“Thank you for all your hard work, everyone!” Jamie called out, her voice cutting through the piano strains of Ryuichi Sakamoto’s 1996 album reverberating through the studio. Soft sounds of agreement followed after, as if on cue. She manoeuvred across the room past shelves stacked with prop boxes, past interns slipping garments off racks, assistants dismantling white studio lamps, makeup artists packing up for the day. 

Grace propped her final vanity case onto a stool—the largest one swollen with the healthiest assortment of makeup tools and products. Hundred-dollar plastic tubes of lipstick and foundation formed an indeterminate pile that pushed the bag to its limit. She folded the flap lined with brushes and tweezers over the mess and zipped it shut, and that was that. 

There is a particular stillness that settles after a shoot, and it’s close to antiseptic. Grace allowed herself a gentle smile as she felt Jamie glide past. Then her eyes dropped back to the closing ritual she had performed at every gig since she was eighteen. Once finished, she plopped her vanity bag onto the ground and took its place on the stool.  

Grace felt around her pockets for her phone with outstretched legs, and opened the Grab app. Thirty-five dollars. She’d already spent thirty on the ride over. Spending sixty-five dollars on transport alone would eat into nearly half of the hundred and fifty she’d earn today.  

She exhaled and resigned herself to the 2-hour-long bus-train ride ahead. Though being on the green delivery app led her mind to wander about dinner. Chicken rice or beef noodles? She should probably do salad, but the store would be closed by now. Perhaps the food court at the bus interchange. 

She continued bargaining in her head. But that was a performance staged only for herself. Beneath all that mental fodder lay the real question: should she walk over and say something to Jamie and the photographer before she left? This was her first solo job with Jamie, senior stylist at a prestigious fashion magazine. Rooms full of people who already know each other are among the hardest jobs to work in. But the negotiations reached their summit when something a fellow makeup artist had once told her flashed across her brain: you can do the best makeup possible, but if you’re not friends with the client by the end of the day, you might as well not have taken the job.  

She felt her bones pulse with an ache upon this realisation. Grace began mentally assembling small-talk prompts she had once saved from an Instagram reel. “So, you guys going anywhere after this? What’s the most exciting project you’re working on now? Remember to follow up with ‘Why?’ or ‘How?’ to keep the dialogue going,” she’d rehearse to herself. 

She emptied her lungs, ready to get off the stool, when she felt it—the magnetic prickling of eyes on her. For the briefest moment, her gaze converged with Jamie’s. She felt her chin lower instinctively and her body retreat. The thought that Jamie could’ve been talking to the photographer about her arrived. But she couldn't imagine what they would have said. She was confident of the work she’d produced today, and she hadn’t overstepped; she was quite sure of that. 

No matter, her mind returned to salad, chicken rice and beef noodles. A small wave seemed to wash over her feet, and she found it soothing.  

Indeed, Jamie had been talking to the photographer about Grace. When she’d thanked the team earlier, she was pretty sure that everyone acknowledged her—everyone but Grace. In fact, when she was walking towards her, her eyes lingered a second longer, hoping to catch her eye and exchange a smile. It had been like that the whole day, enough for Jamie to wonder whether this was her normal demeanour or whether something bothered her. So she asked the photographer as such.  

“Yeah, that’s how she usually is,” he replied, leaning over a high-top table, fingers gliding across his MacBook’s touchpad. “I wouldn’t think too much of it.” 

Jamie took a swig of her cold latte and nodded. After which a silence took over, until it was filled by the opening notes of another Sakamoto track drifting from the laptop. 

Sometimes Grace would dream. Dreams of when she still glowed. Images of her as a child would find a corner in the crowded space in her mind and fill it. Translucent purple glasses and hair slicked back into a ponytail. The colour red and a McDonalds’ apple pie in hand. She’d be barefoot, mouth agape, watching. Grace would stare back, as if they were locked in a contest. Except it always ended the same way: older Grace looking away first. Not that she ever tried, but she imagined fighting that outcome would’ve felt like snapping her fingers underwater. It was as if the younger girl had eaten an entire sun for dinner, and the apple pie she’d been holding was dessert. She did not glow, and yet her presence was blinding. 

Then the texture of the dream would change. The air would thicken, so much so that her movements would feel restricted by it. A pair of long-lashed almond eyes would surge to meet hers, ascending higher and higher, until she’d assume the same position her younger self did. Chin up, mouth agape, watching.  

Sounds of laughter bordering on the hysterical would churn along in the background. She’d turn to look back and feel a smile forming. She couldn’t really place a finger on what the joke was, but she’d always end up a ball of laughter, nonetheless. Then, without notice, silence would fall, leaving behind only the shadows of her own laughter. The once laughing figures would turn and rotate their heads ever so slightly towards her.  

And then, a Voice. It would slice through all that tension, offering a brief reprieve—a comforting lull that lived between waves of thunder. Dark words would then rain upon her. Why did you laugh when you weren’t involved? Didn’t you see their faces? They asked me why my assistant was so nosy. 

When Grace turned back around, those discerning almond eyes would still be there, towering.  

What are you doing sitting on my chair? The Voice would cry out.  

Grace looked around quizzingly and threw her hands up—her heart nearly melted. She sprang up off the chair she did not remember sitting on—though, she could vividly recall why she had taken the seat. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to reserve the chair for you when you stood up,” she’d plead. 

But how can you sit in your superior’s chair? What would people think if they saw my assistant sitting on a chair, while they were on the floor? The Voice seemed louder this time. And what about the time you complained about me hiring my second assistant? 

To enter the world of makeup, newcomers paid a price—literally. A four-digit sum to apprentice under established veterans to expand not only their skills, but also to network in the industry. These apprentices could repay this debt gradually, with each gig their mentor brought them on. Out of the fifty to a hundred dollars they’d earn each time, a percentage went back to them. Grace had been eight months in when her mentor decided to hire another assistant. Naturally, this not only halved the number of jobs she could go on, but her income along with it. When she voiced her concern, her mentor questioned her lack of teamwork.  

It’s the way you ask questions, she had said. It’s very rude. 

Each time the Voice spoke, Grace could feel the sun (the one her younger self had eaten) slowly diminish, until a luminescent rock remained. To protect what remained, she’d curl up into herself. She’d wanted to create a layer of distance between that rock and the world around her. Even if someone were to touch her, they wouldn’t be able to reach the embers of what remained. If she held this position long enough, perhaps it would ferment, slowly returning to light.  

Sometimes this dream bled into the waking. On her way out, Grace felt those almond eyes again. She stopped near Jamie and the photographer and said something brief. Jamie said something back in return and smiled. The whole conversation lasted maybe thirty seconds. Outside, the air was warm and indifferent, streetlamps glowed under the sky flush with pink and blue. She walked to the bus stop feeling the softness of the evening, and for now, that was enough. 

This is a work of fiction inspired by a real interview and does not represent a verbatim account of any individual's life or experiences.

Illustration: Tammie Tan