On senior portrait day, my boyfriend, Tayler, took over two hundred photos of Flora, the campus it-girl. He was the president of the university’s photography club, a master of finding the perfect angles, capturing the way the light fell. Flora stood beneath the golden oak trees, smiling softly. “Am I being too much of a pain?” Tayler didn’t look up from his viewfinder, his voice dripping with gentleness. “Never. You look beautiful in every frame.” When it was my turn, I nervously smoothed down my dress and stepped into the frame. But Tayler only clicked the shutter twice, barely looking. “Alright, we’re done.” I froze. “That’s it?” He frowned, a familiar flash of irritation crossing his face. “You’re just not photogenic, Iris. Let’s not waste everyone’s time.” I looked at the screen of his camera. There were exactly two shots of me. In one, my eyes were half-closed. In the other, a harsh shadow from the branches cut my face completely in half. I asked him to take a few more. Instead, he pulled out his phone and posted on the student forum: [$20 bounty for anyone willing to take a few quick graduation shots of my girlfriend.] Within thirty minutes, a user with a blank profile picture slid into my DMs. I sent over my location, typing out a quiet warning: “Just so you know, I don’t photograph well.” The reply came almost instantly: “That’s just because whoever took your photos didn’t know how to guide you.” When the shoot was over, he sent me the raw files. I stared at my phone, completely speechless. For the first time in my life, I realized I could actually look beautiful. What was even wilder? This twenty-dollar photographer seemed infinitely more professional than the president of the photography club. … The photographer sent over a few more raw files. No heavy edits, no filters. Just different angles of me. I was standing there, my eyes bright with a spark I didn’t even recognize. “Your features are great,” he texted. “You just tense up the second you see a lens.” Whenever Tayler used to shoot me, his go-to line was always: “Can you just smile naturally for once?” After three or four clicks, he would lower the camera with a heavy sigh. “Forget it.” Then he’d roll his eyes, blaming me. “You have zero camera presence.” He said it so often that I started believing it. Eventually, whenever a camera was pointed at me, my instinct was to look down, to hide, convinced I would look terrible. My phone buzzed. My roommate, Katie, had forwarded Flora’s latest post. A perfect nine-grid layout of graduation portraits, all taken by Tayler. Flora stood beneath the old oak trees, her hair caught in a flawless, cinematic breeze. “So incredibly lucky to have the photography club president as my personal shooter! ” The comments were already flooded: “These could literally be the university’s official catalog!” “Flora is the ultimate college sweetheart.” Flora had replied with a blushing emoji: “He’s seriously so good at directing! I was so nervous, but he kept making me laugh.” I zoomed in on her photos, a quiet, familiar ache settling in my chest. It wasn’t that Tayler didn’t know how to guide someone. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to make a girl feel comfortable. He just never cared to try with me. Just then, a notification popped up from the official university app: [Admissions Campaign: Search for the New Face of the University.] [Submit a headshot and a one-minute video introduction. The winner will be featured in next year’s national admissions campaign.] I instinctively swiped it away. That kind of spotlight was never meant for someone like me. Tayler had made sure I knew that. But then, a message from the twenty-dollar photographer lit up my screen: “Did you see the admissions post?” I blinked, surprised. “Yeah, I did.” “You should apply.” My fingers hovered over the keyboard. “I don’t think I’m the type.” He replied immediately: “Trust me. No one is more suited for this than you.” A few seconds later, another message came through: “They aren’t looking for a plastic pageant queen.” “They’re looking for someone real. Someone who makes people want to step onto that campus.” I stared at his words for a long time, unable to move. Then, he sent over a structured shoot schedule: Three days of practice with camera presence, three days of shooting on-campus locations, and three days of editing the final one-minute video. A sudden wave of emotion hit me, making my throat tight. The truth was, I used to love photos. But over the four years I’d spent with Tayler, I had slowly learned to fear the camera. The next morning, the moment I walked into the photography club room, Tayler