Creative Director: Andrea Victoria
Photographer: Richard Garcia
Videographer: Melissa Bernardo, Michelle Bustos
Stylist: Luccia Vega-Tortolero, Mia Mazuelos, Genesis Flores
Producer: Isabella Zagni
On-Set: Metuschelah Similien
Beauty: Gabriela Ivlyeva, Victor Dieguez (1dk.vicsb0rd)
Model: Alessia De Leo
Concept: Andrea Victoria, Priscilla Fernandez, Melissabel Fleites, Alba Lucia Lepe (albxlu), Luccia Vega-Tortolero
Graphics: Isabella Silva, Anna Flores
Catalina Prieto
Polished tables, dusted corners, scrubbed floors, and organized sheets–only then may I feel at ease. Yet, as I relentlessly try to clean up the clutter, I notice that this home I once called sanctuary has become an imprisonment of my own making. Walls and ceilings that once gleamed have begun to fray; the air inside feels stagnant and thin. The space I once found comfort in now feels like a constraint. No matter how hard I try to erase every trace, stains linger, and disorder slowly creeps back in.
With each passing day, the broom and duster rest quietly in my hand. I start to wonder whether these stains are okay to leave untouched–to merely leave them be. I question whether it’s alright to allow the dust to settle where it may, or leave the dishes out for the day. Perhaps I should start leaving the windows open, where my bedroom curtains may sway, with untamed grace–fresh autumn air permeating my space.
I realize there’s beauty in the crookedness of my kitchen table, the accumulated books on my nightstand, and the faint wine stain on my couch from the night I reunited with old friends. Each mark tells a story, revealing a kind of order in the chaos–a narrative only I can understand. There is grace within imperfection, a splendor among anomalies, and comfort in the realization that we don’t have to be exemplary or perform to expectations every single day.
Both inside and out, we aren’t meant to be pristine or remarkable at all times. Like a home with dented furniture, scuffed floors, crooked frames, or worn upholstery, it’s okay for us, too, to be frayed, tarnished, or weathered. R S
A home without clutter is like an empty canvas, a heart without memories, or a book missing its pages. A person without imperfections is a story yet to be fully written.
Sofía Ramírez Suarez
For a single, little instant, Everything makes sense. Light fills every corner–I am surrounded by beauty, Pristine, tidy, harmonious. I become beauty herself, My face, now symmetrical, serene, Admiring the dress I wear, How its diaphanous fabrics Accentuate each curve.
For once, I breathe perfection. I know the answers to every question. Every piece falls into place. I feel the warmth of others’ love, See it glowing in their eyes, And in that gaze, my distress fades.
In this miraculous scene, I am sure of my worth–I am valued, I am admired A queen most beloved. For a second, I reign.
But a second is so brief. I open my eyes, and it all fades: The beauty, the wisdom, the love–My kingdom overthrown, Never lasting more than a day.
Why does this moment end so soon? Why can’t I stay there forever? Why, oh, why must it be That I can’t always be her?
She leaves a waft of vanilla when she walks away, drawing my body to follow her, nose first. Her teeth are straight and white, enclosed by soft, plush lips. Her fine hair–smooth and unmarked–frames her face perfectly.
I want to cradle her, carry her around as if she is mine to own. I need to wear her soft, perfumed skin as my own. Tear out my crooked teeth, use pliers to remove hers. Shave her locks, leave her with a buzz cut, and tape the strands to the only smooth part of me. Maybe then, I’d know an inkling of what she has. Maybe if she were gone all together, I’d have it all. But then, I remember the feel of her velvety skin, the softness of her lips, and I recoil at the thought of losing her touch. Yet, I need to be unburdened by her, to bury her.
I want to scratch her face off with my rugged nails so I could forget who she is, because looking at her, and all the things that make her spotless, weakens me. Her very presence makes me feel less of a woman. A single glance from her direction, and I remember all that is wrong with me.
I hate myself more when I’m in her warm embrace. Yet, as I tighten my arms around her, and watch her sleep and think of all the ways I could rid myself of her–I’ll lay my head against her chest, in reassurance that she is still breathing, still with me. And embrace the almost tortuous feeling of seeing a girl be everything you’ve ever wanted, to feel that you need all of her, to want her–and despise yourself for it.
Jorden Demerritte
The girl rarely noticed her ominous shadow distorting her contours, believing it was merely the sunlight failing to pierce her frame. Her family, once wary of her innocence, denied any connection between their daughter and dark apparitions, often ignoring repeated signs: a cloud covering the sun at noon, a raven’s caw at dawn, a cat’s hiss at twilight.
She pondered her desolate significance, hoping her family would pry her out of her mind. Though her solemn face deterred the agitation brewing within her spirit, the heat of her dejection escaped her web-like porcelain facade and shone through her translucent skin.
Trust appeared to be the foundation of her relationships, but her deceit began to erode it.
Her sobriety masked the self-hatred she harbored.
The catalyst of her demise was her father’s passing. Her shell, now broken, exuded the sludge and tar of condensed insecurities. As she waded through life, she remained unaware of the others caught in their own struggles to escape.
For the first time, she was released from the darkness clouding her mind. She glanced around, seeing bodies contorted in the tar–hair matted with grease, elbows grotesquely peeking out from the viscous liquid, faces turned to the sky.
