Vigilant | N.H.

Nineteen.

March 20th, 2016

BLAIR'S POV
"Hold that pose!" the photographer enthusiastically shouts. Today, I'm being shot by Adrien Acy, an incredible French photographer that shoots for Vanity Fair. I'm still trying to figure out why the hell he's shooting me, an amateur, especially since he's rarely in Chicago. He's unreal and working with him is an absolute dream—I now officially have something cool to talk about among my fellow model friends.

"Flare the fabric, Blair—you are a bird! Jump and fly like a bird!" He continues to direct. It's hard to keep a straight face, angle my body, and look like a free-spirited bird all while he's jumping around like a fool, but I somehow manage to do so. I elongate my body and stag my legs to make myself look like a hybrid of a graceful gazelle and a fierce finch. "C'est parfait," his heavy French accent applauds from behind the lighting equipment. I can't help but to smile and feel proud of myself.

"Merci beaucoup," I thank him as we air kiss and part our ways. I make my way back to the wardrobe where I am assisted out of the $5,000 Marc Jacobs dress. The lilac fabric drapes over the hanger as I watch it get placed back onto the rack. The saddest part about a shoot is whenever you model a piece and you can't take it with you.

Each shoot I'm progressively gaining more confidence, knowledge, and contacts within the industry. With September quickly approaching, I'm working my hardest to get casted to walk in New York Fashion Week. As a little girl, I would always watch models walk NYFW for brands like Chanel, Versace, and most importantly, Marc Jacobs. Since I've already shot in a Marc Jacobs piece for this year's fall collection, I have strong faith that I will walk for them. Even if I don't, I'll still be proud of myself for trying and chasing my dreams—plus, there's always next year.

"Oh my gosh, B!" Delaney runs up to me. "I know I wasn't supposed to, but I peeked in to watch you. Holy shit! You looked fucking ethereal, I'm so happy for you." I ecstatically squeeze her tight in my arms. "I love you, I love Chicago, and I love Adrien Acy!" I giggle, having a short-lived fangirl moment.

Once we arrive home I decide to not waste any time and get to work. I sort through my emails and pick out the shots I want to be added to my portfolio. Then, I practice some yoga positions and clear my mind in an attempt to escape from the craziness of my long days. After that I make Delaney and I breakfast sandwiches for us to munch on while watching The Vampire Diaries.

NIALL'S POV:
"Hey," Zayn says as I stare at the bag of cocaine sitting on my desk. I slide it to him and nod my head upwards. "Get rid of it."

"What?" he says in pure confusion. I look him dead in the eye. "I don't fucking want it—get rid of it." He nods and takes it with him as he exits the office. I haven't touched any substances in weeks, and I haven't consumed even a fraction of the alcohol I normally consumed in a night.

I'm changing.

It's scary—this change—because I don't know what life is like without those things. But, now that I'm evolving away from them, I feel good. There are definitely days where I miss the feeling of being high, but there's a new feeling that I just can't describe. I think I'm going fucking soft.

"Just wrapped up my shoot, be there in 10," the notification from Blair dings. "Be safe," I text her before heading downstairs. I see a brunette flash bolt past me, but I'm unable to make out who it is. "Harry?" I shout out.

"One sec, boss," he says in a rushed voice. He disappears into the backroom for a minute before reappearing. "What's up?" he says, out of breath. I laugh and shake my head as I try to wrap my thoughts around the words that I'm about to say. "Something's wrong with me."

His face goes blank for a second. "What do you mean something's wrong with you? Like physically? Mentally? Because I know damn well you've always been fuc-"