The Lens Never Saw Me

Senior trip, Jerry’s lens stayed fixed on me all day. Classmates teased, “Joan, does he even see anyone else?” I blushed and said nothing. From freshman to senior year, across one thousand and ninety-six days, he had taken one thousand three hundred and seventy-two photos of me. I thought every shutter click was a quiet confession of love. That evening, we gathered in the cabin living room to project our trip photos. Jerry stepped outside to take a call. Dakin, our class president, accidentally swiped into a hidden folder on Jerry’s laptop. The screen flooded with images of me. My heart hammered against my ribs, a nervous flutter rising. But my excitement died the moment I read the folder’s title. Sally’s Practice Materials. The note on the first photo read, Joan’s smile looks a lot like Sally’s. Good for practice. The second note followed, This composition is perfect for Sally. Recreate this when she gets back to the States. The third stated, Great holiday aesthetic. Redo this with Sally when she returns. The final photo was a candid shot of me from that very afternoon, turning with a bright laugh after he called my name. The caption read, If Sally doesn’t accept me, I’ll try dating Joan first. The entire room fell into a suffocating silence. Someone scrambled to turn off the projector, the screen fading to black. I forced a stiff, empty smile. The lens that had made my heart race for three long years had never actually been looking at me. 1 The heavy wooden front door creaked open, and Jerry walked back inside. He glanced around the quiet room, his eyes eventually settling on me. "Why did everyone stop talking? I could hear you guys laughing from down the hall." Even then, hearing his voice made my chest tighten with a familiar ache. For three years, whenever Jerry called my name, I would look up at him instantly, like a reflex. But now, those cruel captions flashed behind my eyes, burning like acid. I curled my fingers inward, digging my nails deep into my palms. Dakin let out a dry, awkward cough, unable to find his voice. Jerry walked over to me, holding out a plastic cup. "Here. I ran three blocks to get this for you." His lips curved into a warm, gentle smile. I looked at the drink. It was a house-made lemonade with a heavy shot of sour cherry syrup. I have a notoriously weak stomach, and highly acidic, sour things always trigger severe pain. Back in sophomore year, I had ended up in the emergency room with acute gastroenteritis after drinking something similar. Jerry had visited me at the hospital with a basket of fruit. Back then, though my face was pale from the pain, I had secretly felt so happy just because he came. "Why aren't you drinking it?" Jerry frowned, his tone turning impatient. "It's their bestseller. I had to wait in a massive line." "Sien..." He caught himself, swallowing the rest of the name. A wave of intense nausea hit me. Every single compromise I had made over the last three years bubbled up in my throat, choking me. I pushed the cup away. "I'm not thirsty. Thanks." Jerry's frown deepened. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I literally ran back just to hang out with you, Joan. Are you seriously throwing a tantrum in front of everyone?" I looked up, meeting his eyes. "I'm really not thirsty, Jerry. Drink it yourself." He froze. Usually, even if he bought me something I didn't like, I would only tease him lightly before drinking it anyway. His face hardened, and he pulled out a chair, sitting down with a cold sigh. "Fine. Suit yourself." The silence in the room became unbearable. Our classmates exchanged uncomfortable glances. Everyone knew I was crazy about Jerry, and everyone had assumed he felt the same way about me. Dakin desperately tried to clear the air. "Well, guys, it's getting late. We should probably head to our rooms." I stood up and silently began gathering my things. Jerry spoke up, his voice sharp and demanding. "We're going to the beach to catch the sunrise tomorrow. 5:00 AM. I'll wake you up." My hands paused over my bag. "No need." He snapped his head toward me. "What do you mean by that?" "I'm tired. I want to sleep in tomorrow. Go ahead without me." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Joan, do you have any idea how much time I spent scouting the perfect location for this sunrise?" I looked him dead in the eye. "I know." I knew exactly how much effort he had put into it. And I also knew what was written in his notes app: Sally said she wants to see the ocean. "Which is why I shouldn't ruin your shoot," I said quietly. 2 I forced a polite smile. "Goodnight, Jerry." The draft in the hallway was cold. I walked back to my room, and the moment the door clicked shut behind me, all the strength drained from my body. I collapsed against the wood, realizing that when heartbreak hits its absolute limit, you don't even have the energy to cry. My phone vibrled. It was a text from Jerry. I'll be in the lobby at 5:00 AM tomorrow. Don't be late. The golden hour doesn't wait for anyone. I stared at those two messages for a long time. I scrolled up, looking through our chat history over the last three years. Come downstairs. Look back. Don't move, the light is perfect right now. Come shoot with me tomorrow. I tapped the settings in the top right corner. My finger hovered over the delete button, but in the end, I only set the chat to mute. I guess when you've loved someone for that long, letting go is never a clean, instant break. I didn't sleep a wink that night. Every time I closed my eyes, those typed words burned in the darkness. At 5:30 the next