The girl—now a young woman–shifted her gaze up to the blue sky, framed by crooked tips of tree branches brushing the edge of the sun. She heard the chirping of birds, smelled the ripeness of blooming flowers, fully aware that death was a conspicuous occurrence, yet she did not panic as her body was pulled down quickly under the sludge.
Her eyes darted around, struggling to grasp the beauty surrounding her: the harmonious chirping of the birds, the picturesque white cottony clouds, and the blue sky.
As the sludge reached her neck, she gasped for her last breath, eyes fixed on the sun. Though darkness enveloped her at last, her final thought was of the light radiating from the sky.
A river of midnight tar flows over me its slow, entrapping pull, dragging me leagues beneath. I thrash, then go still, the cold pressing in my forehead, my breath reaching for the surface.
I open my eyes. The void’s song calls again, as it will on that final day, when it claims me as its own. I scan my room–pictures, notes, books–anything to remind me of who I am, why I am here, why I must stay above and not disappear into nowhere.
But the dark waves return, caressing my heavy limbs, my eyelids falling like velvet curtains. I reach for my phone, 6:48 PM.
I overslept. Does it matter? Do I care?
“But the dark waves return-
The void pulls me back, and I am submerged, lost in its current, its dark pull.
A strange peace settles over me, a fleeting joy in surrender–to finally rest, to silence the noise, to let everything go.
But the tide recedes, A castaway on the shore. I remember:
I remember the assignments due at midnight, I remember my family’s worried faces, I remember the guilt that grows in me for sleeping all day.
I remember that today is my birthday. And with that ache, I am myself again.
I get up from bed, and the day goes on. And so do I.
Creative Director: Andrea Victoria
Photographer: Anna Flores
Videographer: Jazmine Jenkins
Stylists: Luccia Vega-Tortolero, Camila Gonzalez, Catalina Prieto, Isabela Descamps
Producer: Isabella Zagni
On-Set: Mila Lascano, William Saldarriaga & Alba Lucia Lepe (albxlu)
Beauty: Valentina Delgado, Victor Dieguez (1dk.vicsb0rd)
Models: Elizabeth Amaro, Amelia Bahamonde
Concept: Andrea Victoria, Priscilla Fernandez, Melissabel Fleites, Mila Lascano
Graphics: Camila Ballesteros
She says she raised me better than that; I’m supposed to be her dead ringer
We have the same spiraled hair, the same gaps in our teeth, over-wrinkled palms, and soles that sting.
Peter Pan collars, Mary Janes–dressed up in her love,
I’m the crochet doily, the ornamental rug, the room you bomb with aerosol.
Been treating my body like a poacher again, ivories ravished by my fingertips.
Shutters bolted, doors locked; I’m alone with my stinger.
In my room, I become a hunter, my body the prized buck–
Call, aim, fire, fire, aim, call–do it til I don’t give a–
Who do I see when I look in the mirror, what voice is talking back to me?
“I am Calypso–banished eternally inside the confines of lace. The one who conceals, the one who behaves. Recluse by choice, personality a myth. Is there anything uglier than being called a nymph?
I’m Venus in furs. Bubbling underneath, a deep red lives within me. I can feel a deviancy under my knits; there’s room for more than appearance admits.
I’m bred to be Hera. Bound to pin ups, up-dos, golden rings. I can see it now–missing skirt, vomit–ladened shirt, with a baby on a sling.”
Everything I do feels like transgression. Beneath the lockets, beneath the charms, beneath it all, something burns. Something like a confession. It’s gonna come out soon, because I’m losing all my discretion.
The morning light slinks in cold and gray as she wipes the mirror's condensation. Her hand stills with each stroke, to study her naked frame. It is easier to work in sections: powdering the top, creams on the midsection, shine on the limbs. A practiced art of movement, deliberate and pointed.
It starts with the smallest of sounds–barely a whisper–a thin pop of air escaping a seam under pressure. She brushes her finger above the arch of her brow and leans in close to the mirror, blinking rapidly. A thin, jagged crack across pale skin appears. She presses a tentative finger to it, and with the lightest touch, a piece of her skin, no larger than a thumbnail, falls away.
Jumping in shock, her back thuds against the chair stem.
Breath stills in her chest, the beating of her heart erratic.
Her skin had chipped away like porcelain, leaving a jagged edge of exposed flesh. No blood nor bone, just red-black darkness, shimmering slickly in the dim light. Bending down on all fours to the parquet, a soft animal, she picks up the shard of skin. Cold and brittle like bone china, she turns it over in her palm.
“Cherie?”
Alain appears in the doorway. She looks like a wild thing, dark hair shielding her face, rocking on the ground, quivering as a ridge of goosebumps collects along her spine.
“Some of my skin came off. Just now, like a broken vase.”
“Your skin came off?” he echos, “You should see a doctor. Pierre, he came to the wedding–”
“No he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
He puts a hand to his temple, “God, get off the floor. You’ll get filthy.” She pulls herself back onto a chair, crossing her legs, ankles tucked underneath.
“The dinner is tonight. Wear the green dress,” he tells her.
“I want to wear the silver pleated one. It was my grandmother’s,”
“Ah. But it is not Parisian. And quite ugly, no? Too sentimental.”
Nico Gurdjian
She nods. Alain sighs, departing back downstairs. The front door thuds behind him.
The crack had grown outwards, zig-zagging along her brow and forehead. It splinters off like ice under silver, yielding to pressure it can no longer bear. She goes at it with sharp fingernails, over the glabella, and across. Feverish, feral, slicing fractures in wide arcs.
