SEIRRA'S POINT OF VIEW
It’d been weeks since I signed that contract, and honestly? I’d poured everything into it.
Late nights. Cold coffee. Headphones in, back bent over my laptop, fingers clicking and dragging until my eyes blurred. I wasn’t just designing pages—I was rebuilding myself, one graphic, one code, one layout at a time. This wasn’t just for their brand. This was for me. My name was going on this, and for the first time in forever, I wanted something with my name on it to matter.
I worked from the corner of the apartment, my desk filled with sticky notes, sketches, ideas. Sometimes I lost track of time. Sometimes I forgot to eat. But I didn’t care. I was in a zone. A good one.
Then one evening, while I was fixing a layout on the homepage, I heard Becca in the kitchen clangin
