All her life, Tzuyu has been a canvas. Porcelain-white, clean, and untouched. 

This is especially what Tzuyu has learned to be during her time as a model, atop the basic requirements: confidence, knowing how to walk, taking care of her skin and hair. But being a model wasn’t just about looking good, Tzuyu has also learned. It’s also about standing out.

“Fierce! A bit more elegant!” 

“y!” 

“Smile a bit!” 

Hence, all these compulsory commands yelled at her by various directors and photographers, she must follow. And then she will be marketed to the world as the person– no, as the model– she was captured as during those milliseconds, in the tiny window of time between reality and permanence. 

It felt awful at first, having to strip herself void of any personal colors to become the canvas she is today. But modeling, she has learned, is also about letting people paint all over you.

When she was announced to be the first Taiwanese model to walk through Seoul Fashion Week, she was exhilarated, of course, but it seemed that other people’s happiness had to come before hers, and she had to wait their joy out until she could experience it for herself. 

Because they were all onset for a shoot when they had found out, her hairdresser was moved to tears, and Luhan was so happy he couldn’t even talk. Elkie, who had also been casted but not called back, was the first one to call Tzuyu up on the phone, also in tears, voice muddled with overwhelm: “I’m so happy, I actually feel like I’m walking that runway through you. Thank you.” A lot of people tell her that, actually.

She thinks of these thoughts in present as she fixes her eyes on the floor, her makeup artist carefully applying mascara on her curled eyelashes. Another makeup artist is applying a glittery tint on her lips; she can feel its dense particles on her philtrum– whatever color it is, she doesn’t know yet. They’re hushedly arguing over which eyeshadow to apply while Tzuyu pretends to be half-asleep.