In between, ooze drips congealed. Strangely alive, writhing beneath the thin membrane of remaining skin. The gentle relief that comes with breaking off skin, its enticement gnawing. But this rotten sludge, she has to contain it. To hide it.
It frightens her, not the ugly mess, but because it feels familiar. She ties a scarf around her gory forehead, cowering under the silky fabric.
She phones her mother while fixing the table dressings. Delicate finery to fit perfectly in their lavish house. His house. She owned no part of this life. She seemed to own no part of herself.
“My skin is breaking off,” she tells her.
“Stop speaking French,” her mother replies. Her tongue hadn’t switched back to its mother root. She feels ashamed that her body is conditioned for a place other than her birth one. Her husband and this city have built something inside her, and she is unable to tell what is them, and what is her.
“My skin is breaking off,” she repeats into the receiver.
Alain, coming through the kitchen, plucks the phone away. He doesn't need forcefulness; she remains utterly pliable.
“The wine makes her lightheaded,” his english is choppy and brutish.
“I told her to go to Pierre.” He hands the phone back, their eyes don't meet.
“Pierre, we met at the wedding. Lovely teeth.”
“Mum, he wasn’t at the wedding.”
Guests arrive at eight. It's a boisterous affair, cutlery clinking for more meat, rare and bloody. Alain forks a large slice onto her plate, blubbering juice. Her stomach heaves. She excuses herself from the table, stumbling upstairs, sharp sounds of glass shattering on tile.
Something pricks her waist, she tries to rip off her dress as her ribs crack jagged edges into green silk. Her breath quickens, sticky ooze escapes from the abyss beneath with a foul odor. She needs stitches, urushi lacquer, gold glue.
Her body is a patchwork of cracks, collapsing on itself in a sickening flow. The seeping coagulating rushes across in rivers of Phlegethon, Cocytus, pulsing and frothing, until her body gives way all at once. She’s pieces of herself cascaded onto the floor. She's a dark mass pooled across the hallway, exhaling for a final time. It feels like relief; it feels like coming home.
collapsing onitself in a s i c k e ning flow. Her b o d y is a patchwork of cracks, collapsing on it s e l f i n a s
Elissa Francois
The amount of flesh reduced on my bones was unintentional. I was unaware of the changes in my body until others pointed them out.
I knew it was in a deprived state, yet onlookers saw beauty, commenting on what they deemed worthy. Positive attention was a rarity Unfamiliar and uncomfortable, yet I clung to it. Like a child grasping at their mother’s garments. Believing it signaled something right within me.
The body I once ignored became my obsession. Every bite of nourishment I swallowed and later rejected. Each bite and bruise I received–It consumed my thoughts. What was once pleasure turned to punishment. Or maybe punishment became pleasure.
The perceptions of others were no longer my only drive; I grew accustomed to my own depravity I was at home in it, a physical reminder of past pains.
Its misery transformed into a source of pride, a protective cloak against disappointment.
My body grew detached, aware of my distaste, enduring relentless abuse and neglect, with no apologies in between. It was not mine to nurture; it was a burden I carried, manipulated to withstand. A thing to be twisted, burned, and dismembered for all to see.
My mind unleashed a virus, and now I rot within this flesh, hoping it reaches my heart swiftly, So I can finally have some rest.
Monica Ayesa Rodriguez
Don’t you know, beautiful girl?
You must stay right, you must stay nice. Bare your teeth for all to see–though when I bite, they’ll be surprised.
Because you don’t really love me, not after the curtains come down. When I rip and pull on my plush skin, and this manicured character comes undone.
Could anyone really love me?
Despair, warts, and all?
This beaming, bubbling exterior, was only a mask of method, doomed to fall.
Oh! Cry mother, cry harder!
Weep for the little girl who has turned into a monster. If you cared to look past the mask I posture you’d see the beast you failed to make a martyr.
It roars within me, blinding with her bloodlust and pain, for yours or my own, delectable just the same. You keep your distance, fearful of my heightened state, leaving me as fodder, to torture and to maim.
Yet from your place in the stands, you lead the chant: Encore! Encore! Encore!
And though you know how the performance kills me, you always demand more, more, more.
Creative Director: Andrea Victoria
Photographer: Alba Lucia Lepe (albxlu)
Videographer: Sofia Hoyos
Stylist: Luccia Vega-Tortolero, Kristen Paul, Jason Williams, Genesis Flores, Mia Mazuelos
Producer: Isabella Zagni
On-Set: Metuschelah Similien, Ailish Fontanez
Beauty: Gabriela Ivlyeva, Victor Dieguez (1dk.vicsb0rd)
Models: Catalina Prieto, Camila Gutiérrez
Concept: Andrea Victoria, Priscilla Fernandez, Melissabel Fleites, Kristen Paul, Luccia Vega-Tortolero, Catalina Prieto
Lorem ipsum
Graphics: Kayla Valdez, Alanna Aldana Lainez, Valerie Ingaroca
In the soft glow of a cluttered room, shadows linger like whispered secrets; each corner steeped in unforgotten pains that echo softly in my mind. Memories flit through my thoughts like delicate dust motes dancing in sunlight, each one illuminating a moment that feels like a warm touch, yet fleeting nonetheless.
You retreat into your silence, and I’m drawn in deeper, grasping for the warmth that seems to slip through my fingers. At night, I lie in bed, softly whispering your name, hoping it will summon you beside me. I cling to the foolish hope that my words might spark a memory of me.