spotted my printout of the application form. He frowned. “Iris, are you seriously entering this?” I nodded. “Yes.” He let out a scoff, as if I’d just told a hilarious joke. “The face of the university? Come on. Don’t do this just because you’re throwing a tantrum over the graduation photos.” Flora was sitting beside him, offering a sweet, pitying smile. “Iris, honestly, working behind the scenes is wonderful too. Being the public face of the school comes with so much pressure. If the photos don’t turn out perfect, people online can be brutal.” In the past, those words would have made me shrink instantly. But this time, I simply folded the form and tucked it into my bag. “Whether I’m good enough is for the committee to decide,” I said quietly. “You don’t need to disqualify me in advance.” Tayler’s face darkened. “Why are you being so stubborn?” My phone buzzed. It was the photographer: “4:00 PM. West entrance of the library.” “We’ll do our first shoot.” “No need to overthink it. Just show up as you are.” I looked down at the screen, took a soft breath, and looked up at Tayler. “I have a photographer.” Tayler’s jaw tightened. “Without me, you won’t even have a single photo worth showing.” I ignored him and walked out. At four o’clock, I stood at the west entrance of the library. For years, when Tayler took photos, I was the helper in the shadows. When he shot Flora, I was the one carrying his heavy lenses, holding the reflector, passing him water bottles, and watching their bags. If Flora’s dress was slightly out of place, I was the one who rushed over to smooth it down. Afterward, Tayler would have me import and organize the files. But when it came to me, he wouldn’t even bother adjusting his camera settings. Today, for the first time, I didn’t have to stand outside the frame. The photographer didn’t rush to lift his camera. He just had me stand near the stone steps. “Relax your shoulders,” he said. “Forget about the lens.” “Pretend it isn’t there. Look at the wind, look at the trees, look at whatever catches your eye.” I looked up, my body still stiff. He met my eyes. “Iris. The camera isn’t Tayler. It’s not going to criticize you.” A sudden sting hit the back of my throat. My eyes welled up, and I quickly looked up to blink away the tears. He didn’t rush me. He just waited, letting me find my footing in the quiet space. We shot for half an hour. He didn’t talk much, but his directions were clear and reassuring. “Don’t clench your dress.” “Look at that maple tree on the left.” “Now, look back at me.” “Perfect. Keep that expression.” For the first time, I realized that taking photos could actually feel effortless. The next morning, Tayler messaged me in the club group chat. “Need you to hold the reflector this afternoon. Flora is shooting her admissions portfolio.” Normally, I would have agreed without a second thought. But this time, I replied: “I’m shooting my own photos this afternoon.” The group chat went dead silent for a few seconds. Then, Tayler private-messaged me. “Are you seriously taking that twenty-dollar Craigslist guy seriously?” “Flora’s portfolio is the club’s priority right now. Don’t hold back actual work.” I stared at the words “actual work.” I wanted to laugh. To him, “actual work” meant Flora. My graduation portraits, my dreams, my attempt at finding my courage—none of it was real work. That afternoon, I went to the science building for my video shoot. Passing the track field, I saw Tayler shooting Flora. She stood in the center of the grassy field, bathed in gorgeous afternoon light. Tayler was kneeling, constantly shifting his angles. “Take your time. Turn your head when the breeze hits.” “If you can’t smile, just look at me.” “Beautiful. Let’s do one more.” Flora laughed. “Am I being super high-maintenance?” Tayler’s voice was incredibly gentle. “Not at all. You have amazing camera presence.” I stood by the edge of the track, my hands slowly tightening into fists. So he did know how to soothe someone. He did know how to make a girl feel safe in front of a lens. It was just that the girl was never me. My photographer noticed my expression, but he didn’t pry. Instead, he held the camera out toward me. “Today, we’re doing motion,” he said. “Just walk, look at the camera, and tell me why you love this university.” I looked down. “I don’t know what to say.” “Then just pretend you’re talking to me.” I thought about it for a long moment before looking up at the lens. “Because the people here always seem to be running forward,” I said softly. “It makes me feel like, as long as you don’t give up, even the most ordinary person can find their own strength.” He