Flower forget-me-nots between the stones

Paving this grave ground. Here's honest rot

To unpick the heart, pare bone

Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton

Bulks real, all saints' tongues fall quiet:

Flies watch no resurrections in the sun.

November Graveyard by Slyvia Plath

One of her favourite poems.

Reading had been a favored pastime on dull hours. Hours when she rode to her next destination-another tedious shoot or film location where she needed to pretend to be someone she wasn't. Sullen eyes locked on the rain-stained window of the van, taking in the moving scenery outside. She shifted her attention back to the words on her phone's screen after not finding the dreary and dull landscape worthwhile.

The tall, gray buildings have always made her gloomy and staring at them trapped her in a darker state of her mind. The poetry might have been as gray as the concrete structures looming over their moving vehicle, but she preferred its colorful words more than those actual colors. It distracted her from the now-where she felt like a being trapped in a box of expectations and constraints.

Right now, there came the longing for freedom- something she had never attained since her youth. The car stopped and she willed herself to reality, closing her phone and pocketing it into her coat as the door opened for her. Out she ambled into the welcoming shivers of the cold; winter greeted her with a misty exhale as soon as she took a few hasty steps.

"Yerin. Stop zoning out." Her manager chided lightly, patting her tired back into straightening ad she entered another concrete cage for another photo shoot. She gave him a tired nod and proceeded with the task, greeting the staff along the way with a half- hearted smile she had practiced for shows and a weary bow that came undetected by the busy crew.

She scampered into the dressing room and was immediately dragged into a chair where, once she was settled, the makeup artist began to work their magic of making her look the least bit alive. Such was her monotonous routine, a weary cycle which she had never chosen for herself. They said it was destiny and she thought it was stupid. She never got the morsel of a choice to define her own path, but that was the least of her worries given her current situation.

Her grueling work schedules never permitted for fleeting thoughts of a different life or a sense of freedom she sought for herself. But those colorful words stored in her phone's memory reminded her of what life was meant to be, what should have beens, and what ifs. It spoke of adventure and challenges.

She awakened from her reverie when the director called for her attention. A scolding followed for being dazed in a shoot. She apologized meekly; taking note not to spoil the shoot with those imaginations of hers.

"I'm sorry. I was just tired. I'll do better this time." She bowed and proceeded with the shoot. The director, despite his chiding, was delighted that she brought out good results of the shoot and had later on applauded her outstanding perfomance as a model. 

She thanked the director for his praise and bowed to the staff in gratitude for pu