Intimacy becomes both a soothing balm and a weighty burden, unspoken truths swirling in the air. I will keep waiting, even if I lose myself along the way. As you pull away, I search for what I can do differently; for now, distance becomes desire's flame, igniting a longing that won’t easily fade.
Joanna Llorens
In a world flooded with choices and endless routes to take, many of us–particularly in our 20’s–find ourselves drowning in a stagnant state of mind, paralyzed by indecision and the sensory input we receive. This decade can be extremely overwhelming and overly stimulating, navigated with uncertainty and doubt. You are not alone in this situation, nor is it wrong to have these questions. Life doesn’t come with a manual or a “correct” blueprint to follow.
This is the ideal time to discover what fuels our passion and align with the life we envision.
It’s okay not to have everything figured out–sometimes, that’s where the best growth happens. Every step, success, downfall, and mistake is part of finding our place in the world. Trust in your journey–believe that you’re in the right place, doing the right thing, and have faith in where you are currently standing.
My name is Ana Hernandez, a former student who left Florida Atlantic University in 2022. I may be one of many who didn’t complete their program, but my story is one I carry with me each night, replaying the future I left behind. I do this so I can feign indifference because, to you, I was just another failure—another student unable to meet the professional and academic standards your institution prides itself upon. I was just another number, another casualty, another troubled student with an incomplete on their transcript.
When I was 20 years old, I experienced a traumatic and unexpected change of conscience due to a sexual assault that occurred in the summer of 2021, just a month before I was expected to start school. This event led me to contemplate a permanent “solution” to a temporary problem, and it caused me to feel secluded and alienated in my safe space. Your institution was part of this safe haven—a place to forget about my sorrows and a coping mechanism. It was a place where learning could be used as a virtue and where I met and gained many confidants who remain in my life to this day. These were people I could talk to about anything. They understood my love for writing essays, reading books, and my evolving fascination with feminist literature. I even befriended one of my professors, who shared my love for analyzing literature and encouraged my passion.
But, unfortunately, I drank—a lot, to the point where I almost had to be hospitalized. Along with the great friends I made, I also befriended people I now regret confiding in. Three years ago, I was willing to do anything to feel wanted, but I didn’t realize my dignity and self-respect would be the price I’d pay. I drank excessively, went to parties, and as a high school “nobody,” I found the attention thrilling. But despite the acceptance I found in this amazing community your school cherishes, it still wasn’t enough. I felt compelled to dig myself deeper into a hole I believed I belonged in, surrounded by people who didn’t care about my physical or mental well-being. If they had truly cared, they wouldn’t have encouraged me to turn to the bottle. Looking back, I realize how much I sacrificed my self-respect, mistaking temporary acceptance for genuine care.
It took me two years of work, a few months in Alcoholics Anonymous, and some technical schooling to finally feel at peace with myself. I am currently working on certifications that I hope will help me in the future. I thank you, Florida Atlantic University, for teaching me a lesson: to be guided by my own moral compass and to listen and learn from others. It’s time I focus on learning about myself and what I want to contribute to society. I take pride in my moral compass, and your school taught me that I can not only be a good person who loves to help others but also a person with a piercing intellect. Although my years at your institution didn’t necessarily prove that, I have demonstrated in other ways that I am capable of resuming the path of higher education. While I may not have earned my degree, I gained something invaluable: resilience, a moral compass, and an unwavering commitment to growth. I am finally happy with myself and hopeful about continuing toward a satisfying and well-lived life.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Ana Hernandez
Carla Daniela Mendez
I thought I’d misbehave like an adult by now, but I still stain my palms with Crayola tears, still clutch at small rebellions, teeth clenched like buckled knees.
Wielding a shield I never meant to forge, raised and ready before I even know it’s there, a guard against a world that expects me to know more, to be more.
I watch them go–faces I once knew, stretched thin across miles of uncharted futures, while I stand rooted in familiar soil, fading like old ink on a lost letter.
I fear the distance will drain the warmth, that one day I’ll be buried under the new, leaving me a relic of what they’ve outgrown, a faded snapshot–carried only to count milestones.
If I can swim through the thick undercurrent of failure, let it lap against me and swallow me whole–or pull me deep in fears of what success might cost, then maybe I'll be more than a passing thought.
I’d like to believe one day I’ll say something so sharp, so bold, that you’ll have no choice but to turn, to look— to carve out a space for me.
Maybe then I’ll be someone worth a glance that lingers. Yet I find myself caught between who I was, and who I should be, while the world grows louder, brighter, pulled further away. I remain still, in my quiet defiance, holding fast to pieces they left behind.
“Like shoes bound to a tangled lace, I feel as though I always stay in place. Each step is restrained; My own preoccupations are what keep me chained.
Like pants that press too tightly, Societal standards eat away at my skin, Stifling the possibility and potential living within, Depleted from the light that once poured in.
Like sleeves that fit too long, As far as I may reach out, I am unable to get a hold of where I belong, So for now, I reside in my self-doubt “How do I get out?”
Like a sweater worn the opposite way, My threads are unraveled, uncovered, and frayed. Leaving my absolute composure behind.
Like a heel that's been broken, My journey feels heavy with uncertainty’s weight. Unsteady and imbalanced, Stillness is a state in which I continue to await.”
