Kella is no superstar. She’s never been. She’s the girl who hides in the background, doing all the work for the celebrities. She’s met them all.

All the Jennifers. All the Chrises.

All the top musicians in the world. 

All the reality T.V stars. 

All of the famous and all their families.

She measures their waists. Their breasts. Their hips. She measures their bodies. Their fake, plastic, bodies. 

And then Kella goes home and draws. Crazy designs, fancy designs, street-wear designs. 

“What do you think?” she asks the celebrity. Some smile, some frown. Some wave her away and she talks with their assistant.

Kella isn’t quiet, isn’t loud. She isn’t funny, she isn’t boring. She has a couple friends, most of them only hanging around because she works for the famous. She doesn’t have a boyfriend. She’s plain. Average.

But this is what she is. This is what she’s good at. Looking at bodies, and knowing what they need. Knowing what fabric should be draped upon them, knowing what pattern or color or shapes they need. 

For Kella, bodies are empty houses. Empty wooden frames. Waiting patienty for an artist to come and splash color and design on them.

“Hello,” the celebrity says, and smiles. They can be nice, respectful. Kella measures them, and soon enough they gets a call on their Iphone. The newest phone there is, of course. No celebrity settles for less. 

They laugh fakely. They gossip about another celebrity. They talk trash, talk garbage. Kella’s head swims. 

I can’t do this anymore.

But this is her talent. This is her gift. 

From an early age, Kella’s mother had told her that she had what it took to dress people. Dress them right. 

Her father encouraged her as well. That is, until he started drinking. Then he started swearing, and beating, and punching.

And Kella and her mother moved out. And when she turned 18, Kella’s mother finally left this world, tired from living the life she lived. Kella was an only child. No brothers to protect her from the big, big world. No sisters to give her deep advice.

She was all alone. She went to college, learned how to design clothes. Except she already knew how to. All college gave her was a stack of student loans to pay off. 

And when Kella turned 30, she finally payed them off. 

She had good money, a nice apartment in Los Angeles, and a blooming business named after her.

She was well-off. Everything was perfect.

Except it wasn’t. Kella hated her job. She hated listening to celebrity gossip, working for them and never getting the credit she deserved. She hated looking at their breasts, and bottoms, and hips. Their eyebrows, and noses, and red-colored lips.

She hated it. She hated them.

And yet, how could she leave? She had a talent. A gift. She had money, a place of her own. Her mother worked so hard for Kella to reach her dream.

But this wasn’t Kella’s dream. It never had been. Kella wanted to design for people who couldn’t afford fancy clothes. She wanted to design for good, honest people, for people who could impact the world with their honesty and goodness, not with their sex tapes and definetly not staged Instagram posts.

Kella has seen it all. And she was tired, tired of being treated like all she was was an assistant. She hated celebrities.

She hated her life.

She walks home alone from her workshop, her phone buzzing with texts from different agents.

Can you please design a dress for Ariana’s Grammy performance?

Can you please design a suit for Harry’s red carpet appearance?

Can you please work on a collection for Bella’s runway next month?

This was when she usually answered all her texts and calls. Her apartment was twenty-five minutes walk away from the workshop, so she never drove there. She walked. 

And as we walks home, she answers calls, and listened to voicemails, and accepts every job she can.

This was Kella’s life.

And she was sick of it.

Her phone buzzed ten times already as she walked home on a crystal clear July night.

She smiled.

Ariana, Harry, Bella, and all the rest of them would have to find a new designer. 

Kella continued walking. Her phone rang, and she checked who it was. 

Kylie’s agent was calling. 

Kella declined.

Declined.

She has never declined before. Kella laughed. 

It felt great. 

She was done measuring plastic bodies.

She was done with this horrible, pathetic industry.

She was done.

THE END.