know it!” I reply, beaming. “You can get them online. And hey, follow me on Insta! @YogaGirlRebecca. I usually post my ‘fits there! With links, obvi!” Yeah, that’s my handle. Lots of cute yoga poses, some healthy recipes… a few sponsored posts are starting to roll in. Sweet.
My chai mug, usually my first stop, warm in my hands after each class, felt… wrong. And empty. In its place was a tall, plastic cup with a green straw. A Starbucks logo. Right, I’d picked it up on my way over to the studio today. A Venti iced caramel macchiato. Extra pump of caramel. My go-to. Always has been.
I recall spending my downtime between classes meditating. Meditation? Nope. Who has time for that? Downtime is for scrolling through my Instagram, liking influencer posts, double-tapping pictures of smoothie bowls and athleisure try-on hauls, seeing what the other yoga girlies are up to. New Lululemon drops. Cute workout sets. Maybe I should get those new leggings. They’d look, like, totally amazing in my next post.
My lunch bag. Usually filled with the fragrant spices of homemade saag paneer and fluffy rice… now held a clear plastic tupperware container with neatly layered kale, quinoa, and grilled chicken. A vibrant green smoothie sat beside it. So healthy. So me.
My gaze falls on another photo, prominently displayed near the studio door. It’s me, in a skin-tight yoga outfit, striking an elegant pose in the park. My hair is definitely blonder now, long and flowing. My skin has a nice tan. The caption reads “Nama-slay!” with my social media handles plastered below. Yeah, that’s me. That’s who I am.
“Namaste,” I say at the end of another class, but it sounds different. Brighter. Less calm. Almost… perky. “Okay, so like, listen up besties! Thanks for, like, totally showing up today! It’s like, seriously always such a vibe to, like, practice with you guys. I'm like, hoping you're all feeling super zen and glowy and stuff to totally slay the rest of your day! Don’t forget to follow me on Insta! @YogaGirlBex! Link in bio for my new activewear line! Obsessed with these leggings, you guys!” YogaGirlBex? My handle? Of course. And the leggings… so comfy. So flattering.
On the studio walls, there I was. In a backbend, looking impossibly graceful in my new leggings and a matching sports bra. My blonde hair cascading down my back. My tanned skin practically glowing. Underneath, my handle, @YogaGirlBex, bold and clear. And there, another one. Me confidently posing at the beach in one of my hottest bikinis, my abs looking seriously toned. #BikiniYogaChallenge. Oh yeah, the livestreams. Those are killing it.
Later that week, I’m filming another one of my Bikini Yoga livestreams, down by the beach. It’s super popular. My new fake nails do make some poses a little tricky, and sometimes the girls feel a bit… heavy, you know? But it’s all worth it. Gotta keep the brand looking fresh. The comments are flooding in. “You’re so inspiring, Bex!” “Love your energy!” “Where did you get your bikini?” Links in bio, babes!
My phone buzzes. Another brand deal. Some organic protein bar company. Perfect. And another offer for sponsored posts. Lululemon again. Score. Maybe I should get lip fillers? Everyone’s doing it. And my nails… might need a fresh set. Longer, almond-shaped, maybe a fun glittery color. Gotta look good, right?
My knowledge of India lately… it’s kinda hazy. Bollywood, right? And the Taj Mahal, for sure. I think. Pretty sure they eat curry there. Too spicy for my taste. I’m on a cleanse anyway. Gotta stay lean. History? Smarts? Not really my thing. That’s why I majored in social media. Easy peasy. And it’s paying off. Big time. And this? This yoga thing? Totally my calling. I’m, like, such a people person. And I’m, like, really good at this. I know my classes, like, aren’t the most authentic or whatever, but for me it’s totally more about the aesthetic! That’s what the people want anyways: not some boring history lesson, they want good vibes and sexy selfies.