didn’t interrupt. When we finished, he showed me the playback. In the video, I wasn’t as sweet or practiced as Flora. But I was real. That evening, students in the admissions group chat started sharing their raw materials for feedback. My photographer had helped me pick a candid shot of me near the library’s side entrance. Almost immediately after I posted it, a comment popped up: “Is that Iris?” “Wow, there’s so much emotion in this shot.” I held my phone, a tiny, warm spark blooming in my chest. But Tayler was quick to dampen it. “It’s just an atmospheric shot,” he texted. “Tricking the eye with lighting and composition.” “Admissions needs a well-rounded representative, not a glamor shoot.” Flora chimed in right after: “Exactly. Video is so much harder than photos. Motion easily exposes your angles and expressions.” I stared at their messages. My chest tightened slightly, but I didn’t feel the usual panic. I didn’t feel the desperate urge to explain or prove myself to them. I only typed: “I’ll keep practicing.” That night, my photographer sent over a new plan. “Tomorrow, we shoot by the graduation wall.” “Don’t be afraid.” “Just be yourself.” By the deadline, I submitted my video. I had watched the one-minute clip at least fifty times. It opened at the west entrance of the library. I was walking up the steps holding a stack of books, turning back to catch the lens. The middle featured the track field, the labs, and the graduation wall. The final shot was me standing by the main gate, saying: “I hope that when you come here, you’ll slowly find yourself too.” My fingers were shaking when I clicked submit. My photographer texted me: “You did amazing.” “Now, get some sleep.” But sleep wouldn’t come. I had spent years hiding behind others. For the first time, I had put myself on display. Three days later, the preliminary list was released on the Admissions Office’s social media page. First Place: Iris Wen. Second Place: Flora Lin. I stared at the screen, paralyzed. My roommate Katie screamed, throwing her arms around me. “Iris! You’re first!” “You actually got first!” Before I could even process the joy, the photography club group chat erupted. “Iris is first?” “Flora is second?” “Tayler’s shoot actually lost?” Tayler remained silent. Until someone tagged him: “President, what do you think?” He finally replied: “I’m sure the administration will verify the authenticity of the materials.” In that instant, my heart sank. He didn’t congratulate me. He didn’t ask how I had managed to pull it off. His immediate reaction was that it had to be fake. Flora private-messaged me soon after. “Iris, you’re so amazing! But is your photographer a professional?” “To get quality like that for twenty dollars… it doesn’t really feel like a regular student did it.” Naturally, someone screenshotted her message and leaked it to the group chat. The tide turned instantly. “Yeah, that quality is definitely not twenty dollars.” “Did she hire a professional agency to boost her?” “Is it heavily photoshopped?” “Aren’t admissions ambassadors supposed to represent real students?” “Does her photographer have connections in the admissions office?” Before long, a thread appeared on the student forum: [Admissions preliminary results controversy: Did a certain female student hire an agency to fake her portfolio?] [Is it realistic for a twenty-dollar photographer to produce a campaign-level video?] The comments grew vicious. “Wasn’t she famous for being completely unphotogenic?” “Suddenly she looks like an indie film star? Who’s buying that?” “She must be desperate for attention.” I stared at the screen, my fingers turning cold. Tayler’s text popped up: “Who is this photographer, really?” “Did he bring in a professional team for you?” “Iris, the admissions campaign isn’t a private photoshoot. Don’t use the university’s image to feed your vanity.” I stared at his words for a long time before replying: “You think I cheated too?” He shot back instantly: “You know better than anyone how unphotogenic you used to be.” The words stung like a needle to the chest. Even when I succeeded, even when I looked beautiful, he refused to believe it was really me. To him, I was a lie. That afternoon, I got a call from the admissions office. “Iris Wen? Please come down to the administration building.” “A student filed a formal complaint alleging your submission was produced by a commercial team, heavily edited, and benefited from unfair resources.” “We need to verify the authenticity of your files.” I stood in the hallway of my dorm, my mind going blank. My phone buzzed. My photographer had sent a message: “Deep breath.” “Don’t be