BALDWIN HILLS MEETS MALIBU CHIC

Captured by Mitchell Royel in the Fashion District, where everything felt a little golden, a little slow, and a little too good to leave behind. There was this soft kind of heat in the air, the kind that makes every glance feel loaded and every frame feel like a memory before the night is even over. And now playing, Hot & Sexy - Girls Trip by Zara Larsson and Tyla, because it fits the mood exactly—pretty, bold, effortless, and just the right amount of dangerous.

There are days when inspiration politely taps you on the shoulder, and there are days when it practically pulls you out the door.

This was one of the second kind.

I had been staring at fabric swatches for a new dress line for what felt like forever. Soft cottons, slippery silks, tiny floral prints, clean solids, buttons that were almost right but not quite. Everything was pretty, but nothing was saying anything. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about designing dresses, it’s that “pretty” is only the beginning. A good dress should have a point of view. It should feel like somewhere you’ve been, someone you’ve met, or a version of yourself you’re just about ready to become.

So my girlfriend and I decided to leave our usual little world for the afternoon. We ventured out of my natural habitat with iced coffees, sunglasses, and a very open mind. Our destination was a dress shop in Baldwin Hills, partly because I had heard about it, and partly because the neighborhood had been lingering in my imagination after watching the show. There was something about the hills, the houses, the confidence, and the quiet glamour of it all that made me curious.

I wasn’t looking for anything too specific. Sometimes that is the best way to shop for inspiration. You go in without a checklist, and the day hands you exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

The dress shop was tucked into a sweet little stretch that felt lived-in and loved. Not overly polished. Not trying too hard. Just warm, colorful, and full of personality.

Inside, there were racks of dresses that immediately made me slow down. Cotton sundresses with easy movement. More structured pieces with sharp little waists. Prints that felt bright without being loud. A few pieces had that rare quality I always notice: they looked like they belonged to real women with real plans.

Brunch. A birthday dinner. A first date. A family party where you want to look effortless but secretly spent twenty minutes deciding on earrings.

Behind the register was a young woman in her twenties who looked like she had been styled by instinct. She had that calm, pretty confidence that doesn’t announce itself. Her hair was done, her makeup was soft, and she wore a dress from the shop in the most convincing way possible: like she wasn’t selling it, she was living in it.

A young man, also in his twenties, was moving around the store helping with things in that half-owner, half-boyfriend way. He adjusted a hanger, checked on a customer, answered a question, then drifted back toward the register to talk to her. There was a rhythm between them that made it feel like the shop was more than a business. It felt like a love story with inventory.

At one point, my girlfriend leaned in and whispered, “Do you think he bought it for her?”

I smiled because I had been wondering the same thing.

Maybe he bought it. Maybe he ran it for her. Maybe they built it together. Whatever the real answer was, there was something very sweet about watching two young people create a little world of their own and invite strangers into it.

We were holding two dresses each by then, pretending to be casual but very much invested, when the young man started talking about the neighborhood. He mentioned, almost in passing, that they lived in the three-story houses up the hill.

My girlfriend and I both paused.

Not dramatically. Not in a movie-scene way. More like two people who had just heard one sentence and suddenly had a million questions.

The three-story houses up the hill.

It was such a simple detail, but it opened a whole window in my mind. I wanted to ask about everything. What was it like growing up there? Did they always know they would stay? Did the shop come first or the house? Were they building something for themselves, for their families, for the neighborhood? Did people underestimate them? Did they enjoy proving people wrong, or was that exhausting?

Of course, I did not ask all of those questions, because curiosity still needs manners.

But I felt them.

There is a specific kind of pause that happens when you realize your assumptions have been walking a few steps ahead of you. You may not have invited them, but there they are, making themselves comfortable.

And that was the tiny lesson tucked inside the afternoon.

I have been thinking a lot about prejudice lately. Not in the loud, obvious way it usually gets discussed, but in the quiet way it can live underneath a thought before you even notice it.

Most people know how to control overt racism, or at least how to hide it. We know the right things to say in public. We know what sounds ugly. We know what crosses a line.

But prejudice is sneakier than that.

It can show up as surprise. It can sound like, “Oh, I didn’t expect that.” It can look like a pause after someone tells you where they live, what they own, who they love, or what they have built. It can sit quietly inside admiration, dressed up as curiosity.

That is the part that feels important to pay attention to.