“Okay, so like, this next pose is, like, total fire,” I say, demonstrating a challenging tree pose in another packed yoga class. My enrollment is way up lately, my business like totally taking off. “Feel that burn, you guys! It’s, like, totally gonna sculpt your core.” Sculpt. That’s the word. Not strengthen. Sculpt. I feel so… zen. So… aligned. My boobs look amazing in this new top, by the way. Definitely worth the splurge.
“Okayyy, my gorgeous besties! Oh my gosh, like, major shoutout for, like, totally gracing my studio with your beautiful presence today! Like, seriously, practicing with you guys is always such an immaculate vibe! Like, totally go out there and find your inner goddess, you know? Feel free to follow me on all the socials!” I tell my class, my voice dripping with my usual Valley Girl inflection. “And don’t forget to grab a green juice on your way out! It’s, like, so good for your chakras.” Chakras. Yeah, I know what those are. Something about energy centers. Super important.
My phone buzzes again. A notification. My latest Insta post is blowing up. Yes! I am totally crushing it. Look good, feel good, build the brand. That’s the motto.
My studio, no, my studios, plural, are thriving. My brand, Bex’s Nama-Slay Yoga is expanding like crazy, my chic studios popping up all over the city, with another flagship location opening in Malibu next month. It’s all happening. I’m totally crushing it. It sounds crazy, but it almost feels like it happened overnight. From sexy yoga teacher to even sexier lifestyle guru. I’d built Nama-Slay into a trendy, minimalist space with ample natural light and, of course, strategically placed ring lights for the perfect selfie. Even some LA celebs are dropping in. Tiffany Something-or-other, the actress from that one Netflix show that everyone's been talking about. And that hot singer, what’s his name? The one that just dropped that new pop single I've been playing on repeat? Totally amazing for the brand. Yoga teacher to the stars. Has a nice ring to it.
My athleisure line is selling out faster than I can restock. Okay, maybe the quality isn’t amazing, but the designs are cute, and my followers eat it up. Super cute leggings, tie-dye sports bras, even crystal-infused water bottles. Maybe a book next? “Nama-slay Your Way to a Better You.” Something like that. I’d need a ghostwriter, obvi. Writing is, like, so hard.
And Chris. My boyfriend. He’s, like, so hot. An actor. Up-and-coming, you know? Great in bed. Even better for my brand. Red carpets, here I come! Maybe even a cameo in his next movie? He totally adores me. Loves my new boobs, too. Says I’m, like, the sexiest woman he’s ever met. Which, like, duh.
Looking in the mirror, adjusting my perfectly applied makeup, my tan skin absolutely glowing, my false lashes fluttering, I know I’ve made it. Queen of the #NamaSlayNation. My new boobs, bigger and perkier than ever, looking amazing in my designer sports bra. My ass, toned and lifted thanks to all those glute activations, looking incredible in my leggings. This is it. I’ve made it. Yoga influencer. Lifestyle guru. My star is definitely rising. My lips, plump and glossy, curve into a confident smile. Yeah, I’m gonna Nama-Slay every single day. That’s my life now. And it’s, like, totally awesome.
(Disclaimer: Some images were generated with the help of AI tools)
Journal Entry 1: Operation Obscure Jedi - March 15
Dear Journal,
May the Force be with me, because the next several weeks are going to be intense! My town’s local NerdCon is next month, and I’ve finally committed. Like, really committed. For years I’ve just gone as a spectator, maybe wearing a Star Wars t-shirt or, if I was feeling brave, a simple Padmé braid. But this year, I’m finally going in a full cosplay. And not just any cosplay. I’m aiming for maximum deep-cut nerd cred.
I’ve decided on Barriss Offee, pre-Order 66 of course. You know, Luminara Unduli’s Padawan? She’s actually a super interesting character, with a tragic story, especially if you’ve dug into the Clone Wars animated series like I have. Anyway, she’s perfect! Not everyone will know who she is, which is kind of exactly the point. It’s like a nerdy litmus test, only the true fans will get it, and those are my people. "Judge me by my size, do you?" Ha! Okay, maybe that’s not quite relevant to Barriss, but it’s always applicable to life in general, right?
