His Lens Never Had Room For Me Chapter 10

His Lens Never Had Room For Me Chapter 10

One month later.

My solo astrophotography exhibition opened at the Alaska Contemporary Art Center.

The exhibition was titled “Absolute Night.”

There was no unnecessary lighting in the gallery.

Every bit of light came from the massive deep-sky photographs hanging on the walls.

Among the guests were fellows from international observatories and editors from major magazines.

Everett was among them.

Having slipped in unnoticed with a standard general admission ticket, he vanished into the crowd, his right hand wrapped in heavy layers of medical gauze.

Word had already traveled through the industry that after spending those four hours unprotected in the freeze, the nerve damage to his right index and middle fingers had become completely irreversible.

From that night on, he would never again possess the flawless stability required for the kind of high-precision shutter press that had built his career.

He walked to the deepest part of the gallery.

That was the centerpiece of the entire exhibition.

What hung there was not a vast galaxy.

It was not a dazzling aurora either.

It was a black-and-white photograph.

In the photo, there was a pitch-black snowfield.

At the center of the snowfield, an empty glass jar lay quietly on its side.

Beside the jar was a scattered pile of folded paper stars that had already burned into ash.

There was no artificial light.

Only an extreme, suffocating stillness.

The photograph was titled “Five Years of Light Pollution.”

Beneath it was a brief caption.

[Some lights are meant to go out so the real stars can shine.]

Everett stood in front of the photograph.

He stared hard at the empty glass jar, and tears fell heavily onto the gallery floor.

His bandaged right hand trembled as he reached out, wanting to touch the frame.

“Please don’t touch the artwork.”

My cold voice sounded behind him.

Everett spun around.

I was wearing a sharp black suit, holding a glass of champagne.

Graham stood beside me.

“Elena…” Everett looked at me.

His eyes were full of brokenness and despair.

“This photo… did you take it?”

“Yes.” I took a sip of champagne.

“You hung it here to get back at me, didn’t you?”

There was one last pitiful thread of hope in Everett’s voice.

He thought that as long as I still hated him, it meant I still cared.

I smiled.

Easily.

“Mr. Hale, you think too highly of yourself.”

“I hung it here only because its composition, lighting, and shadow met the exhibition standard.”

“It is simply a work of art. And in art, there is no emotion.”

The last bit of hope in Everett’s eyes shattered completely beneath my smile.

At last, he understood.

I was not throwing a tantrum.

I was not taking revenge.

I truly did not love him anymore.

Graham walked over and patted my shoulder.

“Elena, the aurora forecast tonight is a Kp-9 solar storm. Are you ready to head out?”

I set down my champagne glass.

“The equipment is already loaded.”

I turned and walked with Graham toward the gallery exit.

Everett stood where he was, watching my back.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

All he could do was watch as I walked toward the vast starry sky that belonged to me, a sky that no longer had anything to do with him.

When I reached the main entrance, I stopped.

I turned back and looked at Everett, who was still standing in front of “Five Years of Light Pollution.”

Once, to avoid ruining his long exposure, I hadn’t even dared send him a single message.

Now, I stood beneath the spotlight and accepted the gaze of the world.

This world should have held a vast, endless galaxy.

And I was the brightest star in it.