A Photo Finish

At three in the morning, the class monitor, Hayden Clark, suddenly posted a message in the group chat announcing that the graduation photos would be taken the morning after next. He then sent a payment QR code in the chat, where each student had to pay 50 dollars for the graduation photos. I told Hayden that I had my thesis defense scheduled for the morning after next and asked if the time could be changed. He immediately snapped back at me, “Is your time the only time that matters? If you can’t come, then get lost!” Wanting to keep the peace, I paid the money and went through great trouble to rearrange my schedule. But when the day for the photos finally arrived, Corin Vale told me, “The graduation photos were already taken yesterday!”

I had been dating a photographer for seven years, yet I didn't have a single decent photo of myself. "I only photograph scenery, not people," Nina Jensen said. She even said her last relationship ended because her ex-boyfriend kept asking her to take pictures of him. So for seven years, I stayed quiet. I never asked or brought it up. That was until today, when I came across the latest post from my influencer friend, Julian Locke. [Let me show off my photographer. She's been taking amazing photos of me for seven years for free!] One of the top comments is: [It's an honor to photograph my muse.] The profile picture was completely white. The tone felt familiar, and it sent a chill through my entire body. Turns out, it wasn't that Nina didn't take photos of people. She just never wanted to take mine. 'Nina. If I don't exist in your viewfinder, from now on, you don't exist in my world either.'

On the day of the World Rally Championship finals, I pressed the accelerator to the floor, ready for the final dash. The next moment, the engine exploded in a deafening roar, and thick smoke instantly filled the cockpit. Flames spread toward the fuel tank. I yanked at the door, desperate to jump out, but the handle wouldn’t budge, and the brakes felt welded in place. In that instant of despair, my husband’s voice came through the comms. “Attention, all teams, no need to rescue her. My wife is the Iron Racer! “For today’s live broadcast challenge, let’s see if she can drive this burning car across the finish line!” His co-commentator, recently recruited onto the team, chimed in with excitement. “Thomas, the sponsor just confirmed! As long as Jane holds on to the end, they’ll increase investment. I can get a permanent spot!” I understood instantly then that the husband on the commentary platform I had supported for years was using my life to pave the way for his mistress. Smoke clawed at my throat. However, I forced down the dizziness and begged, “For the sake of all our years together…” Only for him to cut me off with irritation. “Save your energy for driving. You’re skilled. Just hold on a little longer. Mandy’s promotion depends entirely on you.” The cockpit had become an inferno; my skin searing with every second. I gripped the blistering wheel, steering through the smoke for the last time. This time, my finish line was the commentary platform where the two of them were huddled together.

At the start of graduation season, my boyfriend took more than two hundred photos of Madison Vale. Chase Whitman was president of Westbridge University’s photography club. He knew how to find flattering light and how to coax people out of stiff smiles. Madison stood beneath the maples outside the library in a white dress, her graduation cap tucked under one arm. “Am I taking up too much of your time?” she asked. Chase checked the last few shots and smiled. “You make my job easy.” When it was finally my turn, he barely looked at me. “Stand by the tree.” He clicked the shutter twice and lowered the camera. “Done.” I stared at him. “That’s it?” He turned the screen toward me. In one photo my eyes were half-closed; in the other, a branch shadow slashed diagonally across my face. “Can we try again?” Chase sighed. “Avery, you always tense up. Fifty more takes won’t change that.” Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. He had posted in the Westbridge Buy: Twenty dollars for someone to spend ten minutes taking a few graduation photos of my girlfriend. Nothing fancy. She just needs something usable. Half an hour later, a stranger replied. I sent him my location, then added: Just so you know, I’m not very photogenic. His answer came almost immediately: That usually says more about the photographer than about the subject. When Rowan Hayes arrived, he looked at Chase’s two photos and said, “He didn’t even try.” An hour later, he sent me the raw files. No filters, no heavy retouching. Just me on the library steps, my hair loose in the wind and my eyes brighter than I remembered them being.

On the day we take our graduation photos, Mom and Dad hold up their cameras, snapping countless pictures of my boyfriend and my best friend. In the viewfinder, the two of them lean in close while my parents watch on with proud, beaming smiles, despite my being their biological daughter and the girl Gavin has been dating for the last four years. I stand off in the corner, clad in my cap and gown, waiting for what feels like an eternity, but Mom never once beckons me over to join them. Once Charlotte finishes her photoshoot, she mentions that she still hasn't lined up a decent job yet. Gavin completely forgets I'm even there and instantly leans in to comfort her. "Why don't you come work at the company I just joined? That way, I can look out for you." Dad nods right along in agreement. "Send me a copy of your resume, Lottie. I'll ask around for you. You shouldn't have to settle, especially when it's your first real job." Nolan walks over carrying a bottle of ice water, but he passes it to Charlotte. "Don't sweat the job hunt, Lottie," he says. "My company's hiring. I'll get you an internal referral." It's only when they catch sight of my hand freezing midair that everyone finally remembers that I'm standing right next to them. "Natalie, you should just find a random job and get on with it," Nolan says. Mom chimes in, "Exactly. You didn't major in anything special, so you should be grateful if a company even wants you. Stop being so picky." As Gavin scrolls through the gallery on his phone, his brow suddenly furrows into a frown. "Natalie's blocking Lottie in this one. I'm deleting it." But out of nearly 400 pictures, that's the only one where I exist. I stand off to the side, my hands tightening into fists. It turns out it isn't a matter of them failing to see me. They see me perfectly fine. They just think I'm a nuisance. It's as if Charlotte is their actual daughter, and my boyfriend belongs right by her side. If that's how it's going to be, then I'm taking the job farthest away from home, and I'm never coming back.

I'm a private photographer. Many female college students come to me to get their portraits shot. In return, they choose to offer me their supple bodies. One day, I receive an order to take wedding photos of a couple. However, that night, the bride insists on having me sleep with her… Could it be that her husband can't even afford to pay me for my services?