During the group photo, I crouched down to pick up a lens cap I’d dropped on the floor. When I looked up, Dylan had already raised his camera and pointed it straight at Wendy. I was about to move closer, but I could already see there was no space left for me in the frame. The colleagues around us laughed under their breath. “Here we go again. Every time Dylan shoots Wendy, you can just see it in his eyes.” “That’s what you call a photographer and his muse. Nobody gets it like they do.” My fingers tightened around the lens cap. Everyone said they had a natural chemistry. But nobody remembered that I was the girlfriend he’d been with for four years. In those four years, he took over a thousand photos of me. He never edited a single one. When I complained, he’d just ruffle my hair. “It’s not like you make a living off your looks. Why bother retouching them.” “Natural is better.” Then he’d turn around, open his editing software, and go through Wendy’s photos frame by frame. Carefully. Like he was crafting a grand confession. Watching his back, I suddenly understood in that moment. It wasn’t that everyone else had misread their relationship. It was that I had misread my own. I was never going to be the lead in his story.
Dylan poked his head out from behind the camera, brow slightly furrowed. “Lily, can you move over a little?” “The light is falling perfectly on Wendy’s face right now. The client needs these shots. We can’t mess this up.” He paused, then added. “I’ll take some of just you after.” My fingers went numb. I spoke quietly. “This is the spot I was assigned to stand in.” Dylan sighed and walked over to me. He reached out to ruffle my hair, but I turned my head away. His voice carried a note of resignation. “Stop being like this. Wendy’s dress is a dark color today, so she needs to stand in the center to catch the light.” He lowered his voice. “Just work with me today, okay? Once the client approves this set, I’ll make it up to you.” Wendy smiled at me apologetically. “Lily, why don’t you take the center spot? I really don’t mind. I don’t want you two fighting because of me.” Dylan turned toward her, his voice softening. “We’re not fighting. She’s just a little tired today. Hold your position and don’t move. That angle is perfect.” I looked down at the lens cap in my hand. Then I quietly stepped back two paces. “Go ahead and shoot.” The shutter clicked in rapid succession. Dylan kept his eyes on the screen, giving occasional direction on posing. From start to finish, he didn’t spare me a single glance. When the shoot wrapped up, everyone suggested going out for dinner. Dylan smoothly took the prop umbrella out of Wendy’s hands and turned to look at me. “Let’s go get Mexican. There’s a new place that just opened up the street.” I stood where I was and looked at him. “My gastritis just cleared up. I can’t eat spicy food this week.” Dylan paused. He came over and put his arm around my shoulder. “Everyone said they want to go.” He hesitated, then continued. “That place has mild options too. I’ll order you a plain soup so you don’t have to touch anything spicy. Just this once, okay?” That dinner brought back a memory. Another group outing, another table full of spicy food. We had just started dating. Not wanting to seem difficult in front of everyone, I pushed myself and took a bite. By midnight I was curled up on the edge of the bed, shaking from the pain. Dylan went pale with fear. He carried me on his back and rushed to the emergency room. He never let go of my hand the whole time. After that, he wrote it down in his phone’s notes app: Lily can’t eat spicy food. Needs bland food when her stomach hurts. Back then, he would’ve brushed off everyone else’s suggestion without a second thought. Just one sentence: Lily can’t handle it. But now, he clearly still remembered. The arm around my shoulder felt suffocating. I nodded.
