There are about a dozen people here, not including the stern, gray-haired man whose faded shirt is the same shade as the flag he’s holding. More girls than guys. All my age. I take inventory of each individual within seconds, something I’ve learned from photo shoots. When you’re always meeting strangers you’re about to work with in close proximity, you have to quickly pick up on the group dynamics, who you should stick to and who you shouldn’t, who might be rude to you and who you can ask for help.

Already, a trio of sporty girls have formed in the corner, talking loudly and giggling and adding one another’s numbers to their phones. One girl is in the middle of a serious call from the looks of it; she keeps frowning and flipping through her spiral notebook and reading out long series of numbers. Another girl stands a few feet away from them, with the bulkiest carry-on bag I’ve ever seen strapped to her back. It’s so massive, especially compared to her small, scrawny frame, that I’m concerned it’s going to crush her. She looks like she’s at risk of being crushed in general; her features are soft, timid, her dark brown hair tied loosely into a ponytail that spills over her cotton dress, and she keeps her gaze lowered to the floor.

Then I turn my attention to the boys. One of them instantly catches my eye and grins at me, as if we already know each other. He has good style, which I appreciate: an oversized coat and fitted white shirt underneath, even though it’s much too hot for layers. A nice face too, with a defined jaw and nose and the kind of light freckles makeup artists like to deliberately draw on. It’s a shame I’m kind of desensitized to pretty people by this point.

There’s only one unfortunate exception, but I’ve been doing my best to forget about him since the wedding.

“Oliver Kang,” the boy introduces himself, then shoots me an appraising look. “Have we met somewhere before? You seem … kind of familiar.”

I freeze as a few of the other students stop to listen. My mouth dries. He’s probably referring to a campaign, or maybe he’s stumbled across one of my photos on social media. But for the first time in a while, I’m surrounded by people who know nothing about my history, and I want to keep it that way. I could be anybody here. Not the weird kid in class, or the girl who was expelled from her old school, or the model.

“Is that meant to be a pickup line?” I ask mildly, feigning ignorance.

To my relief, he laughs, his expression clearing. Crisis averted. For now anyway. “No, sorry. I do have a few great pickup lines though. Would you like to hear one?”