The thing is, I’m… not really a ‘convention person’. I love Star Wars more than almost anything – seriously, I can quote you hours of dialogue, debate the merits of the Holiday Special (It’s ironically amazing! And the very first appearance of Boba Fett, so you know, iconic!), and tell you the entire history of the Sith’ari Prophecy. But big crowds make me sweat, and conversations with strangers? You’ll find my lack of tact disturbing, to say the least. I know that fear is the path to the Dark Side and all that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I just get so anxious. Social situations are basically my own personal Sarlacc pit.
Cosplay though… cosplay could be different. It’s like a shield, a way to be someone else, even if just for a day. Maybe with a Jedi Padawan robe and some face paint, I can actually… become someone else. Someone confident, someone who belongs. Someone who isn’t me, Elara, the girl who trips over air and whose best conversations are usually with her cat, Chewie (yes, I know, original, right?).
So, Operation Obscure Jedi is a go. I’ve ordered the fabric, I’m sketching out the patterns, and I’ve even started watching tutorials on how to make a convincing lightsaber hilt out of PVC pipe. This is going to be epic. Maybe, just maybe, this is the year I finally step out of my shell. "Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope!" (Okay, I’ll stop with the quotes… for now.)
Journal Entry 2: Fabric and Focus - April 5
Journal,
The fabric arrived! This gorgeous textured black material, just perfect for Barriss’s robes. It’s actually even nicer quality than I was expecting – feels almost… luxurious? I spent the whole weekend cutting and pinning patterns. Sewing is surprisingly therapeutic. It’s like meditation, except you end up with cool clothes instead of just inner peace (though, maybe a bit of inner peace would be nice too).
Something weird is happening, though, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. As I’m working on this costume, I’m… feeling different. It’s subtle. Like, usually, I’d be stress-eating pizza rolls while covered in fabric scraps, but lately, I’ve been… wanting to take better care of myself? I even went for a run yesterday! A run, journal! Elara, the girl who considers walking to the mailbox cardio, actually ran.
And when I look in the mirror while trying on pieces of the costume, something’s shifting in my reflection. It’s not just the robes. My posture is straighter, I’m holding my head higher. Is this what cosplay does to people? Is it like method acting, but for nerds?
I’ve also been thinking about… well, about presenting myself. I’ve been watching a lot of beauty tutorials online (for research! Barriss’s makeup is subtly elegant, right?). And I even bought a new lipstick. A red lipstick! Elara in red lipstick? Who am I becoming?
My obsession with Star Wars, the deep lore stuff, feels… lighter. I still love it, don’t get me wrong. I rewatched Empire Strikes Back last night (still the best, fight me!), and I was geeking out over the Hoth scenes as much as ever. But I didn’t spend hours afterwards reading Wookieepedia articles about Tauntauns or debating Han Solo’s questionable moral choices online. It was… enough just to enjoy the movie.
Maybe I’m maturing? Or maybe, spending hours surrounded by beautiful fabric is just… rubbing off on me? Whatever it is, I kind of like it. "You can't stop the change, any more than you can stop the suns from setting." Heh. Okay, one quote today, just one.
Journal Entry 3: The Reveal… and a Revelation - April 12
Journal,
The Barriss Offee cosplay is done. Completely finished. And… it’s amazing. It’s kind of been done for a few days, but I’ve kept tinkering with it, trying to perfect it. Honestly, I surprised myself. The robes flow beautifully, the lightsaber hilt looks convincingly realistic, and I think I’m really close to getting the face paint just right. Just need to brighten that classic yellowish greenish complexion and figure out the right array of little black diamonds on my nose and cheeks. I tried it all on today, the full look, and I actually gasped when I saw myself in the mirror. This might just be my best work.
It’s… it’s really good. Too good, maybe?
Here’s the thing, journal. I looked at myself, really looked, and… Barriss is cool, she’s powerful, she’s interesting. A truly complex character. But is she attention-grabbing? Sure, she’s worthy of attention, but will people at the convention actually stop and say, “Wow, that Barriss Offee cosplay is amazing!” or will they just walk by, vaguely wondering if I’m supposed to be some kind of random monk or something? Maybe I should go for something more recognizable instead?
