Bikini model

The photographer from the convention took her picture with a look that suggested he was just going through the motions. She could see the doubt in his eyes—doubt that she could ever be the kind of muse they needed. The crowd gathered around the booth grew thicker, their whispers louder, their laughter more pronounced. And there she was, in the middle of it all, feeling more naked than she had ever felt in her life.

The convention floor was a minefield of judgmental glances and muffled laughter. Every step she took in the skimpy bikini felt like a declaration of failure, a neon sign pointing out her flaws for the world to see. The tattoo artist she was supposed to be modeling for was busy with another client, leaving her to stand there, feeling more exposed with every passing second.

May's eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a friendly face, someone who wouldn't judge her. But all she saw were strangers, their expressions ranging from amusement to pity. She could almost hear their thoughts—what is she doing here? She doesn't belong.

The emcee of the tattoo convention, a man dressed like a modern-day Dracula with piercings galore, announced the next event: a model contest. The owner of the booth nudged her gently.

"You're up, sweetheart," he said, his voice laced with a hint of apology.