I wake up and my cheeks hurt. I think I was smiling in my sleep.
It’s Sunday morning, and my smile widens before I even open my eyes. I pull the covers up to my chest and give into my giddiness, squealing and kicking my feet, sending the covers flying in all directions.
Today’s the day! The day!
I roll over and grab my phone, furiously typing in Runway’s web address. After a few typos, it finally loads, and there it is.
Margot Robbie commands the cover, poised and impossible to ignore. The kind of beauty that isn’t delicate or passive—it demands attention. Strong shoulders, long legs, that perfect tilt of her head, like she knows something you don’t. The Chanel suit hugs her frame just right—perfectly tailored, structured yet soft, effortlessly powerful. Her gaze is sharp, confident. Unbothered.
It should be intimidating, but instead, it feels... magnetic.
Somehow, Margot’s magnificence doesn’t overshadow the rest of the page—because, of course, it wouldn’t. Not under Miranda’s watch. The layout is balanced, precise. Every element exactly where it needs to be.
And then—there it is.
The Chanel Effect: Reinventing Elegance for Every Era
My byline isn’t on the cover, but I know that if I scroll long enough, I’ll find it. My article, in black and white, juxtaposed with elegant models showing off Chanel’s finest couture and accessories.
I stare at the cover, comically small on my phone screen, and I can’t believe it’s real.
I gasp, only now realizing I haven’t been breathing. My chest feels too tight, like my ribs forgot how to move.
Well. If I pass out, at least I won’t have far to fall.
I lower my phone an inch, just enough to shake out my aching arms—then immediately bring it back up. I can’t look away. Not yet.
She actually published it.
Of course, I delivered The Book every night. I knew my article was in there, it was impossible not to peek, just to see. To make sure it wasn’t a joke.
But still. I kept expecting Miranda to toss it out at the last minute, saying I wasn’t ready, that it wasn’t good enough. I wouldn’t have blamed her, either.
Oh I definitely would’ve been crushed. No doubt about it. To have a chance and see it tossed away? It would’ve been excruciating. But I was ready for it, because what was the alternative? That my first ever piece written for Runway would be published?
It just didn’t seem possible.
But here it is.
Giddiness overtakes me again and I squeal before hiding my head under the covers.
I know reality is going to come crushing down, any second now, but I just want to savor this moment, this feeling.
This is a high more overwhelming than seeing that red “Good” in Miranda’s neat yet elegant script.
Drunk on that high, I grab my phone and pull up my messages to text someone, anyone, everyone, my amazing news.
I open a new message, tap the To line, and pull up short.
Who can I tell?
Lily and Nate would have been my first texts, once upon a time. But that was before.
My parents? Any other day, I’d have called them without hesitation. But yesterday, they told me I should move home. Apply for law school again. Try for something real.
I can’t trust that they’ll actually be happy for me. And I won’t let them ruin today—my day—with another argument.
Who else? I could text Nigel. He’s basically my fairy godmother, even if he’s lost a little bit of his usual sparkle lately. He’ll be happy for me, but there’s not really anything to announce. He’ll see the issue, maybe he’s seen it already, and I don’t want to seem like I’m fishing for compliments.
One last person comes to mind, and I’m both surprised and guilty at the thought: Doug.
Unlike with Nate or Lily, we hadn’t parted on bad terms. We haven’t really parted at all. I just haven’t reached out. To be fair, neither has he. But what the heck? He’s never been unsupportive of my job, or how I’ve changed and started fitting into the world of Runway.
I take a deep breath and a chance.
I start typing, then delete the message.
Too much? Too little? I don’t want it to sound like I’m bragging, but I also don’t want him to think I don’t care. I try again, trimming words, swapping out emojis, second-guessing every part of it.
Eventually, I just send the screenshot. A few exclamation points. Some smile-crying emojis. That’s enough, right?
I hit send before I can chicken out.
The panic immediately starts to build in my chest, but I force myself to shove it down. I sit up, tossing my phone onto the nightstand, and head for the shower.
I’m practicing not giving a fuck, I tell myself, lathering the shampoo into my hair under the hot water. If he responds, great! If he doesn’t, or he chews me out for being a terrible person, fine. I’m not going to give a fuck.
Maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll start to feel true.
—
I tell myself I’m just going out to buy a coffee. And maybe a breakfast sandwich. A fun little treat to celebrate my big day.
I could go to the café just around the corner, but my feet pull me in the direction of a café a few blocks down.
No reason, I tell myself. Definitely not because there’s a magazine stand along that route.
The roadside stand comes into view and I quicken my pace.
To rush past it. Because I want to get to my coffee.
It’s no use. I’m standing in front of the stand, staring down at Margot Robbie, in all her Chanel-clad glory.
"You don’t need it, Andy!" A tiny, winged version of me pops onto my shoulder, halo shimmering as she yanks on my hair. “Don’t do it. Don’t become just another Clacker!”
I almost listen to her. Almost. I even take a step back—
“Hey,” the gruff man behind the makeshift counter grunts out. “Buy something or run along.”
The immediacy spurs me into survival mode and I must black out, because the next thing I know, the imaginary angel is long gone and I’m walking down the street, gently clutching a glossy copy of Runwayto my chest.
I buy my coffee and sandwich, setting them down at a little table in the corner. But I barely notice them.
The magazine is still in my hands, glossy and cool against my fingertips. I hold it too gently, like it might break if I press too hard. Or worse—like it might disappear if I let go.
It’s so perfect, I don’t feel worthy to touch it, like I’ll ruin it just by turning the page.
But I have to see.
I close my eyes, bite the bullet, and just do it, hastily flipping open to a random page. It’s easier from there, and I more carefully flip through the pages until I find it.
The Chanel Effect: Reinventing Elegance for Every Era
By Andrea Sachs
I let out another squeal but quickly slap a hand over my mouth.
Before I can sink further into embarrassment, my phone buzzes.
A godsend.
I hold my breath when I see it’s a message from Doug. My thumb hovers over it. I shouldn’t be this nervous—it’s just Doug.
But what if…?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the message—then immediately clench my eyes shut.
Am I really ready for this?
Don’t be a coward, Andy! Just get it over with.
On a count to three, I force my eyes open and read the message.
It’s actually several messages, each sent right after the last.
Doug: OH MY GOD ARE YOU KIDDING ME
Doug: I AM LOSING MY SHIT YOURE FAMOUS NOW
Doug: And the article is AMAZING!!! Seriously Andy! I knew you could write but DAMN!
Doug: Ok we HAVE to get drinks to celebrate! I know your schedule is insane, wanna say Saturday night? I’ve got a boring old 9-5, I can make whatever work.
Doug: AHHH I CANT GET OVER THIS!!!
A wobbly laugh escapes me. The relief that I’ve still got one of my old friends is too much, and I’m tearing up.
I wipe hastily at my eyes, so glad I learned the magic of water-proof mascara, and I text back, confirming Saturday will probably work, and that I can’t wait.
It’s so refreshing to have someone who just… gets it. No guilt trips. No frustration. No resentment. Doug still wants to see me, but he’s letting it be on my terms. Like it’s that simple. Like it always should have been.
Why can’t everyone be as easy as Doug?
I lean back in my chair, finally taking a sip of my coffee and relishing the goodness of today.
Then my phone buzzes again.
It’s Nigel this time.
Nigel: Congrats, Six! Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. Success only raises the bar higher.
I smile at the congratulations, but something about it feels off. It’s not a bad message, exactly. But it doesn’t feel quite right, either.
He’s just making sure I don’t get too big in the head, I tell myself. It’s just Nigel being Nigel. Tough truths when I need them. That’s gotta be it.
Before I can type out a response, another message comes in.
Nigel: And you better get your ass over here. Lanvin scrapped the collection for this week’s shoot.
My eyes goes impossibly wide. I know an emergency when I see one.
I bolt from the café, coffee and sandwich forgotten, my mind already spinning ahead. I barely pause to tuck the magazine safely under my arm.
Seconds later, I’m in a cab, tapping my foot, urging the driver to go faster. The high of the morning is already slipping away, replaced by the familiar, relentless rhythm of crisis mode.
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