morning, a loud, aggressive knocking woke me. Jerry's voice drifted through the door, thick with irritation. "Joan? Did you seriously oversleep?" My chest tightened out of habit. In the past, whenever he used that sharp tone, panic would surge through me. Even if I hadn't done anything wrong, I would immediately apologize and scramble to make it up to him. I actually opened my mouth to say sorry before I caught myself. I took a slow breath, got out of bed, and opened the door. Jerry stood there, his expression dark. "I sent you so many messages. Why didn't you reply?" I rubbed my eyes, keeping my voice flat. "My phone was on silent. And I told you last night, I'm not going." He stared at me, searching my face. "You've never acted like this before. What is this really about? Are you seriously still throwing a fit over a drink?" To him, my emotions were always trivial, nothing more than childish tantrums over petty things. He never bothered to look deeper. "It's not about the drink," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "Then what is it?" "I'm just tired, Jerry. Go find someone else to shoot." He paused, a look of disbelief crossing his face before turning into a cold sneer. "Fine, Joan. Look at you, finally finding your backbone. Don't regret this." He turned and marched down the hallway. I watched his retreating back, then quietly shut the door. For the remaining two days of the trip, we didn't say a single word to each other. While the class was exploring a historic market town, Jerry lifted his camera out of sheer habit and pointed it at me. "Joan, look back," he called out. He never asked if I wanted to be photographed. He never cared if I was exhausted. As long as he held his camera and called my name, I was expected to stop, turn, and offer a perfect smile. If this had been a few days ago, I would have immediately complied, adjusting my pose to help him find the best angle. This time, I merely glanced at the lens, turned on my heel, and walked toward a nearby stall. Within seconds, he caught up and grabbed my wrist. "Why are you dodging my camera?" I pulled my arm back, shaking his grip off. "I don't want to take photos today. I'm not wearing makeup. I look terrible." He scowled. "You never cared about makeup before." "That was before." I looked down at a street vendor spinning sugar into a delicate butterfly. "Jerry, stop wasting your shutter count on me." Save it for the person you actually want to capture. Naturally, he missed the meaning entirely. "Are you still mad at me?" He let out a heavy sigh, his tone softening slightly. "Look, my bad, okay? Once we get back, I'll print all the photos from this trip and put them in a custom album for you. Will you stop being mad now?" He leaned down, trying to catch my gaze. Looking at him only made me feel sick. That album would probably have notes about Sally scribbled all over the back of the prints. I refused him, keeping my voice completely calm. "No, thank you. I don't really like having my picture taken anymore." His face stiffened. Just then, his phone rang, playing a very specific, custom ringtone. 3 I recognized that ringtone instantly. It was the unique tone he had set for only one person. Without another glance in my direction, Jerry hurried to a quiet corner with his phone pressed to his ear. "Sally? Hey." His voice possessed a soft, gentle quality I had never heard him use before. He sounded incredibly careful, as if he were terrified of startling her. There was a raw, unfiltered joy in his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? I would have picked you up from the airport myself." I stood in the middle of the bustling crowd, watching him smile. I had never seen him look that happy. Turning back to the vendor, I bought the sugar butterfly and took a small bite of the wing. It was incredibly sweet, but it left a metallic, almost bloody taste in my mouth. On the final day of our trip, Jerry suddenly dropped a message in our class group chat. Something urgent came up at home. I have to head back early. Have fun, guys! The chat instantly blew up. Dakin: Jerry, what's so urgent? You're skipping our farewell dinner? Another classmate: Yeah, man, we already bought the train tickets. Going back early is a waste. Jerry didn't reply to the group. Instead, he came straight to my room and knocked on the door. "I have to go back early," he said, standing in the doorway with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "My uncle was admitted to the hospital. I need to go see him." He lied without a single blink. I nodded slowly. "Is it serious?" "Yeah, pretty bad." He sighed, reaching out his hand to ruffle my hair out of habit. I tilted my head, quietly slipping away from his touch. His hand hovered in the air for a second, awkward, before he pulled it back. I took a step backward, creating some distance between us. "Safe travels, then." "Joan." He paused. "Once I handle everything at home, I'll come find you. We need to have a serious talk about our college applications." I gave him a faint smile. "Sure. After you're done." "I'm heading out, then." He turned and walked down the corridor, his steps light and hurried. The moment the door clicked shut, his phone rang again. It was that same custom ringtone. I stood behind the door, my fingertips turning cold. A memory from sophomore year flashed in my mind. He had told me his grandmother was sick and that he couldn't celebrate my birthday with me. That night, I saw a photo posted by Sally on social media. In the corner of the frame, Jerry's distinct camera strap was clearly visible. Back then, I had invented a