Him
Seeing Zara in the gallery feels like a collision of worlds—my carefully constructed public persona and the more authentic self I've kept buried beneath layers of filters and engagement metrics. Sitting across from her in the café, I struggle to find the right words.
"I should have called," I begin, the understatement hanging between us. "I meant to, but—"
"But you're Marcus Reed," she finishes for me, a hint of understanding in her voice. "Verified on social with half a million followers. I'm sure you're very busy."
There's no bitterness in her tone, just a simple acknowledgment of reality. Somehow, this makes it worse.
"That's not—" I stop, recalibrating. "Yes, I was busy, but that's not why I didn't call."
She raises an eyebrow, waiting.
"The truth is," I continue, fingers drumming nervously on the table, "you scared me."
"I scared you?" She laughs, the sound bright and genuine. "That's hard to believe."
"You did." I meet her gaze directly. "You looked at me like I was just a person. Not an influencer, not a brand ambassador, not a content creator. Just... me. And I realized I'm not sure who that is anymore."
Her expression softens, and she takes a sip of her cappuccino before responding. "That's a lot to put on someone you just met."
"I know. I'm sorry." I run a hand through my dreads, a nervous habit from childhood that my image consultant keeps telling me to stop. "After we met, I had this whole week planned out—where I'd take you for dinner, what we'd talk about. Then I got caught in a contract dispute with one of my sponsors, and by the time I resolved it, I'd missed our date. I should have texted to explain, but..."
"But what?"
"But I thought you deserved better than excuses from someone like me."
She studies me for a long moment, her eyes thoughtful. "And what kind of person are you, exactly?"
The question shouldn't be difficult, but it pierces through layers of careful self-branding. Who am I, beneath the curated posts and sponsored content?
"I'm not sure," I admit finally. "That's the problem."
For the first time since sitting down, she smiles—a real smile that reaches her eyes. "Well, that's the most honest thing I've heard in a while."
Something loosens in my chest. "The meeting I was just in? It was about a gallery show. I'm trying to get back to creating art instead of just being content."
"You're an artist?" Her interest seems genuine.
"I was. Before all this." I gesture vaguely to indicate my online persona. "I studied sculpture at SVA before dropping out to pursue... whatever this is."
"What happened to your art?"
"It's complicated," I say, then immediately regret the evasion. "Actually, it's not. I got seduced by quick success. Creating content was easier than creating art. The validation was immediate. The money was better."
She nods, understanding. "And now?"
"Now I'm trying to remember why I started in the first place." I hesitate, then add, "That piece you were looking at in the gallery? 'Release'? It's mine."
Her eyes widen. "That's your work? It's beautiful. Powerful."
"It's the first piece I've finished in three years," I admit.
We talk for nearly two hours, the conversation flowing easily from art to family to dreams deferred. She tells me about her father's illness, her culinary training, the catering business she's slowly building on the side. I listen, struck by the quiet determination with which she faces challenges that would flatten me.
"I should head home," she says eventually, checking her watch. "Dad will need his medication soon."
"Can I see you again?" I ask, surprising myself with the urgency in my voice.
She considers this. "Why?"
It's a simple question with a complicated answer. Why do I want to see her again? Because she makes me feel real. Because when I'm with her, the metrics and engagement rates and follower counts fall away. Because something in her eyes reminds me of who I was before becoming @MarcusReedOfficial.
"Because I'd like to know you better," I say finally, opting for simplicity. "The real you, not just a first impression."
"Okay," she agrees after a moment. "But this time, if something comes up, just text me. I'm quite good at understanding when plans change."
As we exchange goodbyes outside the café, I resist the urge to document the moment, to share it with followers who would surely approve of her natural beauty. Instead, I commit it to memory—the way the afternoon light catches in her hair, how her smile transforms her entire face, the quiet confidence in her movements.
For the first time in years, I'm experiencing something without thinking about how to package it for consumption. It's terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.