First Impressions
1151 Words
RING! RING! RING!
Ughhh.
I could shatter this alarm clock into a thousand tiny pieces and not feel an ounce of guilt. My head is in a million splits. The sun filters in like it owns the place, rude and blinding. I roll over on my warm sheets, making a mental note to finally change them.
Liam used to love these sheets. Spring smelled like Liam jeans, cologne, and freshly washed hair. He had this way of making everything feel like a scene from an indie film.
“You really are something,” he used to say a lot. I never figured out if it was a compliment or a warning.
I didn’t love Liam. Not really.
Love is more than a swell of admiration. It’s not just thinking of someone when a song plays, or hoping they don’t get hit by a bus. It’s wanting them in your space—even when you’re annoyed, even when they leave towels on the bed. Liam didn’t feel like that kind of forever.
Maybe I’ll die alone.
Not in a depressing way—just in the if-it-happens-it-happens kind of way. I want a love that consumes me, challenges me, *knows* me. Not just someone who makes good coffee and says the right things.
Why am I thinking about love at 7 a.m. on a Monday?
Wait. Monday?
My eyes shoot open. My body jerks.
Hanson!
Oh God. Oh no. I forgot to check my email.
Please don’t let me have missed the interview. Please, universe. I will never take sleep for granted again. I scramble across my bed, nearly taking down the nightstand lamp in my panic. I slam the power button on my desktop, refreshing my inbox with trembling fingers and very wide eyes.
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Inbox (1)
Subject: Hanson Fashion Interview – Confirmation
Your application was impressive. See you Monday at 10AM prompt.
I stare. Then scream. Then kick the air like a possessed cheerleader. I got it. I got the interview. Hanson Fashion. My dream.
Then it hits me.
It’s 8:58 a.m.
I have exactly one hour to be at the most important interview of my life.
What do I wear? What do I wear?!
I fling open my wardrobe like a storm. A suit? Too stiff. The flannel dress I designed for summer? Too chill. My eyes land on my plaid skirt, the one that catches the morning light like it’s heaven-approved. Angelic, even. I pair it with a nude-collared shirt and stare at myself.
It’s… not baggy. It doesn’t hide me. I hesitate. My old instincts creep in: is this too much? Will they think I’m trying too hard?
But I have zero minutes for insecurity right now. I grab my big-ass portfolio and bolt.
The building is sleek and silver, intimidating in a “you don't belong here” kind of way.
Inside, the elevator is cold and quiet, and I swear the buttons judge you. When the doors slide open, the whiteness of the floor blinds me. It's all white. White walls. White chairs. Even the receptionist looks like she’s carved out of ice.
“Name?” she asks, not looking up.
“Dayna.”
“Oh. You’re the one meeting him.” She raises a brow like I’m heading into the lion’s den. “You’re five minutes early. Barely. If you knew what was at stake, you’d have been here thirty minutes ago.”
Ouch.
Wait. Him? Did she say… the boss?
Before I can respond, she waves a hand. “You’re up.”
Just like that.
I walk toward the double doors with sweaty palms, sweaty tights and I think, sweaty thoughts. I smell my shoulder. Do I stink? Why is the office so wide? Why is his desk so far from the door like he’s in isolation?
The man doesn’t look up. He’s hunched over something. I can't see what his desk might as well be in another country.
“Step forward,” he says.
His voice is deep and stern, but doesn’t match the face I catch a glimpse of, he’s young. Sharp. Like someone who hasn't smiled in three years.
“Step forward,” he says, voice sharp and low.
I clear my throat. “Hi, I’m Dayna.”
“Da-I-na?” he repeats, glancing up at last.
“It’s Dayna,” I correct gently. “Like Dana, but with a ‘y.’”
His brows rise slightly—like I just challenged the world order.
Has no one ever corrected this man before? I wonder. Or are people just too scared to?
He recovers quickly, leaning back in his chair with a curious tilt of the head. “Right. Dayna.”
“So,” he says, finally closing the file in front of him. “Why do you want to intern here?”
I take a breath.
Then I move. I set my portfolio on the side table, flipping it open like a magician revealing her final trick.
“I want to tell stories with my pieces,” I say, voice steady. “Real stories. Stories that don’t get told in glossy pages. And I want to learn from the best.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. His face is unreadable, and for all I know, I could’ve just recited the alphabet.
He nods slowly. “Hmm.”
That’s it. Hmm.
“Well,” he says, leaning back. “You can start today.”
“Hmm?”
That escapes my mouth before I can stop it.
“The receptionist will explain your role. You’ll be shadowing the styling department first. Get familiar. Don’t waste anyone’s time.”
He’s already looking back at his file.
And just like that, the interview is over.
I stand there for a moment, not sure whether to curtsy, cry, or run.
What a boss.
Back at the front desk, the receptionist hands me a folder with a smirk. “You’ll be assisting design and creative strategy. You’ll report to Ms. Cole.”
I nod, dazed.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she says.
I pause.
“You’re replacing someone who… didn’t last the week.”
I turn. “Why?”
She smiles. “Let’s just say the boss doesn’t do second chances.”
A chill runs down my spine.
But I square my shoulders and clutch the folder. Whatever this is, I’m in it.
I walk toward the glass hallway, heels clicking, heart thumping like a drum in a parade.
Then I see a soft looking man.
A guy, dressed in black, leaning against the wall near the elevators. Watching me. Calm. Too calm.
He smiles faintly, like he knows something I don’t.
“You’re the new girl,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He pushes off the wall. “Good luck.”
“Thanks?”
He steps into the elevator, but before the doors close, he calls out:
“You’re gonna need it.”
- Writer