“Okay.” At the restaurant, Dylan handed the menu to Wendy, and the two of them leaned together to discuss what to order. I sat on the other side. After all the food arrived. Dylan picked up a piece of baked lobster with cheese and placed it in Wendy’s bowl. “Try this one. The chef here is really good.” Wendy took a bite, her eyes lighting up. “Oh wow, this is amazing. You should try some too, Dylan.” Dylan. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d called him by his first name like that. I looked down and picked through the leaves floating in my soup. “Lily, how come you’re not eating?” A coworker across the table asked casually. Dylan turned and looked at my untouched bowl. His brow creased. “Still no appetite. When are you going to get over this picky eating thing.” Wendy set down her fork and looked at me. “Lily, are you upset with me? I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you couldn’t eat any spice at all.” “I’ll go outside and order you something milder.” “Sit down.” Dylan pressed a hand on Wendy’s arm, his tone stiffening. “Excuse me, can we add another bowl of soup?” Then he looked at me. “And stop giving everyone the cold shoulder. We’re all here together.” A dull ache spread through my stomach. I looked up at him. Something caught in my throat. “Dylan, do you remember why I can’t eat spicy food?” He went still for a moment. I didn’t wait for his answer. I set down my fork. “Never mind. I’m done. Enjoy your meal, everyone.” When I got home, the living room was completely dark. I felt my way to the couch and sat down in the dark. The cramping in my stomach was sharp. I dug out some antacid tablets and swallowed them dry. A bitter taste spread through my throat. One in the morning. Dylan came in carrying the smell of the evening on him. He reached over and flicked on the light. “Why is it dark in here?” He kicked off his shoes, walked to the couch, and looked at me. I said nothing. He sighed and sat down beside me, pulling at his tie. “Are you still upset about tonight.” “Wendy just got into the industry. As someone more experienced, isn’t it natural for me to look out for her a little?” I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Dylan, tomorrow is our four-year anniversary.” He blinked. A flicker of guilt crossed his eyes. “I know. I already booked a restaurant. I’ll clear my schedule tomorrow night to spend it with you.” “I’m exhausted tonight. I’m going to shower, and then I need to finish editing Wendy’s photos.” He got up without another word and walked straight into the bathroom. The sound of water started. I looked at the sketchbook he’d carelessly tossed on the table. Page after page of Wendy’s profile and silhouette. Every sketch had camera settings and notes written beside it. My photos, meanwhile, lived forever in a folder he’d simply named “Everyday.” The next afternoon. I left work early, bought groceries, and picked up the cake. He’d said he booked a restaurant, but I knew he’d been running himself ragged this week and would probably forget. Sure enough, at seven that evening. A voice message came in from Dylan. “Lily, I’m sorry. There’s a problem with Wendy’s set layout and I can’t get away.” “I canceled the restaurant reservation. Just grab something for yourself. I’ll definitely make it up to you tomorrow.” I listened to the whole thing without replying. I sat at the dining table and waited for a long time. The food went from steaming hot to a film of cold grease floating on the surface. I stared at the words on the cake. Happy 4th Anniversary. And I suddenly remembered that this time last year, I’d been quietly browsing engagement ring styles.
It turned out only one of us had been counting the years. I cut into the cake and took a bite. It was too sweet. Cloyingly, nauseously sweet. I sat there for a long time without moving. Then I threw the cake and all the food into the trash. At eleven that night, Dylan came home. He looked exhausted, but there was a brightness in his eyes. “Lily, Wendy’s photos came out incredible. The investors are thrilled. They’ve decided to expand her solo exhibition.” He had completely forgotten what day it was. I sat at my desk, organizing my work files. “Congratulations.” Dylan noticed the food in the trash and frowned. “That’s all you ate tonight? Didn’t I tell you to get yourself something decent?” “I didn’t stand you up on purpose. The situation with Wendy was unusual. It’s her first time carrying a project on her own. The pressure got to her.” He reached out to hold me. I stepped back. “Lily, do you really have to protest like this? Just shutting me out?” “I already said I’d make it up to you tomorrow.” I turned to face him. “I’m not protesting.” “I genuinely mean it. Congratulations.” Dylan suddenly turned irritable. “Fine, you’re not protesting.” He let out a cold laugh. “Then I won’t bother making it up to you either. Since you clearly don’t care.” He turned and walked toward the study. The door slammed shut behind him. I stared at the closed door, then pulled out my phone and opened an apartment listing app. I scrolled for a while. My finger stopped on a city two thousand kilometers away. Southport. There was a magazine there that I’d always wanted to work for. Over the next few days, Dylan practically lived at his studio. He was in the final push before his photography exhibition. On Friday afternoon, Dylan’s assistant called me. “Lily, Dylan’s stomach is really acting up. He’s sweating through it and still won’t go to the doctor. Could you maybe make some oatmeal and bring it over?” I almost said no, but then I thought about the empty pill box in his drawer. I went into the kitchen without a word. Last time, I told myself. I pushed open the studio door to a flurry of activity. I carried the insulated container straight to Dylan’s private room. The door wasn’t fully closed. There was a gap. I was about to push it open when I saw what was inside. Wendy was standing in front of a full-length mirror in a deep burgundy gown, turning slowly in a circle. Dylan was sitting nearby, his face pale, his eyes soft. “Does it look good?” Wendy asked, glancing back at him. “It looks beautiful.” Dylan smiled. “That color really suits your complexion.” My breath caught. That dress. Dylan had bought it last month while he was away on a work trip. He’d sent me a photo at the time and said he’d seen it and immediately thought of me. Said he was buying it as an early anniversary gift. But after he came home, the dress had never appeared. I thought he’d forgotten about it. Apparently, it had just found someone else to wear it. “But, didn’t Dylan buy this for Lily originally?” Wendy looked down, her voice uneasy. Dylan rubbed his temple, his voice dropping. “You need it for your audition today, so just wear it once. I’ll buy her a new one afterward. She won’t make a big deal out of this.” I took a slow breath and pushed the door open. Wendy’s face went white when she saw me. “Lily, let me explain. I’m only trying it on.” Dylan froze too. A flash of panic crossed his eyes. “What are you doing here?” I set the insulated container on the table. “Your assistant said your stomach was hurting.” “It’s nothing serious. Sorry for making you come all this way.”
