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Nothing helps the way it should and she’s losing more hope than she had from the start. She’s told no one, rinses, presses, and repeats every ounce of proof that this is rea l, then carries on the only way she knows how. She narrowly makes it to first hour after a fit, fisting damp towels in her pocket, then chews the cap off her pen. Her notes are a scribbled mess, paper splotches, ink smudged, and splattered. Her desk mate slides her what’s left of their water, and she takes it with no thought. She swallows a cough as the bells rings; the lid tinged red.–“The composition is stunning.” few stills from last class are rallied up, hung to dry, and she’s not feeling worthy of praise. “You’ve captured the contrast beautifully.” A̶l̶l̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶s̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶p̶a̶r̶e̶.̶ Immortalized in shot, smiles in her direction, take over his entire face. Crinkles welcome themselves by his eyes, dimples imprint beneath the apples of his cheeks, and his jaw goes beautifully slack. She’s licked the back of his teeth and never once his lips curve in such a way..“Of course you’d say that.” is what she gives. “Fucking narcissist.”–They spare minimal glances in the open, trading touch and then some behind narrow doors. She knows she shouldn’t, but doesn’t stop. He tells empty promise with a bruising mouth, recants any[thing] with lingering hands. He memorizes the curves of her flesh, tastes the salt of her skin, and walks away with ease. He assures her, her best work’s with film, and she agrees.In shot–everything stays as it was. –There’s enough to make a seasonal bouquet as weeks go by.. The smell is of season’s pass. –Her room’s a flurry of old reels, fresh frames, and a cracked lens that needs reparation. She’s dusting a macro, swiping her fisheye clean, and charging the batteries for the singular dslr she’d rather never use again;–Haunted by the last time she did.She remembers each stammer from her mouth when the shutter clicked. Each mark on her skin as the flash burned her lids. Conserved in digital is a secret she can’t share. it’d kill her if word got out. She coughs another bract into her palm, smiling wryly. She’d kill herself if it didn’t.–Her friends are impulsively and predictable, dragging her out of hiding when the weekend arrives. The end of semester looms and she feels like there’s got to be more time. Her project’s not finished, not close to.There’s more to capture–more to say.With phone in hand, she snaps moments of the night. Empty glasses from an array of ordered shots, grease stained napkins, and blotched knuckles holding salty fries. She uses flash for key carved tags in their booth, dragging her own name at it’s edge. The drink gifted from a mysterious patron is dark and citrus infused, rinsed with wood chip. Orange zest in singed and curled delicately. It burns on the way down and a cough brings it back up. There’s a wet thump, thump, thump, when she sets her glass on the mat, and a metallic twang coating her tongue. –Scratching persists til she coughs and croons her way through econ, yawning her excuses to the nurse when asked if she’s well. Her temperature’s normal, pressure in check, yet swelling tonsils has a paper signed at her expense. The weight of her camera doubles, hands trembling when she snaps a picture on her way out.The smile was kind–warm and real.She’d rather keep it.–His class was her favorite because of [the] passion behind his words and intention of his body. He engaged his teaching with every fiber of his being; as he did anything else.It’s something she’d admired after hours.Encased in her portfolio, is a gallery proving just that.–Flare ups gain frequecny as the sun bids early adeu, and hiding her secret is harder as days go by. She brushes her teeth til drool pools, but the same stale taste remains. Thorn aggitate her tongue, pollen creeps beneath her gums, and no medicine is enough.She guzzles water before classes, and stacks more than enough prints for review.When he scans what she’s brought, his thumb lingers at every turn. He remarks that she has a wonderful eye for her subject, reaching a hand to her’s. Page after page is like looking through [a] rose tinted lens. When she coughs, a once paper white bulb hits a protected portrait. “It’s beautiful.” she rasps. “Isn’t it?” © Copyright Ciani Jayde 2024