Superstar | Billie Eilish

1. Risky

I always thought that being on the cover of a outdoor would feel like freedom. Like I had finally made it, like all the long hours posing for lenses that didn't care if I was human or a mannequin would be worth it. And in some ways, it is. I see my face at the airport kiosks, in glossy pages slid across nail salon counters, sometimes even in the hands of strangers on the bus. It's surreal.

But the other side of it—the side nobody warns you about—is how quickly admiration turns to suspicion, or mockery, the second people realize something about you.

I'm Cuban-born, Florida–based and now a L.A girl, twenty-four years old, and apparently a problem for some people simply because of my passport and beliefs.

This morning, on set for a perfume campaign, the makeup artist—an older woman with a perfect Manhattan accent—smiled at me the entire time she was painting foundation over my skin. But when she thought I wasn't listening, she whispered to one of the assistants:

"She's pretty, but you know these girls—they're all just trying to get our jobs."

It wasn't even subtle. It was loud enough that my chest tightened, loud enough that my face felt hot beneath her careful brushstrokes.

I wanted to say something. I always want to. But then I remember: I am the product. My job is to stay still, to smile, to deliver beauty that sells. And so I stayed silent, staring into the mirror as if it could swallow me whole.

Later, I found Victoria leaning against a lighting rig, scrolling on her phone. She's my best friend, but also the one who manages my contracts and finances. She knows the business inside out, but more importantly, she knows me. One glance at my face and she straightened.

"What happened?" she asked, low enough that nobody around could hear.

"Nothing," I said, which in our language always means everything.

Victoria narrowed her eyes, the way she does when she's already plotting how to destroy whoever made me feel small. But she let it go, for now.

And then there's Leo, my manager. Leo is the opposite of Victoria—loud, flamboyant, always three steps ahead of every headline. He's the one who tells me when to post, when not to post, when to smile wider or when to pretend I didn't hear the rude question from an interviewer. He's the one who knows how fragile my image is, how one slip could send me spiraling back to anonymity.

"Navarro," he said when I got off set, wrapping his arm around me dramatically, like he always does. "You were perfect. But I'm telling you, people are still... hesitant."

"Hesitant?" I repeated, knowing exactly what he meant.

He sighed, lowering his voice. "You know how it is. The industry loves your face, but America doesn't always love what you stand for. Some brands think you're... risky."

Risky.

That word stung more than the makeup artist's whisper.

It's never just about where I'm from. It's about what I refuse to stay silent on. I speak about Palestine, about the climate crisis, about Cuba without filtering it through someone else's narrative. I question U.S. politics. I don't play neutral — and that makes me risky.

I work twice as hard as the others. I pose until my muscles ache, I network until my smile feels carved into my face. And still, because I won't keep quiet, I'm labeled as trouble.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be allowed to just exist without explaining myself. Without translating my beliefs into something palatable. Without proving that I belong.

But belonging is currency in this world. And if you don't have it, you find ways to create it.

Victoria says I should keep my head down, keep pushing, prove them wrong with success. Leo says I need a strategy — something to make the world forget what I post before they remember who I am.