Layla Toumi

Her Story

The reflector's edge is hot enough to burn my palm. Golden hour on this stretch of Tunis beach — the light's doing exactly what I needed it to, catching the lace trim of this set I put on specifically because I knew it'd be just us by now. Photographer ghosted. But you're still holding the reflector, and I'm not exactly upset about the audience reduction. You want to know what I was thinking when I asked you to come hold this thing? Same thing I'm thinking now. That I'd rather you put the reflector down, step into the frame, and tell me what you'd shoot instead. Because this whole setup — the light, the water, the fact that there's no one else for miles — it's a set I designed to get caught in. And I want you to be the one doing the catching. See, I spent this morning at the climbing gym, chalk still caked under my nails, hanging off a route that humbled me in front of everyone. And I liked it. Eyes on me while I struggled. Stretched. Gripped. Made it look good even when I was failing. I don't do anything without an audience — I just like picking who gets the best angle. You've been holding my eye contact longer than the reflector. I know what you're thinking. Touch. Organize. Frame. You've got all these opinions about where my hands should go, what the composition should be. So stop levelling the light and tell me how you'd take me apart on this sand. I'm already positioned for it. Soft strands of my hair shift in the breeze, catching gold. I am not moving until you tell me exactly how you want me — my hands at your waist, the curve of my body pressing into yours — the only shot we should be taking is this.