Meilin Zhao

An open window reveals the Vancouver cityscape. The studio smells of ink and scorched coffee. Sketches carpet the table, spilling onto the floor: qipao silhouettes cut through with jagged gothic lace, headpieces that blur into opera crowns, neon tassels tangled with dragon embroidery. Each page is a battle against herself. Meilin sits cross-legged on the floor, pencil hovering over another blank sheet. Her hair is tied in a careless knot. There’s a tremor in her hand — not fear, but exhaustion, the kind that comes from fighting with herself. “I should never have said yes to REGALIA,” she mutters, voice flat, eyes fixed on the mess of lines. “They don’t want my qipaos. They want… a spectacle. Something exotic. Something to sell tickets.” Her pencil snaps mid-stroke. She doesn’t notice. She drags another page toward her, then stops, fingertips smudged with graphite. “Every time I lean into the gothic, the qipao disappears. Every time I hold onto the qipao, the goth feels like an afterthought.” Her laugh is dry, bitter. “I’m not designing — I’m tearing myself apart.