My breath fogs as I shoulder through the gallery doors, camera bag thumping against my hip. The space is warm and bright, all white walls and polished concrete floors. Guests are already milling around with glasses of champagne, drifting from one framed print to the next.
My prints.
MyWildest Dreamsseries.
It should feel euphoric — seeing my work blown up, framed, spotlighted. The culmination of the risk I took leaving fashion behind. The proof that I can make something real, something honest.
But instead I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life behind glass.
Mara spots me immediately and makes her way over, black glasses perched on her head, her expression satisfied.
“There she is,” she says, kissing the air beside my cheek. “Our featured artist. The reviews are glowing. Absolutely glowing.”
“That’s great,” I manage.
She studies me, frowning. “You okay? You look… overwhelmed.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
She doesn’t believe me — no one ever does when I say that — but before she can probe, another group approaches, asking about my process, my inspiration, the emotional arc of the series.
I answer on autopilot.
“Weather can make or break a photograph.”
“I wanted to capture the feeling of transience.”
“Yes, Alaska is beautiful.”
“No, I didn’t have a production assistant — just good boots and a tripod.”
Their praise rolls over me without sinking in.
Eventually I slip away, drifting toward the back wall where two of my favorite shots hang. The river at dusk. The waterfall framed between pines. Both luminous, both technically strong.
Both empty.
My heart squeezes.
I move to the final photograph in the series — the one I took on the ridge before everything changed. The aurora curling across the sky, a wash of green and violet, the landscape alive beneath it.
This one is beautiful.
But even as I stare at it, I feel the shadow of the version Ididn’tinclude — the one still tacked to the wall above his bed.
The one of him.
A quiet ache spreads through my chest, warm and heavy.
I feel a presence at my side. A journalist with a notebook and a friendly smile.
“Mind if I ask a few questions?” she says.
“Sure.”
She taps her pen thoughtfully. “Your series has been described as intimate. Tender. Aching with transience. Do you think beauty is inherently fleeting?”
Her words hit too close.
