WHAT WE'RE REALLY GOING THROUGH

Yesterday felt like a dream, walking through the vibrant chaos of the Fashion District as the late afternoon sun painted everything golden. There's a raw energy here—colors, textures, and stories weaving together like a tapestry. Each frame I captured held a piece of that life, those fleeting moments where beauty and grit collide. All the while, "IT GIRL" by Aliyahs Interlude played in my ears, looping like the soundtrack to this cinematic experience. The music matched the mood perfectly—cool, introspective, unapologetically bold. It’s in these moments, these intersections of sound, style, and spontaneity, that you feel truly alive.

We know this feeling.

The one where we're loud on the outside and trembling underneath.

Look at the photo. A body curled soft on the bed. Hands over the face. A plush cat hat, overalls stitched with cartoons, a heart on the wrist. Everything about the outfit says joy. Everything about the pose says not yet.

Both are true.

There's a second figure in the room. Standing. Facing away.

We think that's us too.

The part that turned its back. The part that got quiet. The part that stopped looking.

We live between these two selves. The one who wants to be seen in full color. The one who steps out of the frame and stares at the wall.

Neither is wrong. Both are surviving.

We built this shoot around a single ache: what it costs to protect our inner child.

Kidcore isn't a costume here. It's armor made of softness.

The plush hat. The striped shirt. The tiny heart charm. We chose things that felt like a childhood bedroom because that's where the tender parts of us still live. Bright walls. Toy posters. String lights humming their small glow.

We wanted the room to feel safe. Then we asked the harder question.

If it's so safe, why are the hands over the face?

Some days, being fully ourselves feels like too much light.

So we hide. Not because we're ashamed of the color. Because the color is precious. Because we've learned that showing the softest parts can get us hurt.

The hands aren't covering fear.

They're covering something worth guarding.

We didn't resolve it. On purpose.

The playful self and the withdrawn self share one room, one breath, one frame. We let them coexist. Because that's honest. That's most of us, most of the time.

We express. We retreat. We reach out. We pull back.

This is the rhythm.

You don't have to choose today.

You can be the bright one and the hidden one at once. You can wear the heart on your sleeve and still keep your hands over your face.

We see you in both.

We are you in both.

And when you're ready to lower your hands, the color will still be here.

Waiting.

Soft as ever.

-Mitchell Royel