And then it hit me. Like a rogue asteroid impacting the Millennium Falcon. Leia. Princess Leia. Specifically… the gold bikini.
I know, I know. It’s… that costume. The iconic, slightly controversial, utterly unforgettable gold bikini from Return of the Jedi. It’s the opposite of obscure. It’s practically the Star Wars cosplay equivalent of a little black dress.
At first, I dismissed it. Too cliché, too… revealing. But then… I kept thinking about it. About how instantly recognizable it is. About how undeniably… sexy it is. And let’s be honest, journal, something has been happening to me these past few weeks. I’m… changing. Inside and out.
So I went online a few days ago. I ordered a gold bikini. A really good one, not some cheap Halloween costume. And when it arrived today… I paired it with some burgundy fabric I had lying around and I tried it on.
Journal, I don’t even recognize myself.
The Barriss Offee robes were beautiful, but this… this is something else entirely. My body… it looks… amazing. Curves I didn’t know I had, a confidence I’ve never felt before radiating off me. I’m… bustier than Carrie Fisher was in that scene, I’m taller, and… dare I say it? I think I might even be just as pretty. Like, actually pretty.
I stared at my reflection for ages. Obsessed. This… this is it. This is the costume. I know I only have a couple of weeks to go, but I think I can do this. Just need to add some more detailing, find the perfect accessories, figure out a style for my hair, in order to really match the reference images.
Barriss is going back in the closet. Leia… Leia is going to NerdCon. And I cannot wait to see the look on everyone’s faces. My follower count is going to explode. And maybe… just maybe… I’ll find a handsome Jedi (or even a charming scoundrel) who appreciates a princess in gold. And maybe then I could show them just how well I pull off this new look. If you catch my drift ;)
Journal Entry 4: Convention Chaos and Confidence! - April 26
Dear Journal,
NerdCon was… insane. Absolutely, gloriously insane. And it was all thanks to Leia. To me, as Leia.
The moment I walked in, wearing that bikini, it was like the Force parted the crowds. Heads turned. Jaws dropped. Cameras flashed. It was… intoxicating. The anxiety I usually feel in crowds? Gone. Replaced by this incredible surge of… power? Confidence? Whatever it was, I was riding the wave.
Suddenly, I wasn’t Elara, the nervous girl with the obscure cosplay. I was Leia. Iconic, beautiful, desirable Leia. Actual Star Wars royalty. And people treated me like it.
There was a line. A literal line of people wanting to take selfies with me. Selfies, journal! Me! And they weren’t just nerdy guys, though there were plenty of those (and yes, they were definitely drooling, mission accomplished). There were girls too, complimenting my costume, my hair, my… everything.
“Your Leia is amazing!” “You look just like her, but even hotter!” “Where did you get that bikini?!”
The compliments just kept coming, washing over me like a warm, golden wave. I posed for photos, smiled, flirted a little (okay, maybe more than a little), and directed everyone to my Instagram and TikTok. My follower count is already climbing!
And the guys… oh, the guys! I lost count of how many offered to buy me drinks, or asked for my number. I just smiled sweetly and told them to slide into my DMs. "It's a trap!" Ha! Okay, one more quote, I can’t help myself.
I felt… alive. Sexy. Desirable. It’s like this costume unlocked something inside me, a part of myself I never knew existed. Elara with social anxiety? Gone. Leia, confident cosplay queen? Here to stay.
I’m already brainstorming for the next convention. SDCC, maybe? New York Comic Con? I’m starting to think… why not? This is amazing. And I have so many ideas! Qi’ra from Solo? I could definitely pull that off. Ashoka Tano? Could be cool. Padmé Amidala’s Naboo outfits? Perfect for showing off my tailoring skills, and my curves of course. Maybe even… Dark Rey? A little sexy dark side action? Mmm…
The possibilities feel endless. The Force is definitely with me, journal. And I can’t wait to see what the galaxy has in store for me next.
