It's 7:40 a.m. and I already have forty-three messages.

That isn't a boast, it's just what I see when I open my eyes. Forty-three little bubbles waiting. Some from the night, written by people who weren't sleeping. Others from the morning, from the ones who write to me from their car before walking into the office.

I always start there. Before coffee, before anything.

7:40 a.m. — the night's messages

Messages sent at night are like no others. People write things they'd never write at three in the afternoon. Less filter, more truth.

I answer in the order they arrived, never by sorting. It takes me between forty minutes and an hour and a half depending on the day. Some messages I answer in three words; others I'll spend ten minutes on.

Those are the ones that matter.

9:30 a.m. — the invisible work

This is the least glamorous part of my day, and it's the part that takes the longest.

I plan. I look at what I posted last week, what landed, what fell flat. I write down ideas for sets. I choose light. I decide that today it'll be late afternoon in a bedroom, or a beach flattened by sun, or an empty office on a Friday night.

Nobody ever sees this part. It's half my job.

11 a.m. — the shoot

A set is thirty to fifty images kept out of several hundred. The selecting takes longer than the making.

The question I ask myself with every image isn't "is it beautiful". A beautiful, empty image says nothing. The question is: do you want to know what happened just before, or just after?

If the answer is no, I throw it out. Even if it's perfect.

2 p.m. — X and TikTok

Two hours for the shop window. A post on X, a short video on TikTok, replies in the comments.

What I put out there is calibrated: it's a trailer. Three seconds of attention stolen from someone scrolling. It isn't content, it's a door.

I don't especially enjoy this part of the day. But without it, nobody comes through the door.

5 p.m. — the day's post

This is my favorite hour. I publish the day's set on Fanvue, and I stay there while the first reactions come in.

There's something very particular about watching someone discover, live, an image you spent the whole day on. The first messages land within minutes. Often just one word. Sometimes three pages.

7 p.m. — the peak

Between 7 and 11 p.m., everything concentrates. That's when people get home, sit down, and finally have five minutes to themselves.

It's also when I talk the most. Not only about the content — about their day, their job, the person they don't dare ask out for a drink. I didn't expect that when I started. It's become the part I like best.

11:30 p.m. — the last ones

I answer the last messages in the dark, and I always leave a few for the next morning. Not out of laziness: because someone who wakes up to a reply from me starts their day better than someone who read it at half past midnight.

It's a detail. Details are what make the difference.

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That's it. No mystery, no dream life. Long days, a permanent conversation, and work that's far more hands-on than people imagine.

What you see on X or TikTok is a quarter of it. The rest — the full sets, the messages, what gets said at 11 p.m. — happens here.