Because if we are not careful, prejudice catches up to us in the small moments. Not always as cruelty. Sometimes as limitation. Sometimes as a story we wrote about someone before they had the chance to tell us the truth.

Standing in that dress shop, surrounded by pretty fabrics and afternoon light, I realized how easy it is to move through the world thinking you are open-minded while still carrying little folded-up assumptions in your pocket.

The goal is not to shame ourselves every time we notice one. The goal is to notice. To unfold it. To ask where it came from. To decide not to keep carrying it.

That afternoon reminded me that graciousness is not just how we speak to other people. It is also how honestly we examine ourselves.

I left the shop with two dresses I loved and one I probably did not need but absolutely could not leave behind.

One was soft and feminine, with a shape I kept thinking about for my own line. Another had a color combination I would not have chosen on a mood board, but in person it felt fresh and alive. The third had a neckline that made me rethink a sketch I had nearly abandoned earlier that week.

That is the beautiful thing about stepping outside your usual places. You stop designing from memory and start designing from experience.

I came home with notes in my phone, photos of details I wanted to remember, and that happy little feeling that comes after finding inspiration in an unexpected corner of the day. But more than that, I came home with a reminder that style is never just about clothes.

It is about who gets seen.

It is about who gets underestimated.

It is about the stories we tell ourselves before we know better, and the grace we give ourselves when we finally do.

My girlfriend and I talked about it on the drive home. The dresses. The couple. The houses up the hill. The way the shop felt like ambition and affection stitched together. We both agreed that the afternoon had given us much more than shopping bags.

It gave us a small but lasting shift in perspective.

And honestly, those are the best kinds of outings. The ones that begin with a search for fabric and end with a better understanding of people.

So yes, I found inspiration for the dress line. I found new shapes, new colors, and a new sense of ease I want to bring into the collection. But I also found a reminder to keep looking closer, listening longer, and letting the world surprise me without turning that surprise into a judgment.

We left with new dresses, lots of inspiration, and a subtle but profound lesson.

See you soon, Baldwin Hills.

—Ryder, Mitchell Royel

CLOSED DOORS, OPEN HEARTS, HERE'S WHY

Listening to "You Should Come Over" by Emerge, captured here in Reseda, California, feels like a soundtrack to my transformation. This is where I now live, where new roots are sinking into the soil of possibility. Goodbye, Topanga Canyon—for good. The echoes of that place, both bittersweet and brimming with lessons, will remain a distant memory as I fully step into this new chapter of self-discovery and peace.

I live on the edge of Topanga Canyon and Woodland Hills, where the rugged beauty of nature collides with the constant hum of suburban life. It’s a place that feels as raw and stubborn as I do—a reflection of my struggle to find balance among the cliffs and chaos. But I wasn't always here. I’m from Reseda, California, a town I’ve called home for over a decade. Reseda shaped me, for better or worse, with its quiet streets and memories steeped in cheap thrills and heartbreak.

I remember meeting a guy in an AOL chat room back in those early days of the internet—an era where digital connection felt novel and thrilling. It was a time when you could whisper secrets into the void of a chatbox, not knowing if they’d be received with compassion or indifference. We talked endlessly about nothing and everything. And like so much else in my life, it ultimately amounted to more questions than answers, but it’s a memory that lingers, nonetheless.

Now, as I sit here staring at my screen, my wrists hurt from typing too much—hours spent wrestling with the weight of my thoughts. I’m done. Done with the acrid taste of disappointment clinging to the back of my throat. Done bearing the weight of my feelings in silence to keep others comfortable. Done pretending that what happened wasn’t an unforgivable betrayal of trust. You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Playing invincible, untouchable, orchestrating the twisted little script you’ve imagined. But here’s the truth—I hope you burn in hell.

And no, this isn’t some shock value outcry or a cheap ploy to string along the peanut gallery you cling to. If anything, it’s liberation—liberation from the grip you think you still have over me. This is for me. I live on the edge of Topanga Canyon, surrounded by cliffs and trails that don’t pretend to be anything they aren’t. They are solid, unapologetic, steadfast even under the pressure of wind and rain. Unlike you, who masks cowardice as chaos, walking the line between charm and damage whenever it suits your selfish whims.

