The Quiet Designer

By the time it hit 18:30, the office had quieted down. It felt empty, even though two or three of us were still there.

Today had been a series of almosts—almost speaking up, almost correcting a mistake before it turned into a problem, almost being noticed.

I learned early on that my almosts were a lot safer than my enoughs.

Maxine’s voice still echoed in my ears like a permanent implement—sharp, public, casual in its cruelty.

“Just fix it,” she’d said, already turning toward her office, not even looking at me. Then she added, over her shoulder,

“—and don’t take long this time.”

I never argued with her. I never did.

I’d been on my knees on the studio floor, fabric pooling around me—a fine cream silk, like evidence in a very high-end murder. My fingers were almost numb from the sewing.

The hem had been done wrong.

Not by me.

But I’m the one who sits quietly correcting other people’s work.

By around four this afternoon the studio had started to feel too cramped. Wall-to-wall wooden racks lined the space, each filled with garments waiting for approval.

I swear, with how tired I was, one of them might have come alive just to judge me.

To my left sat my coffee cup, half empty and as cold as the Arctic. Somewhere in the corner, music blasted from a tiny but surprisingly powerful speaker.

“Okay, this is done. The hem is fixed,” I said quietly, throwing my hands up in surrender.

I stood and walked over to the far table in the corner—my usual spot. I opened my sketchbook.

Technically I was meant to be working on assignments.

But honestly, the pages were full of ideas I’d never dare submit. Designs that would probably never leave the sketchbook.

Across the studio the other stylists laughed, talking loudly over one another. Confident. Comfortable.

I kept myself small and focused on my sketches.

Erasing. Redrawing sleeves. Adjusting necklines.

Small things that make a difference—when someone lets them.

Someone laughed again, and a moment later I heard Maxine laugh too.

She handed out approval selectively, and only to the stylists she liked.

I lifted my head, trying to realign myself. The dress was still lying on the floor.

I walked over and lifted it gently.

At the show mannequins I draped it over the form, smoothing the silk down and letting it fall naturally.

As I turned to go back to my sketchbook, I noticed someone standing to the left.

Brice Lowenburg.

The second head designer.

He was looking at the dress.

I walked back to my table. When I looked up again, Brice was coming around it, the sleeves of his white jumper rolled up to his elbows.

He dragged his hand lightly along the edge of the table until he stopped beside me.

“You did a great job on that dress, Ana,” he said quietly.

He kept his voice low. If he praised me too loudly, Maxine would probably tell him to stop being ridiculous.

“Thank you,” I said, a little shy.

There was something about him. He was calmer than most people in the room. Easier to be around.

He winked at me before heading back to the other table, grabbing his water and disappearing toward his office.

I worked a little more on my sketches before heading to the materials closet.

Maxine wanted to add white mesh under the dress.

I returned with a yard of fabric and laid it on the table.

Taking my scissors, I cut two long strips, and then grabbed the pins out of my bag and headed back to the manikin.

[ End of Tester]

feedback would be great for me to carry on.