Creative Director: Andrea Victoria
Photographer: Richard Garcia
Videographer: Melissa Bernardo
Stylist: Luccia Vega-Tortolero, Isabela Descamps, Catalina Prieto, Kristen Paul, Kelly Henry
Producer: Isabella Zagni
On-Set: Ailish Fontanez, Micaela Huarte, William Saldarriaga
Beauty: Victor Dieguez (1dk.vicsb0rd), Gabriela Ivlyeva, Valentina Delgado
Models: Tomas Serna, Kaylee Faddis, Jason Williams
Concept: Andrea Victoria, Priscilla Fernandez, Melissabel Fleites, Isabella Zagni
Graphics: Mak Mcneil, Allie Pedroso
Like father, like daughter.
wake for school. Passing my parents’ room before bed, I see my mother asleep, with the TV humming softly in the background. My father isn’t home yet, still on his late commute back from work.
I set my alarm for an early 5:30 a.m. wake for school. Passing my parents’ room before bed, I see my mother asleep, with the TV humming softly in the background. My father isn’t home yet, still on his late commute back from work.
In my room, I try to settle in but struggle to fall asleep— a familiar habit I honed through the years. I read for a while, hoping to ease into the night’s embrace. My eyes start to surrender, heavy with each wasted blink, as the words on the page blur into giant black blobs. I feel the weight of sleep pulling at me, coaxing me toward restfulness. I check the time–2 a.m.
In my room, I try to settle in but struggle to fall asleep—a familiar habit I honed through the years. I read for a while, hoping to ease into the night’s embrace. My eyes start to surrender, heavy with each wasted blink, as the words on the page blur into giant black blobs. I feel the weight of sleep pulling at me, coaxing me toward restfulness. I check the time–2 a.m.
Just as I start to lose grip on my consciousness, a loud crash erupts from my parents’ room, followed immediately by my mother’s voice, yelling my name. Her shriek breaks the house’s silence. My spine paralyzes, as my
Just as I start to lose grip on my consciousness, a loud crash erupts from my parents’ room, followed immediately by my mother’s voice, yelling my name. Her shriek breaks the house’s silence. My spine paralyzes, as my mind follows in a still fog. Something was painfully, unmistakably wrong.
Panic claws at my insides as I race to their room. My father lies with his back on the floor, blood trickling from his head, while my mother struggles to prop him up in the left corner of the dark room. Broken glass is scattered everywhere. My mother’s face is frantic, trepidation breaking through her usual calm. Her eyes meet mine the moment I enter. Her voice, trembling, asks me to grab paper towels with hydrogen peroxide to treat his wounds.
Panic claws at my insides as I race to their room. My father lies with his back on the floor, blood trickling from his head, while my mother struggles to prop him up in the left corner of the dark room. Broken glass is scattered everywhere. My mother’s face is frantic, trepidation breaking through her usual calm. Her eyes meet mine the moment I enter. Her voice, trembling, asks me to grab paper towels with hydrogen peroxide to treat his wounds.
Her plea hangs in the air as I stand frozen, absorbing the scene. Somehow, I feel no shock. When I return back with the supplies, his gaze still hides from mine. His head hangs low, seeking solace against my mother’s chest. His complexion is pale, his lips cracked and colorless. His arms dangle at his side, heavy and lifeless.
Her plea hangs in the air as I stand frozen, absorbing the scene. Somehow, I feel no shock. When I return back with the supplies, his gaze still hides from mine. His head hangs low, seeking solace against my mother’s chest. His complexion is pale, his lips cracked and colorless. His arms dangle at his side, heavy and lifeless.
Later, my mother explains he’d been suffering through a severe migraine and low blood pressure that day. True to form, he bore it alone, choosing to hide his pain rather than seek help. His life has been built on tireless devotion to work, his demeanor concealing depths and experiences I can only imagine. He is a rigid, quiet man, and I know there is much about him I will never understand.
I can’t seem to conjure my father into existence without fearing the shadows it will cast upon my own calling. I can feel his patterns woven into me, seeping through my pores like they’re stitched into my being. I can fight the return to self-reliance and pride, but I cannot deny their origins. That silent strength he passed down, binds me in ways I can’t fully escape or bring myself to understand.
What I do know is what that night crystallized for me:
I showed no distress to seeing him collapsed, unable to move or speak. Instead, a dark acceptance settled in. I expected this–his inability to ask for help, to confide in his family, or to reveal the torment lurking beneath his stoic facade.
I turn back to my father. His breathing has steadied now, his head resting against my mother’s chest. He doesn’t look up, but I let my eyes linger, memorizing the stillness of this moment: the man he is and the man I’m trying to understand.
Maybe he’ll never know how much of him I carry within me, or how hard I’m trying to make peace with it. But that’s okay. Some things are meant to remain unspoken.
Every act unfolds as a paradox, a contradiction, A tangled dance with darkness, where sorrow and self enthrall. Each drop, each inhale, darkens the soul within, Shattered mirrors reflecting fractured dreams.
Destruction breathes life, offering control, A release from the crushing weight of real situations. Is the chaos and pain we bring upon ourselves a plea for control, A yearning for a way to feel whole?
With every break of skin, We reclaim our narratives, the struggles within. In this fragile balance, we uncover truths hidden deep in the night.
In the midst of destruction lies a spark, a flicker so bright, A reminder that from chaos, we rise to take flight.
In the heart of destruction, we can reclaim our life.
In the rawness of our choices, we learn and see, The power of our agency, the right to simply be.
The cycle begins. Break up. Sad post. Likes story. Swipes up. Texts daily. Post new girlfriend. Radio silence. Like clockwork–life is made up of patterns.
