Chapter 3

The shift happened quietly, piece by piece.

During the first week after I stopped chasing Ethan with my camera, I felt out of place.

My hands would instinctively reach for the camera bag, wanting to capture him before he stepped out the door.

Then I'd remember—I hadn't picked up the camera.

No photos meant I didn't have to wait around for him to come home and look at them.

It was a bizarre sensation.

Like someone who had pressed a shutter for ten straight years suddenly putting the gear down; muscle memory still pushed you to frame the shot, but your hands were already empty.

On the third day, I made a decision.

I took the general family zoom lens out of my camera bag and swapped it for a prime lens I hadn't touched in ages.

At our weekend family gathering, I didn't bring my camera for the first time.

"I want to be in the photos today," I said.

Ethan blinked, caught off guard. "I'll use my phone then."

He snapped two pictures. Both were blurry.

Bella leaned in to look. "Daddy takes bad pictures."

I offered a faint smile and said nothing.

Deep inside my chest, something began to loosen.

On the fifth day, I pulled out a gray moisture-proof case tucked away in the corner of the closet.

Inside was my college photography project—a series called Women Artisans of the City.

I had only shot three sets before setting it aside for good.

Flipping open the first print, the faint scent of aged photographic paper hit me.

Bella scampered over to look.

"Mommy took these? They're so pretty!"

"Yeah. I used to work on lots of photography projects of my own."

"Used to? Don't you take them anymore?"

I looked into her earnest little eyes.

"I still do. I just haven't shot anything for myself in a really long time."

That night, after Bella fell asleep, I cleared off the dining table and opened my laptop.

I was rusty, taking forever just to cull through raw files.

Yet by the time I finished editing the final set, a closed-off room in my heart was thrown wide open.

It felt like a lens cap had finally been removed.

The picture was still a little out of focus, but the light was pouring back in.

Throughout those two weeks, Ethan didn't notice a thing.

When I stopped texting, he never asked, "Why aren't you texting me?"

When I stopped calling, he never rang to ask, "Why haven't you called lately?"

I no longer waited by the front door for him. He'd unlock the door, kick off his shoes, eat, scroll through his phone, and go to bed.

Everything continued as usual.

No, that wasn't entirely true.

Before, I would export the day's shots, sorting Ethan's project sites and Bella's milestones into neat archives.

Now, I didn't bother.

His project files piled up on the SD card untouched.

And he never once asked about them.

It turned out my presence in his life was that negligible.

So insignificant that even when I stopped photographing him, he didn't even notice the camera was no longer sitting on the living room table.

I used to think this was heartbreakingly tragic.

Now, I thought—it was for the best.

It proved that my stopping didn't affect him in the slightest.

So what had been the point of those ten years?

The point was: over ten thousand photos, and not a single one had me in it.

Admitting that out loud stung worse than any of the times he had hung up on me.

Yet right after the sting faded, a strange, unfamiliar sense of relief washed over me.

My friend Sarah asked me out for coffee.

She was the only college friend I had stayed in touch with all these years, now working as an art gallery curator.

Once we sat down and ordered, she was the first to speak.

"You seem different lately."

"Do I?"

"Yeah. Usually, the first thing out of your mouth is 'Ethan ignored my texts again.' You didn't say that today."

I let out a soft laugh.

"I don't care anymore."

Sarah's hand froze mid-air, holding her coffee mug.

"What did you just say?"

"I said, I'm done chasing Ethan. I don't want to be his maid anymore, and I'm done treating him like my only muse."

She set her mug down and stared at me intently for five full seconds.

Then, she did something unexpected.

She slammed her palm onto the table three times.

The smack echoed through the cafe, making people at neighboring tables turn and stare.

"Chloe, that is the most lucid thing you've said in ten whole years."

I sat there stunned, feeling a lump rise in my throat, almost wanting to cry.

But I held it together.