scared.” “You didn’t suddenly become beautiful.” “You were just finally photographed the way you deserved.” Staring at his words, the warmth slowly returned to my fingers. But then Tayler sent another text: “I’ll go with you.” “I can testify to how you usually perform in front of a camera.” I held my phone tightly as I walked toward the administration building. The forum was still blowing up. “She actually went in for questioning?” “So it’s true?” “An admissions ambassador represents the school’s integrity. Cheating is a joke.” “I bet she has a thing going on with that photographer.” My steps faltered. Those words were worse than being called ugly. They weren’t just questioning my photos; they were dragging my character through the mud. Inside the office, the admissions director, a marketing coordinator, and the dean of student affairs were waiting. On the desk lay printed screenshots of the forum posts and stills from my video. The director looked at me with a grave expression. “Iris, a student has filed a formal report claiming your submission was the work of a commercial agency.” “There are also allegations of improper relationship and resource trading with your photographer.” “This campaign represents the integrity of our university. We must take this seriously.” The word “integrity” felt like a physical blow. I handed my phone over. “I didn’t hire an agency.” “It isn’t heavily edited.” “The photographer is someone Tayler hired off the student forum.” “For twenty dollars.” The director reviewed the chat logs and the transaction receipt, but his brow remained furrowed. “But looking at your past student records and club photos, the difference in camera presence is indeed stark. We need an explanation.” Just then, Tayler knocked and entered. The director looked at him. “Tayler, you’re the head of the photography club. Are you familiar with Iris’s past camera performance?” I looked at him. In that split second, a tiny, foolish shred of hope flickered in my chest. He knew he was the one who posted the forum ad. He knew my terrible graduation photos were the result of his own careless clicks. Tayler hesitated. “She’s… not unattractive.” My chest loosened slightly. Then he continued: “But she was always incredibly stiff in front of a camera.” “I’m not saying she cheated.” “But the level of this portfolio… it doesn’t look like the work of a twenty-dollar amateur.” The office fell silent. He hadn’t outright accused me of lying, but he had neatly validated every doubt. I stared at him. “Tayler. You know exactly who posted that ad.” “You’re the one who told me I was unphotogenic and threw twenty dollars at a stranger to get rid of me.” “And now that someone else took the time to do it right, you think it’s fake.” “You don’t doubt the photographer.” “You just can’t stand the fact that I look beautiful in a photo that you didn’t take.” Tayler’s face froze. The door creaked open. Flora was standing there, her eyes rimmed with red. “Director, may I say something?” she whispered. “I don’t doubt Iris at all. I just… I know how much she used to hate the camera.” “I’m just worried that someone took advantage of her desire to prove herself and over-packaged her…” She trailed off, leaving the unspoken accusation hanging in the air. My hands and feet went cold. The director sighed. “Iris, until we clarify this, your preliminary ranking will be suspended.” “Please provide the raw files, behind-the-scenes footage, and the photographer’s contact details.” I walked out of the office. A crowd of students had gathered in the hallway. “Suspended? That basically means she’s guilty, right?” “It’s just a school campaign, why go to such lengths?” As I reached the stairs, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Iris, why did the university just call us?” “It’s just a picture, don’t let this ruin your graduation.” “Mom, I didn’t lie,” I whispered. A beat of silence on the other end. Then my father’s voice cut in: “If you didn’t lie, why is the school investigating you?” My fingers were completely numb as I hung up. Tayler caught up to me. “The best thing you can do right now is blame the photographer,” he said quickly. “Say you didn’t know he brought in an outside team. The school will go easy on you.” I looked at him, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. “Now you’re worried about me?” “But Tayler, wasn’t he the twenty-dollar photographer “you” found?” Tayler went rigid. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from the photographer: “I’m downstairs at the admin building.” “Iris, don’t worry.” “I’ll clear this up.”
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