“Do you have guest list?”

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It was 2019 and my first year as a fashion marketing student. I had waited 40 minutes in front of Le Rouge with my friends in the cold. A club in the red-light district of Pigalle. They eventually all gave up and went home. I still don’t know why I stayed. The crowd around the entrance was huge and growing, with people shoving each other and waving their hands to get the attention of someone they barely knew, who was already inside, pleading for help to get in. Girls stood at the front, their almost naked bodies pressed against the cold metal bars that separated them from the rigid, stern bouncers, who didn’t even look at them when they tried to speak. It all made me uncomfortable. I hated looking at the anxious eyes, so eager, ready to leave anyone behind just to get in. I didn’t like how it felt like their lives depended on these nights. Yet, they were all so well-dressed, in elaborate outfits. Something I had always deeply appreciated about the youth in Paris. They looked beautiful and desperate, like those Renaissance paintings of women staring into the divine light.  

But what did I expect? It was the Casablanca party, after all, the coolest brand at the time. And not just that, every fashion girl could attest that they also had the most beautiful casting. Gorgeous boys draped in silky fabrics with a tasteful touch of femininity that made them look like wealthy angel boys on a summer vacation. As a newcomer in Paris, experiencing sexual freedom for the first time, I had already had flings with at least four of them, (unintentionally, I promise). I even ended up dating one and quickly learned they were all just beautiful stoners and drug addicts with a weird fixation on new-age spirituality. They loooved that I came from a place like Bali. It was as if I were a deity to them, just because I was born on the Island of Gods. But that didn’t mean I was treated like one all the time, I was still just one of the many girls they seduced and used. They eagerly spoke to me about the meaning of life, sharing thoughts I’d had since I was eleven and then proceed to give me the most mediocre sex of my life. I’ve noticed that male models despite having one of the most superficial jobs are often the ones searching for deeper truths. Maybe it’s because they have more time to look for answers.   

I wasn’t feeling good about myself. Then again, I rarely do at fashion events. Surrounded by influencers dressed in designer, flawlessly glammed by professionals, not a hair out of place, I couldn’t help but compare. They looked so polished, almost plastic, like if I ran a finger across their skin, it would squeak. As if they weren’t real at all—just computer-generated, 3D-printed straight from some high-tech machine. 

And why is everyone so fucking skinny?  

Suddenly, the hairstyle I had worked so hard on felt off, making my forehead look even bigger. No setting spray was strong enough. My eyeliner had already started melting. My outfit? Mediocre at best. Meanwhile, they stepped out of their sleek black vans, parting the crowd like Moses, and vanished in seconds behind the doors.

What was waiting on the other side?

I waited for London Man—a friend and one of those people who effortlessly got in anywhere, no matter where or what the event was. A true socialite who always looked put together in intricate layers, Rick Owens shoes, and a distinct scent that filled my nostrils to the brim when he embraced me. He has soft voice that constantly made me have to ask him to speak up. A posh accent with an elevated vocabulary, sprinkled with just the right amount of London slang, making it a pleasant balance. And, of course, very successful with women—I, too, had once been a victim of his charm. I usually do not keep past lovers around but we really get along, so we’ve remained good friends. 

My anxiety was eating me alive. He was taking what felt like hours to meet me. I was used to feeling uneasy in big crowds, especially at fashion events, but this time felt different. I was physically shaking, like my body knew this wasn’t for me. I stepped back from the crowd and waited impatiently. The “me” now would have left, but I guess, at the time, this was something I needed to do—to experience.  

My heart skipped a beat when I spotted my crush, the one who would eventually become my first-ever boyfriend. But of course, I didn’t know that yet. He had just returned from four months in Tokyo, where he had been working as a model. We had started seeing each other a month or so before he found out he had to leave. I had taken a liking to him maybe a little faster than usual. We were sitting by the canal in the 19th arrondissement on a very sunny afternoon, after picking me up from class when he broke the news. I faked a smile and told him I was happy for him.

We had kept in contact until he ghosted me for a while, which hurt my feelings. He had left me in the dark after I had opened up to him. I was freshly 19 and far more sensitive back then, so it felt like my world was crumbling. But, of course, he came back—like they all do—and apologised for his lack of communication. Me, being young and naive, took him back. We got together almost a year later when he finally wanted to commit. We proceeded to start a relationship filled with grudges, resentment, and deep passion.

London Man finally arrived, accompanied by a posse of beautiful women. He took me by the hand—he, too, held the same power as the influencers and effortlessly made his way through the crowd. He spoke to the bouncers briefly, and as planned, they let us in. The club was soaked in a deep, blood-red hue. The floors shook from the heavy bass of trap music blaring from massive speakers, as if thousands of lost souls trapped underground were desperately trying to claw their way to the surface. Sweaty bodies bumped and ground against each other in every direction. A true depiction of Hell.

