#pagent

Meet Sophia Fatou Gomis, the newly crowned Miss Guinea-Bissau França 2026 👑🇬🇼

Representing the Guinean community in France, Sophia took home the national title with grace, beauty and elegance ✨

They say the real trophy was the crown placed upon my head, but for me it was always the journey,the endless lessons that shaped me, the people who lifted me when I stumbled, the voices that cheered me on, and even the silence that taught me resilience. Every step carried meaning: the battles I fought in the shadows, the wisdom I gathered from failure, the laughter and tears that stitched themselves into my story. The crown may glitter, but the true victory lives in the path I walked, the strength I discovered, and the lives I touched along the way.

like obviously fashion and music are a big part of Naboo daily life, but also so is the concept of childhood innocence. There’s a reason all of the queens are literal children or vey young teenagers. The concept of imagination and creativity are highly valued by the people of Naboo. And where they see both of these qualities is in their children, the future generation.

The first Miss America is crowned in Atlantic City, 1921

At just 16 years old, Margaret Gorman would be too young to enter a modern Miss America pageant. But in 1921 she won first prize in the inaugural Inter-City Beauty Contest – a pageant held on the beach in Atlantic City that began as a ploy to keep tourists in the city after Labor Day.

steve harrington on a roof. it's fitting. angled planes of cold, granulated asphalt biting faintly through the denim, night painted obsidian and flat above him. he's squated like a gargoyle one sneaked hooked, one knee burning. exhales through his nose, allows the moment to breathe. then “  ... fine. i can work with that. ” words spill too easy, lacquered with that familiar hair-rington: charm, sanding down the sharp parts of being told NO. “  that a 'kick rocks, harrington' or a 'sit down and behave' ? ” night hums, cicadas somewhere. “  'cause i can behave. i'll be good. ” and the window slams shut. not ceremoniously, not even angrily ⁽ WHICH SCARED HIM MOST. ⁾ final and telling, a hard and blunt THUNK! that vibrates up the glass and into his teeth, into the place behind his eyes where his embarrassment and affection trip over one another. steve freeze mid-lean, blinks once, twice, stares at the faint smear of is own ghost against the pane. silence rushes in to fill the space of seconds. “  okay. ” swallows. “  yeah. fair. ” steve shifts, crouch deepening, heel scraping, roof protesting.

there's a lot he doesn't say. there's the kids, for one. the upside-down, for another. the way time keeps folding in on itself lately, dates missed, promises postponed, dinners turned into apologies rehearsed on the very drive over. there's the knowledge that any explaining of such would sound insane. ⁽ JUST TRUST ME IS A PHRASE WORN THIN. ⁾ scrubs a hand down his face, figners lingering against his jaw. debates and tastes a few different things on his tongue before it comes so simply: “  i'm sorry. ” that one isn't armored. he's missed a date too many. “  's shitty. i know it was. there's just.. ” he trails off, searches for a word big enough in its magnitude and finds none that will not collapse in. “  .. a lot you don't know about. ” about as close as he gets, for now. a line steve tiptoes, keeping her safe and keeping her in the dark. “  c'mon. you gonna open that window back up? ” a flicker of hope, stupid and persistent and unkillable. “  'cause i can climb. i can't, uh .. phase through matter. missed that class, i guess. ” gestures vageuly at the roof, the gutter, and himself. EXHIBIT A.

@pagent     from a starter call    !

he doesn't usually linger in places like this anymore.     steve tells himself that it's just habit–- old hawkins muscle memory–- but the truth is he hasn’t learned how to stop waiting for things to go bad. lover's lake is quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that presses in on his ears until his thoughts get loud. crickets. water lapping against the shore. no kids. no music. no flashlights cutting through the dark.

he keeps his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the tree line without even meaning to. as if the moment he looks away for too long, something might crawl out of the dark again. like it has before.

he notices her because she doesn't belong to the silence. there's something almost too put-together about her against the lake—soft colors in a place that’s all shadows, posture straight even when she’s still, like her body remembers rules her life doesn’t follow anymore. she smells faintly sweet when the breeze shifts, vanilla cutting through damp leaves and cold water, and it hits him sideways with a memory he can’t quite place. normal things. safer things.

steve slows before he even realizes he has. he doesn't know her well, not really–- but he knows the name. everyone does. knows the story the town tells itself. knows which details they avoid.

he clears his throat, the sound louder than he had intended. he regrets it almost immediately.

❛ didn't think anyone else came out here much anymore, ❜ he announces, eyes flickering to the water like it might answer him if she doesn't. ❛ guess i was wrong. ❜ there's a PAUSE. steve shifts his weight, jaw tightening, that familiar instinct to fill the silence clawing up his throat. to joke. to deflect. to pretend he’s not standing in a place that’s taken too much from people who didn’t deserve it.

instead, he stays quiet. lets the quiet of the night sit between them, simmer. lets her decide whether she wants to speak–- or if she wants to keep staring into the dark like he does, waiting for something that never feels as gone as everyone insists it is.

“Sweet sixteen, and we had arrived…”

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