Chapter 9
NINE
EMMA
New York is louder than I remember.
Maybe it’s always been this loud — cabs honking, people weaving through each other on the sidewalks, subway grates hissing steam into cold air — but after weeks surrounded by pine trees and quiet snow, the city feels like it’s trying too hard.
Or maybe I’m the one trying too hard.
My breath fogs as I shoulder through the gallery doors, camera bag thumping against my hip. The space is warm and bright, all white walls and polished concrete floors. Guests are already milling around with glasses of champagne, drifting from one framed print to the next.
My prints.
My Wildest Dreams series.
It should feel euphoric — seeing my work blown up, framed, spotlighted. The culmination of the risk I took leaving fashion behind. The proof that I can make something real, something honest.
But instead I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life behind glass.
Mara spots me immediately and makes her way over, black glasses perched on her head, her expression satisfied.
“There she is,” she says, kissing the air beside my cheek. “Our featured artist. The reviews are glowing. Absolutely glowing.”
“That’s great,” I manage.
She studies me, frowning. “You okay? You look… overwhelmed.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
She doesn’t believe me — no one ever does when I say that — but before she can probe, another group approaches, asking about my process, my inspiration, the emotional arc of the series.
I answer on autopilot.
“Weather can make or break a photograph.”
“I wanted to capture the feeling of transience.”
“Yes, Alaska is beautiful.”
“No, I didn’t have a production assistant — just good boots and a tripod.”
Their praise rolls over me without sinking in.
Eventually I slip away, drifting toward the back wall where two of my favorite shots hang. The river at dusk. The waterfall framed between pines. Both luminous, both technically strong.
Both empty.
My heart squeezes.
I move to the final photograph in the series — the one I took on the ridge before everything changed. The aurora curling across the sky, a wash of green and violet, the landscape alive beneath it.
This one is beautiful.
But even as I stare at it, I feel the shadow of the version I didn’t include — the one still tacked to the wall above his bed.
The one of him.
A quiet ache spreads through my chest, warm and heavy.
I feel a presence at my side. A journalist with a notebook and a friendly smile.
“Mind if I ask a few questions?” she says.
“Sure.”
She taps her pen thoughtfully. “Your series has been described as intimate. Tender. Aching with transience. Do you think beauty is inherently fleeting?”
Her words hit too close.
I swallow.
“I think…” I start slowly, “some moments feel fleeting because we’re afraid to admit how much they matter.”
Her brows lift. “Is that what these photographs are about? Fleeting moments?”
My throat tightens. Because suddenly, I hear Kendrick saying I don’t do temporary very well.
I hear myself answering Maybe neither do I.
I feel the warmth of his hand on my cheek, the way he touched me like I was something worth remembering.
“No,” I say quietly. “They’re about something else.”
“What?”
I look at the aurora photo again, but all I see is the outline of his shoulders, the softness in his eyes.
“They’re about clarity,” I say. “About realizing what you want when you can’t have it anymore.”
The journalist nods slowly, scribbling something down. “That’s… unexpectedly vulnerable.”
She moves on. I stay where I am, pulse thudding at my throat, eyes fixed on the photograph that suddenly feels like a lie by omission.
My success feels hollow.
The room feels too bright.
My lungs feel too small.
I step outside, the blast of cold air grounding me for the first time all night. Snow falls slow and soft, melting as it touches the pavement. I tilt my head back, watching it disappear, feeling the echo of loss and longing pull trough my ribs.
I reach into my pocket and touch the folded paper I couldn’t throw away—
Thank you for showing me what home feels like.
My eyes burn.
Before I can rethink it, I pull out my phone and open a travel app. My hands tremble only slightly as I scroll. Flights. Times. Prices.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
I came to Alaska to find something real.
I found him.
And leaving without him wasn’t clarity — it was fear dressed as ambition.
I take a steadying breath.
Then I book a one-way ticket.
Tomorrow morning.
When the confirmation email pings into my inbox, something sharp inside me loosens. Not fully. Not cleanly. But enough that I can breathe again.
I look up into the falling snow and whisper, because I can’t not:
“I’m coming back.”
Not for the photos.
Not for the gallery.
Not even for the light.
For him.