I get the impending text: a conversation starter, testing the waters. Can’t blame you; I always play along. You start with movies: Have you seen this? No, it’s been on my list forever. We should watch it together sometime. Do you have a job? No, I just quit. I make fun of him; he used to like that. Nice, I love losers.
One Minute passes. Five. Thirty. Sixty. No reply. I fucked it up. Three hundred seconds later: then I’m your guy What are you doing this weekend? I thought I knew your mind.
I’m our historian. I remember it all. What do you remember about me? What’s my favorite color? Remembrance is like a drug. Addicted to recollection, my memory the ketamine angel on my shoulder. Every moment comes back to me with one text. Shared headphones, tangled wires. Ears, eyes, breath interlinked–proximity to you, my only goal. The times in your car. Seat belt tight across my chest. Something sensual in the restrictiveness. Seat print on my thigh. Music too loud. Keep me in your car forever.
Do you know what it’s like to dream about yourself? To start seeing signs everywhere? You’ve always had the attention of a mirage; I have to get as much out of you as I can. You’ll disappear soon enough. Break my nose, flog me–a touch is a touch. Do what you want; I’ll say I was bored at the end of it all.
Half awake. The messages blur. Is it my turn finally? Confessions, revelations–something biblical in this. Us reaching a concord. I would never lie to you; maybe to others, but not you. Something about this feels truthful.
You look taller. Stance straighter. Voice deeper. But your hair still looks like it used to. Your smile still leans languidly; your ashtray scent is still there. Does physique hide intention? Is it nature or nurture? Sharp or dull?
I know my time is almost up. The air between us feels stale. You’ve turned me on, just to sputter me out yet again. I’ll say I don’t care. Say you haven’t changed. I’ll always be your in-betweener. I’ll look for you everywhere in the meantime. Prepare myself better for next time. Get skinnier, funnier, smarter. Read more. Watch more. Starve more. Maybe next time, I’ll win.
Creative Director: Andrea Victoria
Photographer: Micaela Huarte
Videographer: William Saldarriaga
Stylist: Luccia Vega-Tortolero, Kelly Henry, Camila Gonzalez, Jason Williams
Producer: Isabella Zagni
On-Set: Richard Garcia,Alba Lucia Lepe (albxlu), Sofia Hoyos, Mila Lascano
Beauty: Victor Dieguez (1dk.vicsb0rd), Gabriela Ivlyeva, Valentina Delgado
Model: Sofia Herrera
Extras: Armando E. Maldonado, Destiny Estriplet, Phaedra Mladenovic, Stephanie Vega, Dazzy Sharp, Karen Mendez, Jennifer Silva
Concept: Andrea Victoria, Priscilla Fernandez, Melissabel Fleites, Hellen Rabelo, Alba Lucia Lepe (albxlu)
Graphics: Hellen Rabelo, Xiomara Campos
Nico Gurdjian
The shoebox recorder clicks to signal the start. “Sit down, Professor. Are you nervous?” He sits in the desk chair, creaking pleasantly at its master’s return. “I suppose, and you believe that means something?” he asks.
I shrug. “Everything means something.” He pauses at that, blowing smoke, smiling wryly.
“Are humans drawn to violence because of a need to bolster power dynamics?” I ask.
“Sure,” he replies, “Public executions and shaming have long been communal events. They allow for subtle subversion and reinforcement of societal hierarchies. There is an absence of consequence when it serves the powerful.”
“Trace it for me.” He puts the cigarette out and leans in. “Roman gladiatorial games–a spectacle designed by the Roman state as public fun and a political tool. Expanded by emperors into grand displays. This idea was perpetuated: that some lives–enslaved, prisoners of war, et cetera–were simply worth less. Their blood splatter echoed cheers; their lineage erased in a single applaudable stroke. The repetitive nature of these spectacles desensitized populations, and cruelty became not just tolerable but enjoyable.”
I tell him that Rome eventually fell. He replies that it doesn’t matter. This culture had already set a precedent.
“Medieval Europe. Court jesters, one of the earliest institutionalized examples. They were chosen for their physical and mental disabilities, economic gaps, and any exploitable traits. Their role: to entertain nobility at the cost of their autonomy and humanity.”
“But they were granted a degree of freedom. Jesters were known for mocking nobility, using their masters as the butt of the joke. That contrasts a claim of that intense ownership,” I counter.
“That, right there, ‘a degree of freedom’. They served as ‘safe conduits’ for releasing frustrations with power, but always within a framework of control. The job was inherently tied to supporting a structure that allowed monarchs to maintain their authority while providing this release valve for half-hearted criticism, at the expense of being an expendable tool vulnerable to the whim of royalty.” He continues, “The jester was the fool, a figure that allowed those in power to dehumanize minorities without repercussions. It becomes a shared cultural experience, invoking a message to society: nonconformists are mere spectacles, treat them as such.”
“And then what? This normalization reinforced broader societal values?”
He nods, “Yes, it spans histories, encourages exploitation. Industrialization in the 19th century transformed society, reducing factory workers to mere cogs in the machinery of production, seen as tools for profit rather than individuals with intrinsic worth.”
“Like women in Victorian society, who were often defined as objects of beauty and domesticity.”
“Yes, and this aesthetic standard–call back to your initial question–is constantly perpetuated and evolving. Society has sanctioned engagement with personas and behaviors otherwise deemed unacceptable.” I ask him if by “sanction” he means with the expansive rise of social media.
