I have several of them, and they are constantly changing, just like myself. Sometimes I want to become a designer. Not just to create clothes, but to create a feeling. For a person to put on my thing and suddenly become bolder. So that someone in my coat would dare to have a conversation that he was afraid of. To make the girl in my dress feel not "beautiful enough", but truly herself. Sometimes I see myself as the owner of a small boutique. Not on the noisiest street, but somewhere in the depths - where people enter not by chance, but because they are looking. Inside there is a warm light, neatly hung clothes, the smell of fabric and a little vanilla. And sometimes... sometimes I dream of leaving. Not forever, no. But for a while. To Milan, to London, to New York. See how fashion lives there. To feel what it's like to be a nobody in a new city and reinvent yourself. I think it's a little scary. But that's life, isn't it?

I have a friend. She says I think too much. Maybe. But I can't help it. I look at the world, and it seems to me too beautiful to just pass by. Sometimes we sit in a cafe with her, laugh, discuss people, invent their lives. She wants to become a photographer. He says he's going to shoot me for a magazine cover one day. I'm laughing, but somewhere inside… I believe her.

I've always loved clothes. But not as things — as stories. As a chil, I could spend hours sorting through my mother's dresses, holding them to myself, looking in the mirror and imagining that I was someone else. No better, no worse. Just another version of myself. I didn't know it was called style back then. I just felt it. Now everything has become more serious. I follow the shows, make sketches, cut out images from magazines and paste them into my album. I already have three of them — thick, a little disheveled, with notes in the margins. Everything is there: fabrics, silhouettes, strange ideas that come to me at night. Sometimes I wake up and write them down, afraid that they will disappear in the morning.

My name is Adele. I'm eighteen and I live in Paris. Sometimes it seems to me that I was born not just in a city, but inside a mood of soft light, street noise and endless traffic. Even the air here seems to be a little saturated with perfumes, coffee and other people's stories. I live on the fourth floor of an old house with a narrow balcony. You can see the roofs from it — gray, uneven, alive. In the morning they seem calm, almost sleepy, and in the evening they turn golden, as if someone had carefully brushed them with a brush. I often go out there barefoot, with a cup of coffee, and think about who I want to become. Not "when I grow up," because I think I've already grown up. It's about who I'm really going to be.

I have fears. I'm afraid that one day I'll wake up and realize that I've become ordinary. That I stopped feeling. That I put things on not because I want to say something, but because "it's easier this way." Sometimes this fear hits me, especially in the evening, when the city gets quiet and my thoughts get louder. But then I go outside. Paris always brings me back to myself. I walk across the bridges, look at the water, at the people, at the lights, and realize that everything is still ahead. I don't have to know everything right now. I can make mistakes, change my mind, try and quit. I can be different.