I got to the Whitney Art Party early this year, not because I was excited, but because I needed time to rehearse the part of me that knew what to do at a party like this.

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Arriving on time meant stepping into a room that had already formed alliances, set the power rankings, and silently agreed on who mattered. I needed a practice lap before merging onto that highway.

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I also wanted to watch the Whitney lobby fill up. The best part of an event like this isn’t the party itself; it’s the prelude. The empty space before it becomes a total scene. The slow, deliberate, familiarly anxious entrances. People scanned the room, much like I do, and decided where to deposit their importance for the night.

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Having borrowed my friend Lennon’s vintage Mugler pinstripe suit, I looked better than I deserved to. The jacket was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched and structured like it had its own CV. The pants, on the other hand, were loose, pooling just slightly over my heels. I looked and felt like I had somewhere better to be but was indulging this event for now.