Journal Entry 5: San Diego Dreams - July 17
Journal,
San Diego Comic Con. In a week. San. Diego. Comic. Con. Seriously? Is this real life?
It feels like a lifetime ago that I was nervously sewing Barriss Offee robes in my little crafting room in my apartment. Now? Now I’m a cosplay influencer. Influencer, journal! I actually have “influencer” in my social media bios. It’s ridiculous, and amazing, and a little bit terrifying, all at the same time.
My Leia photos went viral. TikTok, Instagram, even Reddit – I’m everywhere! Cosplay blogs are writing about me, people are recognizing me online, and brands are even starting to reach out (mostly for protein shakes and skincare stuff, but still!).
And the best part? I got invited to SDCC as a panelist! “The Rise of Cosplay Influencers” panel. Can you even believe it? Me, Elara, talking about my “craft” and “love of Star Wars” in front of… actual people. Famous people, maybe! I wasn’t even planning on going this year, because tickets sold out ages ago. But a panel invitation means free tickets, VIP access to certain events, and all sorts of other perks I haven’t even figured out yet. It’s insane! I feel like I’m living in a dream.
Packing for SDCC is… a production. Seriously, I think I’m going to need to check three suitcases. Costumes, of course (I’m bringing Leia, but I've also been working on a Padmé dress – gotta give the people options!), makeup, hair products, skincare, clothes for after-con events, fitness wear for my daily run… I practically look like a diva when I’m hauling all this luggage around. And you know what? Maybe I am a little bit of a diva now. I definitely have the confidence for it.
I’ve been practicing my panel talk in the mirror. I’m going to talk about my journey into cosplay, my love for Star Wars (still there, maybe not super-nerd-level obsessed anymore, but definitely still a fan), and how cosplay has helped me find confidence and… well, myself. I’ll sprinkle in some Star Wars quotes, of course. Gotta keep it on brand.
Part of me is still terrified. SDCC is huge. But mostly? Mostly I’m just… excited. This is my chance. To meet people, to network, to maybe even… rub elbows with some of the actual Star Wars actors. Imagine meeting Daisy Ridley? Or Oscar Isaac? Or… hello, Adam Driver? A girl can dream, right?
Hollywood, here I come. "I’ve got a bad feeling about this." Nope. Scratch that. "I have a good feeling about this." Much better.
Journal Entry 6: Destiny – July 24
Journal,
I’m still buzzing. Still reeling. Still trying to process everything that happened at San Diego Comic Con.
The panel was… amazing. Absolutely amazing. Packed room, people actually listening to me, asking questions, laughing at my (carefully rehearsed) jokes. I even got a round of applause at the end! Me! On a panel at SDCC! I still can’t believe this is real.
But that wasn’t even the craziest part. The day after the panel, while I was taking a breather in one of the backstage areas for panelists and VIPs, a man in a sharp business suit approached me. Introduced himself as a casting assistant. From… Disney.
Disney. As in, the Disney. As in, Star Wars Disney.
He said his boss had seen my online work. My cosplay, my photos, my videos, and now my panel talk. His boss had said she liked my “stage presence,” my “look,” and my “obvious passion for Star Wars.” He said they were doing “early recruiting” for a “new Disney+ project.” Very hush-hush, top secret. But… would I be interested in being considered for a role? In a Star Wars project? Either a show or a film?
Journal, I think I actually stopped breathing for a moment. Star Wars? Me? In Star Wars?
“Yes,” I managed to squeak out, my voice an excited whisper. “Yes, absolutely. A million times yes.”
He smiled, a knowing, almost… conspiratorial smile. “We thought you might say that.” He handed me his card, told me to expect a call from their people in a week or two. And then… he was gone, melting back into the Comic Con chaos.
I stood there, clutching the card, my heart pounding like a podracer engine. Star Wars. Me. It’s insane. Unbelievable. Like something out of a fanfiction dream.
But… it also feels… right. Like this was always meant to happen. Like all those hours spent watching the movies, reading the books, meticulously building costumes, posting photos… it all led to this. To destiny.