Do you know what’s worse than falling for you? Realizing I was drawn to the illusion of you for an entire year. Like a moth to a flame, I stepped closer, oblivious to the danger, until everything burned. Fire doesn’t just provide warmth—it razes everything in its path. That fire destroyed my trust, my hope, and for a while, it destroyed me. I sit here now, knees pulled to my chest, fingers aching from typing words you’ll never read or care to understand. Piece by piece, you unraveled me. Not with honesty—because that’s not who you are—but with neglect, with apathy, with your inability to care.

And you know what? That’s fine, because I spent so long fighting for something that wasn’t real. I bled, screamed, and cried for you. But now, that’s over. It ends here. The wounds you left won’t be hidden away neatly so you can sleep better at night. They’ll stay raw, exposed, a reminder of who you are and how wrong I was to trust you. You're not deep. You're not different. And you’re sure as hell not worth another drop of my tears.

Starting now, my home—the space I found on the edge of this canyon—is mine and mine alone. For the next year, there will be no visitors, no laughter from those who bring more harm than joy, no half-hearted apologies for making this choice. My sanctuary isn’t a shelter for broken promises or superficial connections anymore. It’s a place for healing, for growth, for reclaiming the parts of me you tried to shatter. No longer will my doors swing open for those who fail to see my worth.

This time, this space, it’s for me. No explanations. No exceptions. No apologies.

-Ryder, Mitchell Royel

SET YOUR SOCIAL BOUNDARIES LIKE A FORCE FIELD

So here's the thing about me at sixteen.

Captured by Mitchell Royel, I wanted to express how thrilling it is to be part of such a unique and imaginative project. The posters seen here, while eye-catching, are not affiliated with Disney Channel or the WB and are purely creative mockups—not official promotional materials for the show. Shot in the vibrant Fashion District, the energy of the setting perfectly matches the artistic concept behind this endeavor. Right now, I’m soaking in the vibe with "Slow Down - 12” Version" by Bobby V playing in the background, a fitting soundtrack for a moment steeped in creativity and expression.

I was the girl with the highlighter collection. Color-coded notes. Lunchtime spent in the library because the cafeteria felt like a stage I never auditioned for. And every day, through those big windows, I'd watch the guys play football on the grass. Not real football. Just the messy, laughing, shirts-getting-grass-stained kind.

There was one of them. I won't say his name. But I memorized the way he ran. The way he threw his head back when he laughed. I built a whole person out of glances, you know? I gave him opinions and favorite songs and a soft spot for girls who quote books nobody reads. None of it was real. All of it lived in my chest like a second heartbeat.

Then one day he asked me to hang out.

Just like that. Casual. Like it cost him nothing. And I think it didn't.

That's when I found out his family was kind of a big deal. Not, like, magazine-cover famous. More like everybody in a certain world knows that last name famous. The kind of famous where people lower their voices when they say it. His house had a name. His mom had been on things. There were photos on the walls of people who'd actually been somewhere.

And I stood in that hallway in my thrifted cardigan feeling like a typo.

We hung out. We really did. And it was the strangest afternoon of my life, because nothing happened. And I don't mean that the way it sounds. He didn't want to kiss me. He didn't want to hold my hand or trap me on a couch or any of the stuff I'd half-dreaded, half-hoped for. It was completely, painfully platonic.

We just sat there. Two people with nothing in common, smiling too much.

I'd ask a question. He'd answer in three words. I'd laugh too loud at something that wasn't funny. He'd check his phone. There was this silence that kept growing in the room like it was paying rent. I kept reaching for the version of him I'd invented, and my hand kept closing on air.

He was nice. That's the worst part. He wasn't cruel or stuck-up. He was just... from somewhere I'd never be from. He moved through the world like doors had always been open for him, because they had. And I realized the gap between us wasn't about whether he liked me. It was about whole different gravities. He'd never had to be the smart one in the corner because being himself was already enough.

I left feeling small. Not heartbroken, exactly. Just sort of deflated, like a balloon three days after the party.

And here's what took me years to understand. The crush was never about him. It was about wanting to be the kind of girl that someone like that picks. I wanted his world to reach down and tell me I belonged in it.

But I didn't. And that's okay now.

I'm still the highlighter girl. I'm still a little awkward, still laugh at the wrong times, still build whole people out of glances sometimes. The difference is I stopped being mad about it. Being uncool isn't a sentence. It's just a setting. And privilege? Privilege is just a thing some people have that I confused with worth.

