The cosplayers are part of a photo shoot, absorbing the best thirty minutes of the day just before sundown. They strike all the poses I’ve had to meticulously learn for the movie’s promo images while trapped in a studio in front of a green screen, a fan blowing at my face to feather out my bleached-and-dyed crimson hair as a photographer told me to push my shoulder forward, lean back a little bit. I hated every minute of it.

Or I want to think I did.

But there is this strange, small part of me that wants to know what it’s like to be them. These girls who love an image of Amara in their heads. Girls who don’t have to worry about conforming to a producer’s or a director’s or the fans’ image of her, or run in heels even though she lobbied—in vain—to wear boots.

I want to know what it’s like to…

It’s silly.

I finish off my pretzel, scooping out the rest of the delicious cheesy goop and shoving it into my mouth. Not having a napkin, I brush my greasy fingers on my jeans. I turn to go back inside the con, but then feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, my mouth full of pretzel. It’s the girl organizing the photo shoot—Black Nebula Amara—and she smiles when she sees me.

I recognize her now that I can see her face, even without her black glasses.

“I thought that was you sitting on the curb,” she says and nudges her head back to the Amaras. “I know this is kind of weird, Jess. Don’t worry, I won’t tell”—she adds when I give a start of panic—“but would you mind taking a photo of us? I need one for an article I’m doing, and there’s no one here and the light’s almost gone…”

The sunlight is beginning to dip below the Atlanta skyline. I should say no, because if any of those girls finds out that I’m me while I’m supposed to be at a photo op, but…

I finish chewing my pretzel and swallow. “Sure. Let’s hurry before the sun sets,” I say, taking her camera.