There’s a snap and I turn in surprise. Zane holds an old polaroid camera to his chest, fingers patiently waiting for it to spit out the square film. He sets it aside, giving me a shrug of apology.
“Mum loved using these things,” he says, coming closer, holding it to his eye before taking another shot. “When they discontinued the film stock, dad bought a shit tonne of it, then paid a team here to replicate it.” He gently tugs the photograph from the mouth, setting it on the bench next to the first to develop. “Even after they released it again, she still preferred the look of the older camera and film.”
Another shot emerges from the camera, then another.
The nerves on the back of my hands twang. “You’re the one who doesn’t see things clearly.”
He tilts his head to the side, that charming smile back in place. “Are you sure about that?”
When I open my mouth to answer, he takes another shot, letting the film feed into his waiting fingers.
“Who taught you, you were ugly? That you were weak?”
“Nobody taught me.” I fold my arms across my chest, deeply aggravated because I thought this discussion had finished. “I have mirrors.”
Then blush deeper because of course that’s the point of the painting. I hear the snap and burr of the camera, scowling as I tuck my chin further towards my chest.
“Did your mother sit you down one day to break the hard truth to you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I rub the back of my neck where it prickles.
“Then when?”
“I don’t remember. There have been a multitude of people who’ve been happy to point out the blindingly obvious. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Did your bullies tell you that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Zane reloads the camera and leaves it on the bench as he walks over, pulling me into a hug. “You can tell me. You can tell me anything.”
But I struggle free. Being this close is distracting and I want to hold my wits about me because everything about this feels dangerous. “And am I allowed tonottell you anything?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Why don’t you tell me what it’s like to have everyone staring in awe as you walk by?”
“Tiring. I have two friends because no one’s held a genuine conversation with me since primary school. Every time I talk with someone, I’m listening to find out what they want becausethey always want something.” He smiles, cupping my head and dropping a tender kiss on my lips. “But people look at you, too.”
“To laugh at me.” I shake my head and turn my attention back to the painting, seeing additional details as it reveals itself slowly, peeling back the obvious layers to a deeper meaning.
It’s more a treatise on societal expectations than a statement on bullying but of course there are similarities.
“If you want to be together, you have to let me in sometime.”
The instant rebuttal is on my lips.Maybe I don’t want to be together.
But the lie isn’t worth the breath to speak it and I can hear the unspoken reproach. He told me his deepest sorrow; it’s only fair I share mine.
“The bullying started when my dad died but the more they picked on me, the more I… I don’t know… gave off signals. The whole thing kept snowballing. Just when I thought I’d reached the end of it, there’d be another layer because I’m weak.”
“You’re not weak.”
A laugh bursts from me as I shake my head. “Yes, I am. It took me years to say something and even then, I couldn’t advocate for myself, not properly. After all the effort it took to report, I still had to leave to make it stop.”
Pressure builds in my chest.
I want to trust him, to confide in him but I can’t shake the idea this isn’t real. Thiscan’tbe real.