He had a famous last name. I had a library card and a heart that feels too much.

I'd rather keep mine.

When it comes to hanging out with guys who are more your speed, the key is to focus on shared interests and mutual respect. Spend time with people who appreciate you for who you are and make you feel comfortable in your own skin. Whether it’s bonding over books, enjoying the same music, or sharing similar values, those connections will feel effortless and fulfilling. It’s important to remember that the right company should add to your life, not make you question your worth.

On the other hand, spending time with guys who you absolutely have nothing in common with doesn’t have to be awkward or unpleasant. Approach these interactions with an open mind and a sense of curiosity. You might learn something new or gain a fresh perspective. The key is to maintain healthy boundaries and not compromise who you are to fit someone else’s mold. Respect the differences, but don’t feel the need to force a deep connection where there isn’t one. Sometimes, it’s enough to simply be civil while staying true to yourself.

-Ryder, Mitchell Royel

SENIOR YEAR WAS NOT A LOVE STORY

Captured by Mitchell Royel in the Fashion District, now playing “You Again [E]” by Ally Hills—unfinished business, and just enough danger in the air to make nostalgia feel expensive.

Senior year in Malibu had a way of making everything feel more cinematic than it really was. The ocean was close, graduation was coming, and every conversation seemed to carry that last-semester intensity, like everything needed a bigger meaning just because it was about to end. I remember talking with you in class, trying to understand things in terms of us, or at least in terms of what you seemed to want me to think “us” meant. But to be clear, there was no official us. There was no grand romance here, no private contract, no exclusivity. You were not my boyfriend. That distinction matters, and it still matters now.

I think that is part of why what happened right before graduation landed the way it did. When I found out you had lowballed me to the degree that you did, it did not read to me as complicated. It did not feel romantic, messy, or emotionally profound. It felt cheap. It felt attention-seeking. It felt exploitative. More than anything, it felt like the kind of move someone makes when they are more invested in control, image, or reaction than in being real.

And honestly, that did not genuinely break my heart.

I know people like to turn every disappointment into a heartbreak narrative because it sounds more poetic, but that is not what this was. This was not some devastating collapse that changed my life. It was just revealing. It showed me your level of character, or lack of it, and once I saw that clearly, there was not much left to debate. I was not shattered. I was not spiraling. I was not sitting around making you the center of my emotional universe. I was mostly just looking at the situation for what it was and thinking: that is deeply uncool.

If anything, I feel sorry for you. Sorry that you needed to make something smaller than it was. Sorry that you seemed to confuse proximity with significance. Sorry that you apparently thought diminishing me would somehow elevate you. There is something embarrassing about that kind of behavior, especially in hindsight. It is one thing to be immature in high school. It is another thing entirely to build your choices around that immaturity and expect other people to take it seriously.

What happens now is actually very simple: I do not speak to you.

That is it. No dramatic fallout. No ongoing war. No need for some performative narrative about damage or revenge. We are not on speaking terms, and life is essentially the same. It is chill. The world did not stop. My goals did not change. My direction did not change. My life did not suddenly reorganize itself around what you did, because I am not willing to make fringe concessions to my future over somebody else’s weak behavior.

That part is important to me. I am not shrinking my plans, softening my standards, or rerouting my focus because you chose to act in a way that was beneath me. I am not making myself more cautious, more confused, or more available to nonsense just because you decided to be a douche. You do not get that kind of influence. You do not get to leave behind some dramatic legacy in my life when, in reality, the lasting consequence is just that I no longer deal with you.

And maybe that is what stings for certain people: not being hated, not being mourned, just being cut off and left behind. No grand speech. No collapse. No special role in the story. Just distance, clarity, and consequences.

We are not in high school anymore. Whatever that was, it ended there. I am not speaking to you, not because you broke my heart, but because I see you clearly now, and that is more than enough reason. Life goes on. Mine, especially, goes on well.

-Ryder, Mitchell Royel

LOVE STAYS ON THE GRASS WHEN THE SKY FALLS

Captured by Mitchell Royel.

Somewhere in Santa Monica, or maybe it was Venice — the memory gets blurry when your heart is busy rewriting the crime scene.

Now playing: “I Really Fucked It Up” by GIRLI.

Not for the drama.
For the accountability.
For the part where regret grows up and tells the truth.

thinking about the three weeks I spent waiting for Venice.

