Between Takes

Chapter2 - Hollow Perfection: Tim

The ballroom of the Grand Palais was a cathedral of light. Chandeliers dripped crystal like frozen rain, refracting beams across marble floors polished to a mirror’s sheen. The air smelled faintly of champagne, perfume, and the metallic tang of camera equipment. Tim Navarro adjusted the lapel of his midnight‑blue suit, the fabric smooth under his fingers, and let his girlfriend loop her arm through his.

Claire Desmond was the editor of Mode Étoile, one of the most influential fashion magazines in the industry. Tonight, she looked like she had stepped out of her own editorial spread: sleek black gown, hair pinned into a sculptural knot, lips painted a shade that whispered authority. She was polished, distant, and utterly in control.

Tim smiled. He had perfected this smile too — the one that suggested confidence without arrogance, warmth without intimacy. It was the smile of a man who belonged in these rooms, who had been trained to glide through them like silk. Yet inside, he felt the same hollowness that had shadowed him for years.

Reporters clustered near the entrance, their voices overlapping like static.

“Tim, who are you wearing tonight?”

“Any comment on the rumors about your next collaboration?”

“Smile for us — perfect, perfect.”

He obliged, turning his face toward the cameras, the smile fixed. His girlfriend leaned in, whispering, “Remember, this is about visibility. We’re here to be seen.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

The gala was a parade of perfection. Models glided past in gowns that shimmered like liquid metal. Designers shook hands with investors, their laughter rehearsed. Photographers darted like predators, capturing every angle. Tim moved among them, polished but distant, his girlfriend leading the way with effortless authority.

He caught fragments of gossip as they passed:

“That collection was a disaster — did you see the stitching?”

“She’s only here because of her sponsor, everyone knows it.”

“Half these couples are just for show.”

“Tim looks bored already. Maybe he’s thinking of leaving.”

Tim’s jaw tightened. He hated how easily the words stuck, how they echoed in his head long after the voices faded. He told himself over and over again that they shouldn’t matter, that he rightfully earned everything he has now, not because he has a famous and powerful girlfriend. He doesn’t have to worry about money or work his ass off in the modeling industry. But he wanted to prove something to himself. And he did.

Long before he and Claire got together, Tim had made a name for himself as a print and ad model. The runway came later. Credit to Claire who pushed him to try. That is something he is always grateful to Claire for, but the brand offers came because of his skills, not Claire’s connections. Claire has drawn a clear line between their relationship and career, to which Tim very much agrees.

At the champagne bar, Claire accepted a glass with a gracious nod. Tim took one too, though he barely tasted it. The bubbles fizzed against his tongue, hollow as the applause that rippled through the room when a designer made their entrance.

He thought of Zeke then, though he hadn’t seen him since the music event. That fleeting recognition — two men trapped in curated lives — lingered like a bruise. Tim wondered if Zeke was smiling somewhere tonight, wearing the same mask he does. If they’re given the chance to talk, what would it feel like?

Claire then brought Tim back to the present by touching his arm. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine,” he said, the words automatic as if it was his pre-programmed response.

Claire studied him for a moment, then turned back to the crowd. Polished, distant. She thrived in this world, where perfection was currency and vulnerability a liability. Tim admired her strength, but he envied it too. He felt like a mannequin dressed in borrowed confidence.

The speeches began. Industry leaders took the stage, their voices echoing against marble and crystal. They spoke of innovation, sustainability, the future of fashion. Tim clapped when he was supposed to, his smile unwavering. Yet his mind drifted, caught in the undertow of memory.

He remembered his first runway show, the blinding lights, the suffocating pressure to walk flawlessly. He had stumbled once, barely noticeable, but the shame had burned into him. Since then, he had trained himself to move with precision, to erase any trace of vulnerability. Tonight, that training held — but inside, he was unraveling.

More chatter pressed in:

“She’s the real power here, not him.”

“Rumor is he’s considering a new line, but no one’s seen sketches.”

“Perfect couple, perfect façade.”

Tim’s smile faltered for a heartbeat. He tightened it quickly, but the moment lingered. His girlfriend didn’t notice; Claire was busy networking, her laughter ringing like crystal to his ears.

Tim excused himself, slipping toward the balcony. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of the city — exhaust, rain, something real. He breathed deeply, savoring the imperfection. For a moment, he let his smile drop. His face felt heavy, unfamiliar.

Inside, the gala continued, a symphony of an empty perfection. Tim leaned against the railing, staring at the city lights. He thought of Zeke again, of the way their eyes had met, of the recognition that had passed between them. It was a fragile thread, but it was real. Too real to be his delusion.

Claire finally joined him after a while, her expression unreadable. “You disappeared.”

“I needed air.”

She nodded, distant. “We should go back in. People will notice.”

Tim followed her, polished once more, the mask restored back. He is a picture of perfection once again, dazzling under the chandelier lights, pleasing to everyone’s eyes.

The night stretched on. Speeches, applause, laughter. Tim played his role, every gesture rehearsed, every word measured. The cameras saw perfection. The audience saw a couple deeply in love that they were oblivious of the world outside their own from time to time.

Inside, Tim felt nothing but the weight of a smile he couldn’t drop. He couldn’t wait for the night to be over. Unfortunately, events such as this do not end early.