The Paris order shipped on a Tuesday. Thirty-two pieces, each one cut around the water marks or with the tide lines stitched into the design on purpose. I signed off on the final box and pressed my palm against the cardboard like I could send a message through it. This is what surviving looks like. This is what staying looks like.Tayo took a photo of me doing it and sent it to the group chat with the caption: Boss sending love to France. I rolled my eyes, but I saved the photo. Proof for the days I forgot.That night I couldn’t sleep. Not from panic. From the quiet that came after a storm. The studio was empty for the first time in weeks. No fans. No interns. No orders to fill. Just me and the hum of the fridge and the weight of a week I’d been holding up.James found me at the cutting table at midnight, running my fingers over the leftover blue silk. The scraps too small for dresses but too big to throw away. “You’re thinking loud again,” he said from the doorway. “Old habit,” I
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