The Force works in mysterious ways, journal. And right now, I have a feeling it’s just getting started.
(Disclaimer: All images were generated with the help of AI tools)
This is a continuation to the story "One with the Force" - if you haven't read the beginning of the story, read Part 1 first.
Journal Entry 7: Table Read - October 15
Dear Journal, It's been… a whirlwind. Life since SDCC feels like hitting hyperspace. One minute you’re drifting along, the next everything is a blur of stars at incredible speed. The call came, just like the casting assistant said it would. Then interviews, readings, meetings… it all felt so surreal. Like I was watching someone else’s life unfold. And then… it happened. I got the part. An actual role, in an actual, live-action Star Wars show! And not just a role, but part of the main cast! I still have to pinch myself sometimes.
Today was the very first table read for the pilot episode of my show. My show, journal. Sitting there, around a huge conference table, with the director, the writers, and… other actors. Some of them are people I’ve watched on screen for years! I was a little anxious at first, naturally. My old Sarlacc-pit anxiety tried to rear its ugly head, whispering doubts like a Sith Lord tempting a young Padawan. You don’t belong here. They’ll find out you’re just Elara from the internet.
But then… I opened the script. And I saw the character's name. And I saw my lines. And something shifted. It wasn't the shield of a costume this time, not exactly. It was different. It was the character. A brand new character, but one I immediately felt a connection to. I started reading, and the words felt… right. They flowed. It wasn't about being Leia, or Barriss, or anyone else I'd pretended to be. It was about bringing this new person to life.
And you know what? It felt… natural. Like putting on a perfectly tailored robe. Like I was made for this. The director gave me a nod after one of my lines. One of the established actors smiled at me. It wasn't about being the girl in the gold bikini anymore. It was about the work. The craft. The storytelling.
It’s weird. All this time, I thought cosplay was about becoming someone else to hide who I am. But maybe… maybe it could also be about showing off different parts of myself. The confident Leia, the focused Barriss, the creative Elara who built those costumes from scratch. They were all training, in a way. Like Luke’s Jedi training on Dagobah. Training for this. For becoming this new character.
I still feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff sometimes. Like I might fall back into being just me, just Elara, tripping over air. But then I remember sitting at that table today, feeling the energy of the story and the people around me, and I think… maybe I’m not falling. Maybe I’m flying. This is a new kind of magic for me. As Han would say, "The Force, the Jedi. All of it. It's all true." You know I wouldn’t leave you hanging without a Star Wars quote, journal. It’s basically my brand lol. And now maybe acting is too. Different from working the convention floor, but just as intoxicating. Wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Journal Entry 8: Home Crowd - July 25 (One year later)
Dear Journal, I’m back. Back at SDCC. But this time… this time feels completely different. Last year, I was a surprise. A viral moment. This year… I'm part of the show. Literally.
I was on the main Hall H stage today. Hall H, journal! The legendary, impossible-to-get-into, biggest stage at Comic Con. They brought us out, the cast of the new Star Wars show (the one I’m in!), to thunderous applause. My name was called, and I walked out into that blinding spotlight, in front of thousands of people, and so many more watching online.
And I didn’t freeze. I didn’t trip. I didn’t feel that old, familiar dread. I felt… ready. Like I was exactly where I belonged.
Seeing the sea of faces, hearing that roar of applause… it wasn’t just for the show. It felt like some of it was for me. For the journey. I saw people in the crowd holding up signs with my character’s name. I saw fans wearing t-shirts with my face on them! My face, journal! Not Leia’s, but mine, as my character. It’s wild. Absolutely, mind-bendingly wild.
I stood there, next to actors I used to only dream of seeing on screen, and I smiled. A genuine, wide, confident smile. The cameras flashed, the crowd cheered, and I just… soaked it all in. It felt like the culmination of everything. The late nights sewing, the awkward first convention steps, the viral photos, the table reads, the long days on set… all of it led up to this moment.
