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

BURN IT DOWN, THEN BUILD YOUR CATHEDRAL

Raw and electric, echoes through the spaces we inhabit. Captured by Mitchell Royel in the heart of the Fashion District, it resonates like a mantra for the dreamers, the creators, the ones who dare. And now, like a pulse in the background, "On & On" by Armin van Buuren, Punctual, and Alika threads through the air, weaving rhythm into emotion. Make it artsy, they say — turn the chaos, the heartbeat, the beauty into something eternal.

Let me tell you about the night I became an artist.

It wasn't in a studio. It wasn't with good lighting and a clean conscience. It was on a kitchen floor at 2am, mascara running down my face like ink that refused to stay where it belonged, scrawling lyrics on the back of an envelope because every other surface felt too sacred for what I was feeling.

He had just left. Or I had left. The details blur, the way they always do when the fire is still hot. What I remember is the wanting. The animal, undignified wanting. And underneath all of it — paper. Always paper under us. Under the wine glasses, under the bodies, under the bad decisions we were too alive to regret.

Here's what nobody tells you, darling.

Heartbreak is the most expensive fuel you'll ever burn

And it's free.

We treat our chaos like a wound to hide. We apologize for the crazy. We swallow the obsession, the stalking-his-feed-at-3am, the texts we wrote and deleted and wrote again. We call it weakness. We call it embarrassing. We call it everything except what it actually is.

It's raw material.

Every dirty hookup that ruined you a little. Every love that tasted like gasoline. Every person who got under your skin so deep you could feel them in your teeth — these are not your failures. These are your richest veins. You are sitting on gold and calling it shame.

I've written my worst lines drowning in someone. Lines so bad they curled the page. So atrociously, gloriously terrible that they looped right back around to transcendent. Because the badness was honest. Because the mess was true. And truth has never once cared about being pretty.

The nights dripped in paint

You know the ones.

The nights that felt like the whole room was wet with color, where you couldn't tell your own heartbeat from the music. Where you said yes to the wrong thing and felt more awake than you'd been in years. Where you cried so hard you laughed, and created something at the bottom of all that feeling that you could never have made sober and safe and whole.

We don't make our best work from the calm. We make it from the wreckage.

Pain doesn't ask permission. It just hands you a brush and a bottomless well of color and says: paint your way out of me.

So you do.

But here's the part that actually matters

The fire is not the gift.

Anyone can burn. Anyone can spiral, obsess, fall apart beautifully on a kitchen floor. That's just being human with the volume turned up.

The gift — the real, fierce, holy gift — is the containment.

It's learning to hold all that heat in your two hands without letting it consume the house. It's taking the obsession and pouring it into the song instead of the voicemail. It's taking the heartbreak and building it into the painting, the business, the body of work that outlives the man who broke you.

Contain it well enough and the breakup becomes the album. The bad decision becomes the memoir. The stalker-energy in your own chest becomes the discipline that finishes the project at 4am while everyone else is asleep and sane.

That's the alchemy. That's the whole game.

You don't get to skip the burning. But you do get to decide what you build from the ash.

So go ahead. Feel it all the way down.

Love the wrong people. Make the messy art. Let your mascara run and write the terrible lines anyway. Save the envelopes. Keep the receipts of your own wild heart.

Just promise me one thing.

Don't let it stay a wound. Turn it. Shape it. Contain that fire so completely, so masterfully, that one day you look back at the worst thing that ever happened to you —

and you call it the best.

That's not survival, sweetheart.

That's art.

-Ryder, Mitchell Royel

PRINCESS TEACUPS AND BROKEN TRUST

Omg, like, life update! Totally just got captured in the Fashion District by Mitchell Royel—like, hello, dream vibes! He said my look was giving main character energy (duh, right?). Anyways, now I’m literally obsessing over my playlist—Veronica by Leah Kate is, like, on full blast, and Lose Lose by Alexa Cappelli? Ugh, so real. Feeling all the feels and living my best life, obviously.

HOSPITAL MORNINGS &
HEAT FLASH REVELATIONS

Okay, so here’s the deal—yesterday started like any other day, but quickly turned into something straight out of a surreal fever dream. I woke up drenched in sweat, the kind of clammy, overwhelming heat flash where you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or if reality took a wrong turn. My head felt thick, my thoughts fuzzy, as if everything was just a little off-kilter and too real all at once. By mid-morning, I found myself parked in the sterile, fluorescent maze of a hospital room, hooked up to machines and forced to confront the question I’d been too distracted to ask myself for weeks—how did I even get here? And as my body fought to steady itself, my brain wandered somewhere else entirely, like rewinding an old, grainy videotape to scenes of a past I hadn’t thought about in ages.

I was 12 again, sitting in that in-between place where childhood and growing up intersect, still naive enough to believe in fairytales but starting to realize they don’t always play out the way you think. Back then, I had this boyfriend. Well, “boyfriend” in the middle-school sense of the word, when passing notes between classes feels like the height of romance. He was my prince, you know? Or at least I thought he was. That one boy you imagine marrying someday because your world is still tiny, and everything in it seems possible. We planned this fairytale photoshoot one sunny afternoon—the whole thing was supposed to be a whimsical, magical adventure. There were sparkly princess tiaras, an air of Disney-level fantastical charm, and these dainty little teacups that made everything feel like it belonged in some enchanted castle. It was perfect... or so it seemed, up until the point it wasn’t.

Because right in the elementary-middle of this make-believe fairytale shoot, my two best girlfriends showed up unannounced. Their faces betrayed them before they even opened their mouths—equal parts hesitant and heartbroken. They pulled me aside, voices low but sharp like tiny razors, and started telling me things I didn’t want to hear, didn’t know how to process. “Did you know he said this…?” “We saw him with her…” Each word drained the innocence out of my 12-year-old self as if I’d sprung a leak and didn’t know how to plug it in time. It felt like a hurricane, one you don’t see coming, ripping through your world with the kind of force that only confusion and heartbreak can create. Suddenly, he wasn’t just my prince—he was someone else’s too, or maybe everyone’s. And just like that, my picture-perfect photoshoot turned into something else entirely—a messy mosaic of broken trust and hard truths about people who don’t quite know the difference between attention and love.

Betrayal lands differently when you’re still figuring out who you are. It doesn’t just hurt—it leaves graffiti on your heart, carving words you never wanted to read onto the walls of your innocence. And it sticks with you. For years, you carry it around like an old scar. You try to scrub it away, and sometimes you convince yourself you’ve done it, but the faint outline always remains. You wonder if love always ends with disappointment, if trust is just a game where you’re always one move away from losing. But here’s the thing—you learn. You grow. You start to understand that betrayal says more about the person doing it than it does about you. It’s not your failure, but their flaw, their shortcoming.

If there’s anything I’ve taken away since those princess teacup days, it’s this—heartbreak doesn’t define love, and trust isn’t a weakness. It’s a choice, a necessity, something that gives love its meaning. And to the boys out there—the ones who call themselves princes—listen up. Treat the girls in your lives with respect, whether they’re 12, 22, or 102. Don’t be the reason they lose their spark too soon. Don’t steal the magic from their princess photoshoots. Don’t be the reason someone grows up faster than they were meant to.

-Ryder

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