“Wow. This is… terrible.”
He leans closer to the computer screen, over your shoulder, squinting at the images.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“I don’t know. It just… is. Like there’s no… emotion to it,” he waves his hands to get his point across.
“What do you mean?”
“Come here. Look at this,” he points at a photo of a close up of a toddler, “what did you feel when you took this?”
You open your mouth to answer, only to close it again. What did you feel?
“See? You feel nothing because this,” he circles the picture with the mouse, “is terrible.”
You huff in frustration, hand combing through your hair.
Back in high school, you were considered a photography genius. Your photos won multiple awards, even landing you features in reputable magazines.
Nowadays, your photos are just that. Photos. No emotions in them. You were about to give up on photography, to change career paths until an opportunity came knocking—one you nor your manager can turn down.
“You have two months until the exhibition.”
You snap, “You don’t think I know that!”
“What was so good about my previous work anyway?”
“What was good about it? You could feel the photo! What the subject was feeling! How you were feeling when you took the photo!”
You look away from your manager muttering, “Well that was a long time ago.”
“I know!” Your manager shouts, “Why don’t you message her again? Maybe the two of you can have a photoshoot here? Recapture the emotions in the photos?”
You whip your head towards him, ready to give him a piece of your mind before your friend decides to speak. You forgot he was here, lying on your couch, playing his stupid mobile game.
“He can’t do that. She’s an idol now.”
“Really?” Your manager turns to him, “What group?”
“tripleS”
“This is great! If she agrees, we definitely can—“
“They broke up.”
You stand abruptly, walk over to your former friend. You take the nearest cushion before attempting to murder him by suffocation.
“No no,” your manager mutters, shaking his head. “She was our ticket out of this hell! Was it your fault?”
You temporarily stop ending the life of your friend before glaring. “That’s none of your business. Everyone out,” you say, tone cold with no room for arguments.
“I was just getting—“
You began beating your former friend with the cushion before shoving both him and your manager out of your studio.
You lock the door, then made your way back to your computer. You stare at the toddler. Your manager was right: it is terrible. You scour your desk, looking for something. Eventually, you find your first memory stick, the one with the award winning photos.
The ones with Yoon Seoyeon.
——
“Come on. Show me how to take good photos,” Seoyeon whines.
You can’t help but smile at her, “Your photos are good though.”
“But yours are professional! Please? Pretty please?”
You watch her pout, fluttering her eyelashes at you in the full body mirror.
Both of you are sat on your bedroom floor, her between your outstretched legs, back against your chest. Your arms wrapped loosely around her waist, nose touching the top of her head. Her hair smells amazing, even after a long day at school.
Finally, you relent.
“Alright, alright.”
You let go, one arm reaching for the camera your uncle bought you, resting on the bed. You hand it over to her.
“So what you want to do is…” your hand gently holds hers, guiding it to the lens, “turn this to adjust the focus and this to zoom in.”
You feel her breath hitch as you help her play with your camera, a small smile forming on your face.
“Then when you’re happy, press down here.” Again you guide her fingers to the correct position before pressing down, taking a mirror picture of the pair of you.
“Not too bad,” you say as you both stare at the photo, “you might have a future in photography.”
Her smile widens. “Yeah? Will you be my subject?”
You laugh wholeheartedly before wrapping your arms around her waist again, nuzzling your nose into her neck. “I’d love to.”
“Look.”
You tilt your head upwards as you hear the shutter of the camera.
——
You’re pulled out of your nap when a manila folder is dropped onto your chest.
“What is this?” You open the folder, eyes still closed.
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