His Lens Never Had Room For Me Chapter 01

His Lens Never Had Room For Me Chapter 01

I had been with Everett Hale for five years, back when he was one of the top astrophotographers in the field.

Yet, I never once asked him to take me along on a shoot. He had made his stance clear from the beginning.

“The cardinal rule of astrophotography is zero light pollution. Even one phone screen lighting up can ruin an entire night of long exposure.”

So for five years, I didn’t even dare send him the simplest text: [Did you get there?]

I was afraid my screen would light up and destroy his work.

All I ever did was wait at home.

Every time he left for some snow-covered wilderness, I folded one paper star.

Inside every strip of paper, I tucked away all the little things I never dared send him, reminders to dress warmly against the wind, or promises that I would be waiting for him.

Five years amounted to one thousand and ninety-six stars, filling three glass jars that he never once bothered to open.

Last week, he was shortlisted for the Global Astrophotography Awards.

I was thrilled for him and immediately pulled up the official website to view his entry.

The photograph was called “The Light.”

At the very center of the frame, his junior field assistant, Sienna Rowe, stood in a red insulated field jacket, holding a sparkler and laughing with reckless brightness.

The judges’ note read: [The photographer voluntarily gave up a once-in-seventy-years comet that night and devoted the entire exposure to the figure in the frame.]

So his world was not incapable of holding light.

It simply did not allow me to shine.

That night, I poured all one thousand and ninety-six stars out of the jars.

One by one, I unfolded them and read every word inside.

I read them to myself.

Then I burned them all.

By morning, I had washed the three empty glass jars until they were spotless and set them neatly on top of his camera case.

This world should have held a vast, endless galaxy.

And I should never have spent my life waiting for light outside someone else’s lens.

—

The next day, Everett’s interview at three in the afternoon.

That morning, he set up the backdrop and arranged the expensive lenses on the wall by focal length.

“National Geographic is coming here for a profile. Clean up all that junk in the living room.”

The “junk” was my books, and the three empty glass jars.

I carried the books back to the bedroom.

When I came back out, he had already pushed the three jars into a corner with a look of disgust.

“Why are you keeping these ugly old jars? They look awful. Don’t let them get in the shot.”

“Leave them there for now,” I said softly.

He did not press further.

The reporter arrived exactly at three.

Everett changed into the black dress shirt I had ironed for him the week before and sat down at his workstation.

I sat beside the kitchen island, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold.

“Mr. Hale, ‘The Light’ stunned everyone. Could you tell us what happened that night?”

Everett settled back in his chair. His voice slowed, smooth and unhurried.

“That night’s best viewing window had originally been reserved for a once-in-seventy-years comet. But it was freezing on the mountaintop after midnight, dropping into the single digits.”

“My assistant, Sienna, was shaking from the cold, so she lit a sparkler to warm herself. The second that flame came alive, I suddenly felt that those dead stones tens of thousands of light-years away couldn’t compare to the living fire right in front of me.”

The reporter let out a soft gasp. “But everyone in the industry knows you have one unbreakable rule: absolute zero light pollution.”

Everett smiled, his eyes carrying a tenderness I had never seen before.

“Rules are rigid. The moment that light touched her face, I was willing to overturn every rule I had.”

For five years, I had endured over a thousand nights in pitch darkness, unable to see my own hand before my face.

The reporter glanced down at her outline before her eyes landed on me.

“Mr. Hale, how does your family feel about your career? I imagine a partner would have to be incredibly patient.”

Everett followed her gaze and glanced at me. In an instant, his expression returned to indifference.

“She doesn’t understand photography, or what this field demands. But she’s quiet, at least. She never gets in my way.”

Under the kitchen island, my right hand curled into itself, trembling faintly.

Five years ago, my own deep-sky series had won a national gold award.

Back then, I had carried a telephoto lens through blizzards too, waiting all night for the perfect shot.

Later, he told me a home didn’t need two photographers. He needed a stable base to come back to.

So to protect the purity of his art, I locked my camera away and shrank myself into the “clueless” housekeeper he assumed me to be.

Maybe he had truly forgotten that I ever had a talent of my own.

After the reporter left, Everett stopped at the door to his home studio.

“Help me upload the photos from the external hard drive to the cloud tonight. Sienna needs them, and the monograph is waiting on the final images.”

Then he shut the door.

I opened the computer and plugged in the hard drive.

My phone buzzed.

Sender: North American Dark Sky Review.

[Dear Ms. Hart, we recently reviewed your early portfolio in detail again. That sharp instinct you have for capturing the universe is exactly the soul we have been searching for. The position of chief astrophotographer remains open for you. Have you reconsidered our offer?]

I stared at the email, my fingertips turning cold.

Someone half a continent away could still recognize my light.

The man who slept beside me only saw me as a useful housekeeper.

I closed the cloud drive tab and typed out a reply:

[Thank you for keeping the position open. Please give me three days, and I will have my final answer.]