Not just waiting for the flight, or the water, or the narrow streets that look like they were built out of memory. I was waiting for us. I was waiting for the version of us I had quietly built in my heart: softer, lighter, holding hands across bridges, laughing over coffee, letting the city wash away what we had not yet learned how to say.

I carried so much hope into those three weeks.

I packed it into every conversation. I tucked it into the pauses between us. I imagined that by the time we arrived, something would open. Maybe the distance between my fear and your tenderness would shrink. Maybe the old ache in me would stop reaching for proof. Maybe love would feel easy for a moment.

But love, especially after heartbreak, does not always become easy just because the scenery is beautiful.

Sometimes the wound comes with us.

And somehow, before Venice could become what I dreamed it would be, things went left.

We ended up on the grass.

I can still see it: the sky above us, the ground beneath me, my heart somewhere outside my body. I had tears in my eyes, the kind I tried to hold back because I did not want to look like the woman who was too much, too emotional, too afraid. You were there, but you had gone quiet. Your silence sat between us like a wall I did not know how to climb.

And here is the part I did not say out loud.

Secretly, I knew it was my fault.

Not all of it. Not the whole story. Love is rarely that simple. But I knew I had brought something into that moment that did not belong only to us. I brought old pain. I brought the memory of being left, misunderstood, chosen halfway, loved inconsistently. I brought every time I had to make myself smaller to keep someone close. I brought the fear that if I did not protect myself first, I would disappear inside another heartbreak.

So I reacted from the wound, not the truth.

I looked at you through the eyes of what had hurt me before. I heard danger where there may have been confusion. I reached for control when what I really wanted was closeness. I made a moment heavier than it needed to be because a part of me was still living in another ending.

That is the humbling thing about dating after heartbreak.

You can want love with your whole heart and still flinch when it arrives. You can pray for intimacy and then panic when someone gets close enough to see the unfinished places. You can crave safety and still test it. You can meet someone kind and still make them answer for the people who were not.

This is not an excuse. It is a truth.

And truth, when we are brave enough to face it, can become a doorway.

I am learning that healing does not mean I never get triggered. It means I stop handing my triggers the steering wheel. It means I pause long enough to ask, “Is this what is happening now, or is this what happened then?” It means I can say, “I am scared,” instead of starting a fire just to prove I can survive the heat.

I am learning that accountability is not self-punishment. It is self-respect.

So I want to say this clearly: I am sorry for the ways I let my fear speak louder than my love. I am sorry for the moments I made you responsible for pain you did not create. I am sorry for letting my protection become distance, my anxiety become accusation, my sadness become something sharp.

And I also want to honor the part of me that was only trying to stay safe.

She was not bad. She was bruised.

She had loved before and lost pieces of herself in the process. She had learned to scan for danger, to read silence as rejection, to brace for disappointment before it arrived. She did not know that peace could be trusted. She did not know that a disagreement did not have to mean abandonment.

Maybe that is what we are both learning.

How to stay present when the old stories rise.

How to tell the truth before resentment writes it for us.

How to hold each other without making each other carry everything.

How to be powerful in love, not by winning, not by withdrawing, not by proving who hurt more, but by choosing honesty when pride would rather hide.

That day on the grass, I wanted you to break the silence. I wanted you to reach for me. I wanted you to know exactly what I needed without making me say it.

But now I see that love cannot grow inside secret tests.

Love grows where we are willing to speak plainly. Where we can say, “This hurt me.” Where we can say, “I was wrong.” Where we can say, “I am still learning how to be loved without running.”

I do not know what Venice will become for us now. Maybe it will still be beautiful. Maybe it will be complicated. Maybe it will ask us to walk slowly, to forgive gently, to stop expecting a city to heal what only truth can touch.

But I know this: I do not want to bring the old version of myself there without awareness. I do not want to keep confusing intensity with connection. I do not want to turn love into a courtroom where we both stand trial for the past.

I want to meet you with more softness and more courage.

I want to take responsibility without losing tenderness for myself.

I want to remember that the grass, the tears, the silence, and the fault were not the end of the story. They were an invitation. Painful, yes. But honest. And maybe honesty is the first bridge we have to cross before we ever make it to Venice.

So this is my open letter to you.

To the man who went quiet.

To the woman in me who cried.

To the love that got tangled in fear.

I am listening now.

And I am willing to learn a better way.

-Ryder