I caught a glimpse of myself on the massive screens flanking the stage. I looked… good. Not just in costume, but me. Elara. The girl who used to hide behind costumes, now standing tall, unapologetically herself, in front of the biggest nerd crowd on the planet. The Leia confidence? Still there, maybe even stronger. The joy of sharing Star Wars? Absolutely. But now, it feels integrated. It’s not a mask anymore. It’s just… me.
After the panel, backstage, people were buzzing. Publicists, producers, even some press calling out my name. It’s still a lot to handle, don’t get me wrong. It’s a new level of attention, a new galaxy of pressure. But the fear is mostly gone. Replaced by excitement. And a deep sense of gratitude.
That casting assistant who scouted me last year? I bumped into him again today. He just smiled and gave me a quiet nod. Like, See? I knew it would all work out. Even so, I can’t help but hear Han’s voice in my head shouting, “Great kid! Don’t get cocky!”
This isn’t just about being a cosplay influencer anymore. Or even just an actress. It feels bigger. Like I’ve actually stepped into the Force in some way. Guiding my path, connecting me to something incredible. What’s next? I have no idea. But for the first time in my life, the unknown feels less like falling into a nest of gundarks and more like… an adventure. And I’m ready for it. Bring it on.
Journal Entry 9: Shining Like Starlight - November 13
Dear Journal, I'm still processing. Still trying to believe that the photos I'm seeing online this morning are actually me. Last night was… unreal. It was the premiere. The big one. The red carpet premiere for the show.
They held it at this historic theatre in Hollywood, dripping with old-school glamour. The kind of place you usually only see in movies about movie stars. Getting ready felt like its own production – hair, makeup, the dress… oh, the dress! I worked with a stylist, which is still a wild sentence to write. We chose a glistening red gown that felt elegant and a little bit strong, like my character, but also completely me. It wasn't a costume, not like Leia or Padmé, but it felt just as transformative in its own way. Like the final evolution of Elara, the girl who discovered herself through dressing up.
Walking onto that red carpet… whoa. It hits you like a blast from a turbo laser. The noise is incredible – shouts from the fans on the sidelines, reporters calling your name, the constant rapid-fire click, click, click of the cameras. It’s overwhelming, dazzling, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once. Remember how scared I was of crowds? Of talking to strangers? It feels like such a long time ago (in a galaxy far away lol). I don’t even feel like the same person! I still felt a flutter of nerves, sure, but it was different. It wasn't the fear of not belonging. It was the energy of the moment.
I smiled, I posed (I've gotten pretty good at finding my light, thanks to years of cosplay photoshoots!), and I did red carpet(!) interviews. Talking about the show, my character, what it was like working with the cast and crew. It felt easy, natural even. Like I wasn't just reciting lines, but genuinely sharing something I'm incredibly proud of. Which, of course, I am. I even managed to weave in some subtle Star Wars quotes that only the deep fans in the press pool seemed to catch. Got a few appreciative nods!
Seeing my castmates, the directors, the writers – everyone looked amazing, and there was this shared energy, this collective excitement. We did it. We made this thing, and now it's about to be out there in the galaxy.
Then we went inside for the screening. Sitting there in the dark theatre, surrounded by all these people, and seeing the Lucasfilm logo appear on the screen… and then seeing myself on that massive screen, as the character… it was surreal beyond words. Every line, every expression, every movement I'd rehearsed and filmed. It was real. It was part of Star Wars canon now. Me.
Afterwards, there was an afterparty. More talking, more photos, just a different kind of buzz. It felt like a celebration. A celebration of hard work, of passion.
The show drops next week. The anticipation is building. My follower count is going insane again, but this time it's not just about cosplay likes. It's about people excited to see the actress. It's a lot. It's definitely a lot. But that feeling on the red carpet, under the lights, feeling confident and beautiful and exactly where I was meant to be? That's the feeling I'm holding onto.
May the Force be with the show when it launches. And may the Force continue to be with me on this crazy, wonderful journey. It feels like I've traded my cosplay lightsaber prop for something much, much better. And I'm ready to wield it.
