For three years after Lyon, I was rushing around Europe, trying to find a place where it would be easy for me to breathe. I dreamed of belonging, but I felt like a stranger everywhere. Paris was oppressed by crowding, insane prices and eternal noise; I lived in a room of twelve meters, where even Brioche could not turn around. Barcelona offered sunshine, but the language remained foreign, and the warmth was superficial. My native Nantes pulled me back, but every return turned into a trap: everyone already knew who I was supposed to be. I brewed vegan lattes in Montmartre, where the customers were screaming about the temperature of the milk. I cleaned the shelter for the dogs, getting ridiculous money, but falling asleep with a pure heart. I pedaled the courier through the stormy streets, hiding from the rain, and the Brioche was shaking in the basket. I even collected bouquets for the florist, creating beauty for other people's happy stories. But every time something was missing

If I were asked what makes my life meaningful, I wouldn't talk about work. I would tell you about Brioche, my rescued puppy, who has grown into a stubborn, well fed spaniel and considers himself the owner of the apartment. He sleeps under my feet during the broadcasts and looks at me as if I am the center of his universe. I volunteer at a homeless shelter on weekends: washing paws, distributing food, just sitting next to frightened dogs until they stop shaking. This is my therapy and a way to thank the world for bringing Brioche back to me. When I'm not at the orphanage, I read French classics Saint-Exupery, Maupassant, Delphine de Vigan. I love retouching photos, playing with light, and finding beauty in ordinary faces. I cook Breton biscuits and bake real brioche yes, the one I named the dog after. I walk along the Vistula embankment, listen to indie-French pop and practice yoga on the balcony, keeping my balance in posture and in life

I've been thinking for a long time about the meaning of all this — the searches, the disappointments, the moves, the late-night broadcasts. And I understood: The point is not to find yourself, as if you are a lost thing. The point is to allow yourself to change, to grow, to become more and more real. I'm not looking for myself anymore—I'm looking for a better version of who I've already become. I'm 18, and I'm free from other people's scenarios and fear of judgment. I have a dream: to buy an old house somewhere in Podlaskie voivodeship, with a garden, a campfire and a high fence, behind which no one will tell me how to live. There will be dogs, cats, maybe a goat — all those whom I will save. I will bake brioche in the morning, read on the veranda and know that the world is wide, but my corner in it is warm and safe. To you. To my real self. If you're reading this, then you're already part of my journey. Welcome. It's warm in here

My name is Camille Lefebvre, I am 23 years old. I was born in a small Breton town an hour's drive from Nantes, where the air always smells of salt, chestnuts and something infinitely far away. I spent my young years in an old stone house overlooking the ocean, in the company of a stubborn red cat named Mimi, who hated strangers, but allowed me to touch her wet nose. I was a quiet, dreamy girl who could sit on the wet sand for hours and stare at crabs. Everyone around me was sure that I would grow up to be a veterinarian and so did I. I seriously thought that I would treat animals, rescue birds and open my own shelter. But the university turned out to be so dry, detached from life and filled with formulas instead of the smells of herbs that I dropped out after a year. It was scary. All I took with me was a thirst for freedom, a suitcase full of books. I named it Brioche, because of my favorite pastries, because of the warmth that was so lacking

I never thought that I would end up in this profession. But one night, sitting in a room in Prague and working part-time retouching other people's photos, I came across the story of a girl who did not talk about a webcam as something shameful. She described it as a space where you choose the rules yourself, where your appearance, charisma and body are your capital, and not a reason for other people's compromises. I stared at the screen for a long time, and something clicked inside. But then I realized that I could be whoever I wanted to be in the frame. I dyed my hair pearl pink, the color of the sunset over the Loire, the color of my freedom. In the shot, I'm quiet, with a slight irony and a French accent, which is somehow adored here in Poland. I'm not selling myself — I'm creating an atmosphere. I set boundaries, choose what to show and what to keep to myself. This job gave me financial independence, a bright apartment on the Outside with a view of the Vistula River