The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Two

“Look up,” I say, lifting my camera. “But not too much. Just... think of something you’ve lost.”

She tries. I snap a few frames.

Still not it.

I lower the camera and frown. The team watches, waiting. They know this part—the quiet tension when I’m chasing something I haven’t found yet.

Sometimes, photography feels like hunting shadows.

I walk a circle around the set, eyeing the light, the posture, the fabric. Everything is good. Good doesn’t matter.

I want real.

Not polished. Not posed.

“I need more from her eyes,” I say, mostly to myself. “The rest is beautiful, but her eyes are empty.”

The makeup artist adjusts her hair. The stylist tugs the sleeves just slightly. We try again. Click. Click. Click.

I stare at the screen.

Better, but still not it.

It’s strange how faces tell stories. Not always loud ones. Sometimes it’s in the way a mouth tightens, or how the light hits a browbone. The space between two blinks. The stillness in someone’s stare.

People think I’m drawn to beauty. But I’m not.

I’m drawn to truth. Or the hint of it.

The camera is my shield. It helps me look closer, without feeling too much. Without letting it sink in.

Another set of frames. Then finally—one photo. Just one. Her eyes flicker for a second, like something broke through. I see it. I take it.

That’s the shot.

“Got it,” I say, stepping back.

The room exhales. The model smiles, unsure why. She’ll never know the moment I caught wasn’t hers—it was a ghost of something else I haven’t named yet.

But it’s mine now.

The meeting room at the agency is full by the time I walk in. Glass walls. Tall windows. Coffee cups everywhere.

Lauren’s already seated near the head of the table, scrolling through her iPad. She gives me a small nod as I take the empty chair beside her.

Across from us are three members from the editorial team: Theo, creative lead—loud, dramatic, always in vintage jackets; Naomi, head of curation—sharp eyes, calm voice; and Leah, junior producer—new, eager, typing way too fast.

There’s already a slideshow on the screen. Black and white photos of fishermen, a woman hanging laundry outside a stone cottage, children chasing seagulls on a beach. The title reads:
“The Quiet Corners: A Visual Essay on Small-Town Souls.”

Theo starts talking before I’ve even settled.
“So, Ewan, hear me out—this isn’t your usual thing, I get it. But that’s exactly why we want you on it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Which part isn’t my thing? The ocean, or the seagulls?”

He grins. “The sentiment.”

Naomi leans forward, folding her hands. “We’re doing a special feature for the spring issue. A story collection through portraits—small towns, slow life, human closeness. Honest, soft moments. No models. Just real people.”

“Candid,” Theo adds. “Grit and heart. Not fashion, not style. Stories.”

I glance at the screen again. One photo sticks with me. An old man sitting alone on a bench by the sea. His hat’s crooked. His face is tired. But his eyes… they look like he’s waiting for someone who’ll never come back.