“Every mass entertainment outlet corners people into becoming objects of mass consumption, scrutinized, commodified, and sold to the public. Platforms encourage individuals to curate their lives for the public, reducing identities, and fortifying stereotypes. The faceless nature of the current online era allows for people to do so with little consequence, underproping the culture of dehumanization that thrives on anonymity and detachment.”
I speak up, “Here again comes the navigation of the delicate balance between freedom and constraint. Granted fame, wealth, and influence, but within the confines of the media ecosystem.”
“And how is this power inducted, do you think?”
“I’m supposed to be the one asking questions,”
“I’m creating dialogue,” he replies.
I bite. “Soft power. An extension of manipulation by perception. By normalizing the display as entertainment, the ideas of superiority versus inferiority are reinforced without explicitness. A system is enacted so breaching consent feels permissible and enjoyable.”
“Right. Our personal boundaries eroded. The culture currently demands constant visibility. We have to be complicit in the system, groomed from centuries before, to be publicly consumable.”
“But you don’t think it all falls under this, because then you’re saying life is a performance. Can’t it just be individual and random?”
“Everything means something,” he quotes me.
Everything means something. I end the tape.
It had taken less than two days for my strange new kind of niche internet celebrity, and the barrage of sexually explicit requests and targeted innuendos which followed, to take a toll on me.
Had I invited this? I had the audacity to demand to be seen, to share my face, my voice, and my thoughts, to make an observation, to exist publicly. A chastising voice becomes clear through the masses, “What did you expect, that you’d be different?”
I guess I did. I guess I’ve always held the belief, although somewhat buried, that I may just be different, that logic could bend and manipulate itself in my favor, or at least I had a deep hope it could. Yet there I was, and the twisted logic of our modern age had worked how it infamously does, time and time again.
A young woman sexualized incessantly on the internet, a tale as old as Y2K.
It had started innocently enough, a humorous twist on what was originally a raunchy soundbite. Absurd in its delivery and shared mindlessly, months after being recorded. I expected this to go much like any other video that goes up: 250 views, maybe a couple people laugh, maybe a couple are confused, and someone calls me pretty or asks me to do a 360 view of my hair. Oh, how blissfully unaware I had been of the internet’s capacity for pure unadulterated perversion.
You can always tell that your video will reach a large number of people when within minutes of posting you already have a fair bit of likes and comments, within an hour my face had reached over twenty thousand people. It was exciting at first, right up until the comments began to roll in. Men of all different backgrounds and ages, profile pictures ranging from pictures with their families to anime characters, coming together to inquire in my comment section about my availability. Some had even gone as far as to follow me on my other personal platforms and attempt to pick me up in the more intimate setting of Instagram DMs.
It was immediately very horrifying. It multiplied in its horror when creators with millions of followers began dueting the video to administer their own fix of objectification.
I felt exposed, like a lamb naively cantering into a wolf den, except the wolves truly believed they were doing me a favor by sinking their sharp teeth into my skin.
The video was up for a total of 36 hours. I battled internally through the duration of that time, still a little tethered to the notion of “all publicity is good publicity”, although I’m not sure now what I thought I was gaining from the attention.Was I aiming for some sort of unwanted world record forthe most sexual harassment in 24 hours? Surely that didn’t hold a candle to the despicable rage campaigns I’ve seen levied against other women.
I finally deleted the video when Irealized that no matter how many followers I was getting from the whole ordeal, it wasn’t an audience I would be proud to have. Did they find joy in the facets of my personality that I share on my page, or did they only receive pleasure from a onedimensional fantasy of me they created from a misinterpreted video. Perhaps it was a credit to my acting ability to have that many people take it seriously en masse.
It is an experience I can find humor in now, mainly because of the vast disparity between my intention and its reception, but it did force me to confront parts of myself that I hadn’t before. The part of me that craves attention so deeply that I’d momentarily lose sight of my boundaries in its pursuit, the part of me that is all to0 capable of steamrolling my internal discomfort to preserve another person’s, the part of me that was naive to how I could be perceived by others, the part of me which is learning to separate that perception from my self worth.
I have found appreciation for the experience, for exposing all these parts of myself that I had not been as aware of before, even if it resulted from a large number of people not being able to see even one part of me clearly.
I may have yet to see the last of that video, despite my best attempts to wipe the internet of its existence, and it could very well come back to haunt me. If, or rather when, it resurfaces, you’ll know it when you see it. My only defense is simple: it was a bit—one that no one got.
are we deviants or thieves? behold the convent, behold their prayers [and lies] are they vestal harlots with an insatiable appetite for ambrosia? or is the convent steeped in sin? so animal, so human, i call them my kin.
i wonder… should I pacify the Man before He eats me? settle His needs and become owned. before Him, i had needs of my own.
they lie on a throne of skulls. i sought to pacify them–performed a ceremonial sacrifice of rib bones and flesh.
all to get a dollar. a coin. a peck.
a set of [louis vuitton ® monogram canvas jeans size 2 $2,080.00].
As I sit down to write this letter, I’m reminded of the countless late nights, the endless rounds of edits, and the moments of sheer passion that have brought us here. BUT YOU WON’T LIKE THE MESS has been more than just a theme for Issue 07–but a reflection of our shared experiences. The issue is ultimately a celebration of imperfections, a rebellion against the pristine veneers we often wear, and an ode to the chaos that makes us human. From exploring the suffocating weight of perfectionism to unearthing the complex cycles of selfdoubt and growth, each concept tells a story of vulnerability and resilience.
