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

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