Volunteer to go first
From Create Your Own Story
“Your turn,” he says lightly, though there’s something assessing in his gaze now. From behind his back he produces another folded shirt. This one is black—deep, matte black—and when he snaps it open the bold white lettering across the chest makes your stomach flip.
Fukboi.
He arches a brow as he holds it out to you. “Let’s see how you wear it.”
The air feels heavier when you stand. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything—the soft rasp of denim as Kevin drops back onto the sofa, the faint hum of the studio light, the quiet whir as Rod adjusts something on his camera. Kevin stretches out beside where you’d been sitting, one arm draped lazily along the backrest, watching with open curiosity.
You take the shirt from Mike. The cotton is cool and smooth between your fingers.
There’s no graceful way to do it, so you just do it.
You hook your thumbs under the hem of your own t-shirt and pull it up and over your head in one steady motion. The room feels wider without the fabric shielding you. For a split second, you feel every set of eyes—Rod’s from behind the lens, Mike’s steady and appraising, Kevin’s relaxed but intent.
You tell yourself not to rush.
The black shirt slides down over your shoulders, softer than you expect. You tug it into place, smoothing it over your chest, adjusting the hem so the lettering sits straight. The word feels bold. Brazen. Not quite you—but maybe that’s the point.
Kevin shifts on the sofa, sinking deeper into the cushions, one corner of his mouth curving upward as if to say, You’ve got this.
“Step in,” Rod calls.
Your legs feel strangely light as you walk into the wash of the makeshift studio light. It’s warmer there, brighter. Exposed.
You stop where Kevin had stood minutes ago.
And freeze.
“Relax,” Rod says, not unkindly. The shutter clicks once. Twice. “Just give me… something. Doesn’t have to be big.”
You shove your hands into your jeans pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, weight shifting awkwardly onto one leg.
Click. Click.
Rod lowers the camera a fraction. “Alright. Chin up a little. There—yeah. Don’t hide. Own it.”
You lift your chin.
Click.
“That’s better.” His tone changes, more animated now. “Turn your torso toward me—just a touch. Let the shirt fall naturally. Good. Now look past me, like you’re bored of all this.”
You try. It feels ridiculous at first, but then something loosens. You stop thinking about where your arms are. Stop wondering how your stomach looks. Stop calculating where everyone’s eyes might be.
Click. Click-click.
“See?” Rod says. “That’s it. You’ve got a sharper edge than you think.”
Heat rises to your cheeks, but it’s different now. Less embarrassment. More adrenaline.
“Roll your shoulders back,” Mike adds from somewhere behind the lights. “Yeah. There you go.”
You breathe in slowly and let it out. The fabric settles against you. The word across your chest doesn’t feel like a joke anymore—it feels like armor. A persona you can step into.
Rod circles slightly, the shutter firing in steady rhythm. “Tilt your head down… eyes up at me. Perfect. Hold that.”
For a moment, you forget Kevin is watching. Forget the sofa. Forget the nerves.
There’s only the light. The camera. The quiet hum of approval when Rod lowers the lens and nods to himself.
“Now you’re getting it,” he says, a grin creeping across his face. “That’s the shot.”