It’s more than just words or a vision–but a testament to the incredible team behind it. The passion, creativity, and relentless dedication of every contributor has turned this idea into a reality. To our writers, photographers, designers, and every single member of Strike Miami: thank you. Your talent and commitment breathe life into these pages, and I’m endlessly grateful for the chance to lead and collaborate with you.
To Michael: thank you for pushing me when I doubted my capabilities and for seeing the drive and passion in me to take on this position. Most especially, thank you to Andrea and Melissabel. None of this could have been possible without your dedication towards this magazine, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that I could not have done this without your friendship, guidance, and faith in me.
To our readers: this issue is for you. I hope it challenges you, moves you, and reminds you that there’s beauty in the mess. Let this be a space where you feel seen and inspired to embrace the parts of yourself you may shy away from.
Thank you for turning the page with us.
With love, gratitude, and all my best,
Priscilla M. Fernandez Editor-In-Chief
Everything overwhelms me. I can’t think of a single day when my thoughts didn’t drain me or consume me. Every single second, I’m thinking about how I can change my life, where I should go, or what I could be doing better. It’s not an easy thing, you know? Feeling stuck while also being the freest you’ve ever been. It’s all a mess – a mess I keep procrastinating on dealing with.
“I’d peel and cut a pomegranate for you but you won’t like the mess.”
A quote I resonate with and the inspiration behind the issue you’re holding in your hands right now (or reading online, lol). The concepts and topics we explore in this issue are like a pomegranate:a messy mix of emotions and feelings we carry every day. While society often tells us these imperfections make us undesirable or unlikeable, working on this issue has shown me how beautifully human they make us.
On every page, you’ll find a piece of our Strike Miami community – a community I admire for its passion, dedication, and creativity. I’m endlessly inspired by each team member’s commitment and love for their craft. You’ve all taught me to see life and creativity from new perspectives, and for that, I’m forever grateful.
Once again, I’ve had the privilege to pick at my brain and bring all this mind chatter to life. Being Creative Director of Strike Miami has taught me patience and self-compassion. Each issue that we’ve created has reminded me how essential it is to nurture your creativity and to be kind to yourself. To understand how perfectly okay it is to be a mess.
This issue wouldn’t exist without the incredible people who have poured their time and talent into it. While many contributed to making i07 what it is today, there are a few special people I want to hug and cry to:
Albalu: Where would I be without you? While I’m incredibly sad that this is your last issue with us (finally) I’m beyond excited to see where life takes you. I’m eternally thankful that I get to call you one of my best friends.
Kayla and Camila: Thank you for always listening to my endless rants and for being so committed to this project. You are both so talented and patient, not only with me but with each other. I can’t wait to see what we do next.
Melissabel and Priscilla: For the little time that we’ve known each other, we have so much history. You both keep me going and push me to be the very best version of myself. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for everything.
I hope this issue helps you find meaning, purpose, and connection—not just in our mess, but in your own as well.
From my daydreaming thoughts to yours, Strike 4ver,
Andrea Victoria Creative Director
It’s hard to believe that as you read this, you’re holding Issue 07 of Strike Magazine Miami. Reflecting on my time with Strike, I’m filled with a bittersweet feeling as I think about how far we’ve come as a publication. This issue is a testament to the dedication and time we’ve all poured into the magazine alongside our regular commitments, showcasing the passion and raw creativity that shine through these pages.
The theme of this issue holds a profound meaning: a raw portrayal of what makes us human. From the visuals to the accompanying pieces, every concept tells a story I hope you’ll take the time to cherish. YOU WON’T LIKE THE MESS is a celebration of life’s chaos and imperfections, brought to life through the written and visual art of this magazine.
To everyone who contributed to this issue: I’m beyond lucky to be part of such an incredibly talented team. I am truly in awe of what we continue to accomplish together, driven by our shared passion for creativity. This issue is a reflection of all the immense time, effort, and dedication that each of you has contributed. To my external shawties, Sabrina and Sofia: I couldn’t have asked for a better team. Thank you for all your hard work on this issue—I couldn’t have done it without you.
As I reflect on Issue 07, I’m not only proud of my growth as External Director but also of the growth we’ve achieved as an organization. Sharing and building our vision with the rest of the world continues to inspire me every day. I also want to thank Priscilla and Andrea for being part of the executive dream team. I admire your passion and commitment to Strike, and I’m so grateful to also call you my friends. I know we’ll look back on everything we’ve accomplished with pride for years to come.
If you’ve made it to the end of this letter, thank you for reading. I hope you cherish this issue as much as we do and find the beauty within the chaos of the mess.
With Love,
Melissabel Fleites External Director
“BUT YOU WON’T LIKE THE MESS.” explores the uneasy balance between the pristine image we project and the chaotic truths we conceal. It examines the relentless pursuit of perfection—the expectations, judgments, and societal molds that confine us, leaving many feeling disconnected, stagnant, and unseen.
Through stories of vulnerability, self-destruction, and resilience, this issue delves into the cycles that bind us: toxic patterns, strained relationships, and systems that perpetuate harm. Each page invites reflection and confrontation, encouraging you to challenge these forces and reclaim your narrative with honesty and courage.
The mess isn’t just chaos—it’s where the most sincere truths about ourselves can be found.
WRITER Priscilla M. Fernandez