thousand excuses for him. Now, I finally understood that it wasn't a series of bizarre coincidences. I was simply incredibly good at lying to myself. I looked down at my phone. Jerry's last text was still on the screen. I'll text you when I land. Jerry had amazing grades, and he had always talked about studying photography at Alden University. Alden had been my ultimate motivation. To reach their cutoff score, I had stayed up until 1:00 AM every night, pushing through endless practice exams. Whenever I felt like breaking down, I would write his name in the margins of my notebook to remind myself to keep going. During our senior year, the window at the back of our classroom always let in a freezing draft. After evening study sessions, when everyone else had already left, I would stay behind, shivering as I corrected my mistakes. Jerry would occasionally walk by with his camera bag, tapping on the glass. "Still not going home?" Just looking up and seeing his face made the exhaustion vanish. I had asked him once, "Are you really going to Alden?" That night, I had completed an extra set of practice problems, writing in the corner of the page: Just a little more effort, and I'll be closer to him. But now, the dream I had spent years desperately chasing had turned into nothing more than a humiliating joke. The next day, I took the train back home. Dakin kept glancing at me during the journey. As we neared our destination, he finally came over and sat in the empty seat beside me. "Joan, about the other night..." "What about the other night?" I asked, keeping my tone perfectly conversational. Dakin blinked, visibly relieved. "Nothing. I was just wondering where you're planning to apply for college." "Crestwood University, down south," I replied. "Crestwood?" 4 Dakin looked completely bewildered. "But isn't Jerry going to Alden? I thought you guys were going to the same school." I turned my gaze toward the window, watching the green fields blur past. "Where he goes has nothing to do with me. Dakin, if Jerry asks about my application, please don't tell him." Dakin stared at me for a long time before nodding solemnly. "Okay. I promise." On the final day of college submissions, the air was thick and humid. My phone vibrated with a text from Jerry. Did you submit your application? I ignored it, continuing to pack my things. My desk drawers were filled with little trinkets he had given me over the last three years: movie ticket stubs, small stuffed animals, and old Polaroids. I grabbed a cardboard box and began tossing them in, one by one. Half an hour later, Jerry called. "Joan, why aren't you answering my texts?" "I wasn't looking at my phone," I said, dropping a framed photo of us into the box. "What's up?" "Did you submit your application?" His voice sounded noticeably strained. "Yes." He let out a small sigh over the line. "I have some stuff to take care of right now, but I'll come over to see you later." "Don't bother," I interrupted. "I'm leaving tomorrow to visit my grandmother. I'll be staying with her for the rest of the summer." "Your grandmother's house?" He sounded startled. "Why the sudden trip?" "It's been planned for a while." "Alright, then." I hung up, picked up the heavy cardboard box, and carried it downstairs. Just as I reached the sidewalk, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and Jerry stepped out of the driver's seat. My steps faltered. For a split second, a tiny, foolish spark of hope flared in my chest. Then, the passenger door swung open. Sally stepped out, wearing a beautiful floral sundress, her long hair catching the breeze. Jerry immediately reached over, gently smoothing down a stray lock of her hair. Standing on the steps, I felt that tiny spark of hope shrivel up, leaving behind a bitter, ridiculous aftertaste. Jerry spotted me holding the box. He paused, then walked over. "What are you doing down here?" "Taking out the trash." Sally walked up behind him, eyeing me curiously. "Jerry, is this the sweet friend you told me about? The one who took such good care of you?" For three years, I had skipped study sessions to help him chase the sunset, stood in freezing parking lots waiting for the perfect lighting, stayed up late editing his portfolio, and accompanied him to every local gallery. And to Sally, I was merely a "sweet friend who took care of him." Jerry gave a vague, noncommittal nod, then turned back to me. "Joan, Sally just got back and doesn't really know the area. Are you free this afternoon? Can you take her to the mall to pick up some essentials?" He asked so casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if my sole purpose was to step into his frame whenever he needed a prop. Sally offered a sweet, sugary smile. "Yeah, it would be a huge help! Jerry said you're incredibly sweet and would never say no." Before I could even open my mouth, Jerry was already smiling. "I knew I could count on you." He turned back to Sally. "You go with Joan. I have a shoot to get to this afternoon." He didn't even bother waiting for my answer before turning back toward his car. I looked down at the box of memories resting against my legs. I bent down, hauled back my foot, and kicked it with every ounce of strength I had. A loud, violent crash echoed through the quiet street. The cardboard box tipped over, and the Polaroid camera inside slammed onto the hard concrete, its lens shattering into tiny, glittering shards. Jerry froze in his tracks. He stared at the ruined camera, his expression instantly darkening as he slammed the car door shut and marched back toward me. "Joan, what the hell is wrong with you?"