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“I really like making little details sharp,” I say.

Curiosity highlights his eyes when he looks at me. I think he wants me to explain what I mean by “sharp”, a photography term, so I do. Before I know it, I mention other terminology.

“Damn, and you remember all that stuff?” Jase says.

“It’s easier to remember when you actually care,” I say.

“True. When I first started learning the guitar, I remembered all the strings in seconds. Wish I could do the same with this SAT stuff.” Jase gazes at my photo again. “So, are these cracks the little details you wanted to show off?”

I smile at this. He remembers such an important, little detail about me—that I like to capture the little details in my photographs. “They are. They’re not exactly something you’d want on a fence, but, well, they’re there.”

“And this is a fence around your house.”

“Yup. We were assigned to show what home looks like to us. The catch was that we couldn’t take our photos inside our actual houses.”

Jase winces. “Interesting.”

“My teacher wanted us to think outside the box. I chose my backyard’s fence because it reminds me of my parents. They’re protective like one, especially my mom. I think I’m more of an indoors person because they shelter me so much. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. They just care about me.”

“You’re a parent’s dream. Any other teenager would’ve been complaining.”

“I care about them. I just wish I didn’t care so much about what they think.”

I don’t mean to say this last part. It just slips out. The look on Jase’s face offers me two options—change the subject or talk about it. I decide on the latter.

“They expect me to follow my sister’s footsteps,” I explain. “She graduated with a chem degree from a traditional, four-year university. Now she’s doing well as a pharmacy tech in San Francisco. They think that if I follow her path, I can gain the same success.”

“And this is the same sister Mr. Squeaky-Shoes brought up?” Jase says.

I snort before I can confirm his guess. “Mr. Squeaky-Shoes? Is that what we’re calling him?”

“You’ve heard how his shoes sound when he walks. It’s like listening to that Jaws song.”

“That is an accurate comparison. Anyway, yes, it is that sister.”

“Messed up that he compared you to her.”

It surprises me to hear this, one of many thoughts I’ve kept to myself, out loud. “I know, right? That was my time to shine!”

I think I’m talking too much until I look at Jase, who’s giving me a look that says I can tell him more if I’d like. And I do. He sees me, and that gives me the urge to keep talking.

“She and I, we’re different.”

“How?” Jase asks.

“Well, she’s outspoken and confident. I’m quiet and shy. Like my parents, she thinks the arts are impractical.” He nods emphatically. “And I, well...”

“You’re entering a photography contest to get into an arts school,” he finishes for me.

It feels odd, yet relieving, to hear someone say the words I’ve kept to myself. The ones I could never tell my family.

“Yeah, exactly. I don’t want to go to a traditional, four-year university just to major in something I’m not interested in. I want to pursue photography, go to an arts school so I can improve my art and meet people who share the same passion.” I swallow, the kind I take right before I say something so big it overwhelms me thinking about it. “But I’m scared of disappointing them. If I follow my sister’s path, maybe it’ll also lead me to a prestigious school and well-paying job. My parents will be proud of me, too.” I swallow again. “I’m scared that if I pursue photography and fail, my parents’ sacrifices to immigrate here will be for nothing.”

His face softens, and it comforts me enough that I tell him more. He leans forward slightly, nodding as I talk about my parents’ struggles when they moved to the U.S., their relationships with their siblings. How my dad expects me to major in bio, and that I’m participating in this competition behind their backs because I know they’ll think it’ll distract me from the work they think matters. I tell him about my cousin Amado pursuing film animation and struggling to find a job. Jase nods sympathetically as I explain the meaning of “utang na loob,” adding that I’m scared my family will think I don’t have it if I fail. He inclines more when I say I wish my parents, really everyone, wouldn’t compare me to Aprilette, that they’d see me as Emilyn, a girl with her own unique qualities and perspective. Once I finish, letting all my confessions hang between us, it feels like I’ve exhaled the longest breath.

“That’s tough,” Jase says. They’re just two words, but somehow, they enough to comfort me.

“Yeah,” I say, “it is.”