London Man ran off to greet everyone he knew, which was half the club. While I stood there, not knowing what to do with myself. I saw a few familiar faces and tried to avoid them at all costs — people I recognised from Instagram, where we follow each other but somehow never acknowledge each other in real life. Yet, we know exactly where the other vacationed that summer from our stories. Or the boys who’ve been talking to a wall in my DMs for months, endlessly sliding up to my stories, only to avoid eye contact the moment we’re in the same room. My anxiety was getting worse, especially in the heat, and small talk with people I barely knew was the last thing I wanted to engage in. Although, for once, everyone looked like they were having a good time. Except for a few pouty girls sitting on the couch, scrolling through their phones. Maybe it was because, this time, people were already intoxicated and had let loose. Because most fashion events are just people looking at each other, yet collectively trying to hide the fact that they are. A look I would come to recognise at every fashion week event. It was evasive yet subtly charged, as if they didn’t want to be caught looking but fully expected to be watched. Their expressions were unnatural, like the practiced poses models hold during a shoot. Calculated yet effortlessly detached. It forever unsettles me that we collectively choose to look cold and standoffish instead of warm and welcoming. Why is that?

I pushed through the crowd toward the bathrooms. I don’t know why I thought I could be alone and catch a breath there, because once again, I found myself waiting in line.  

The timing couldn’t have been worse—my crush was leaving the bathroom at that exact moment. We locked eyes. I gave him a small smile, and he gave me a big one.  “Hey! It’s so nice seeing you here!” He was clearly intoxicated. Normally quiet and a little timid, he was nothing like that now. “Come near the speakers later!” he shouted before running off.  I felt uneasy about how he spoke to me, like we were just casual friends. Like we hadn’t shared something special. Like he hadn’t already made me cry. But I was happy to see him nonetheless, so I went and found him near the speakers. We tried to talk over the music, but it was nearly impossible to hear. I was nervous, I always was around him. Someone once told me that the intense butterflies in your stomach eventually fade after your teenage years. I believe he was probably the last person I ever felt them with.  

The conversation was awkward—stupid questions like, “How was Japan?” and “What have you been up to in Paris?” We were constantly interrupted by people congratulating him on the show. I felt like a burden. I thought he felt like he had to stay with me out of guilt because of how he treated me, and nothing made me feel more embarrassed than knowing that someone felt bad for me. We sat next to each other without saying anything. A massive elephant was in the room, but this was not the place and time to address it. Having nothing to say made me nervous, but he made me so anxious that I had nothing to say. Looking back, I didn’t know why I stayed around, why I thought the night was going to get better. I didn’t know what could’ve changed my state of mind, maybe my friends would miraculously show up and make it through the gates of hell, but those chances were so slim. And I had hoped he would suggest leaving the party together, going for a walk, catching up to talk about what had changed in Japan. Maybe we would kiss somewhere under the yellow streetlights. But he was enjoying his time and was too drunk to care. I told myself that perhaps I should get an overpriced drink at the bar to loosen up. It took me another 20 minutes to get a vodka cran. Not only was it packed, but I was also met with passive-aggressive bartenders, which didn’t help with the way I was already feeling. Of course, that one drink didn’t do much, and I was a student with a budget. I was miserable and finally admitted to myself that the night wasn’t going to get any better. So, I swiftly said goodbye to London Man while he was getting a lap dance from a drunk model, grabbed my coat, and went outside. The fresh air hit my face, and I felt like I could breathe again.

The more I attended parties, the more I yearned to be one of the effortlessly cool fashion kids. The ones you’re never quite sure what they do, yet they’re always there. They seem to know everyone in the industry, traveling to all the fashion capitals every season, staying in luxurious hotels, and rubbing shoulders with celebrities and important figures. They carry an air of belonging, exuding confidence in every space they step into.  

I was too fixated on the wrong aspects of fashion—the superficial rather than the art. I kept telling myself that in time, once I started working and made more friends in the industry, I’d feel more at ease in those spaces. That I’d master the art of dressing, of walking into any event with grace and confidence. But that wasn’t necessarily the case.  

I did eventually start working, and I did meet some of the most inspiring creatives. I traveled the world for work, interned, and wrote for brands I once admired from afar. My personal style evolved (thank God). I no longer had to sneak into parties, pretending to be a fashion buyer or someone I wasn’t. Yet, despite all of this, the feeling of being out of place never fully disappeared. There are still moments when I feel incredibly uncomfortable, battling major imposter syndrome. No matter how prominently my name appears on invitations or how much I’ve earned my place at the table, I rarely feel good enough. And doing my best to work on it. 

But with time and growth, I’ve come to realise that, in the grand scheme of things, none of it really matters. Don’t get me wrong, the heart of the industry is beautiful, built by creative geniuses who pour their souls into their craft, bringing breathtaking designs and visuals to life. But everything surrounding it? Mostly fluff, designed to create an illusion of importance. And understanding this has been liberating. I’ve slowly taken a step back from that world. I still work in it, but I’m not as deeply involved as I once was. As I transition toward new pursuits, I find myself looking back on those days—days that now feel like a lifetime ago. And I can’t help but feel for my younger self, who just wanted to belong.  

I wish I could tell her that she would find her people in fashion. The ones who would never make her feel out of place.

Bali, January 2025