He reached for the container. But Wendy stepped forward first. “Let me serve it for you.” She probably just wanted to break the tension, but she moved too fast. Her sleeve caught the edge of a document box. A clatter. The box hit the floor and everything inside spilled out. They were handmade photo albums. I had spent three full months rebuilding them from Dylan’s discarded negatives, turning them into a proper portfolio. I had originally planned to give them to him. I hoped they might remind him of why he fell in love with photography in the first place. But that day came and went, and I never got the chance to bring them out. Afterward, I had just left them at the studio. Now the photos were scattered across the floor. Wendy, trying to catch the falling container, stepped directly onto them. A stiletto heel punched straight through one of the prints. “Oh—” Wendy let out a sharp cry. She still couldn’t catch the container. Scalding oatmeal splashed out and landed across the top of her foot. “That burns,” she whimpered. Her eyes filled with tears instantly. She bent down, clutching her foot. Dylan shoved the table aside and yanked Wendy up. “Where did it burn? Let me see.” He glanced at the container, then at Wendy’s foot, his face dark. “Lily, I’m not blaming you.” “But couldn’t you have knocked before walking in? None of this would have happened.” I looked at the mess on the floor. My voice came out completely flat. “She knocked it over herself.” He helped Wendy to a seat, frowning at the scattered photos. I watched his concern for her, and felt something absurd move through me. I quietly crouched down and picked up the photos one by one. Then I dropped them all into the trash can beside me. The photography exhibition was set for that Saturday. It was the largest show Dylan had put on since opening his studio. Three months ago, when he handed me the planning documents, he pointed to the first item on the event rundown. “Lily, the featured speaker slot — that’s yours, no question.” “This studio wouldn’t be where it is today without four years of your support.” I’d turned down every company obligation to hold that commitment. I helped him secure the venue, coordinate with media, and rewrote every press release line by line. Saturday morning. A large banner stood at the entrance to the gallery. I stopped walking. My eyes dropped to the line near the bottom. The space where my name had been listed as featured speaker was covered by a sticker. It now read: Wendy. I looked at it for a moment. Then walked inside. Dylan was directing workers adjusting the lighting. When he saw me, he walked over quickly. His gaze swept over me briefly and his brow tightened. “You made it. Head to the back lounge and rest. The ribbon cutting is about to start.” I looked him in the eye. “The name on the banner. What happened?” Dylan paused. “The investors brought it up this morning at the last minute. I was in the middle of dealing with the press and didn’t have time to talk to you first.” “Lily, I know this isn’t fair to you. But we can’t have anything go wrong today. Once it’s all over, I’ll personally thank you in front of everyone.” I didn’t respond. I walked past him into the gallery. At one of the display stands hung a large print of a woman’s silhouette. The girl in the photo was wearing a white dress, standing on the rocks by the ocean. The light and shadow were handled perfectly. Something cold and mysterious breathed through the image. That was from two years ago, when Dylan and I took a trip to the coast. He had captured it in a spontaneous shot. At the time, he said it was the most soulful photograph he had ever taken. I looked at the label below the print. Title: Muse. The model field was blank. In its place, a single line of text.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “414987”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster
Leave a Reply