Page 38 of Racing Hearts

“Can I see?” He raises his eyebrow, and I nod. The professor rolls closer and clicks through the unedited, raw files, and my heart races at his silence. Nervousness fills me as well as excitement.

The minutes drag on, and I worry when he finally sits back, watching me for a moment.

“The compositions are beautiful. The coloring, the lighting, even the model . . . Everything is perfect.” He smiles, and I sag in relief, but the smile disappears. “But it’s missing heart, purpose, a story. It’s missing emotion. We capture images to convey something. All these show me is perfection. It has no passion. Do you understand? I don’t just want to see your technical skills. I want to see you and who you are. Find out what you want to take pictures of. Remember what inspired you to get into photography. Was it something you saw and couldn’t resist capturing? Find out what you’re passionate about, Evan. These pictures are good, but they aren’t going to get you where you need to go, and I know you can do better.” It’s said nicely, and the criticism is meant to help me, but I crumble.

I keep it in, though, and nod as he stands, squeezing my shoulder. “Don’t take it too hard. You still have plenty of time. I can teach skills, but I can’t teach heart, so find yours.”

Fuck.

I slump back, defeated, and stare at the photos. Is he right?

I was so worried about them being beautiful that I forgot the first rule—why I’m taking them.

I picked Terrie because she was gorgeous, and I picked the park because it was perfect. He’s right. I’m not saying anything with them. Not only did I waste his time, but I also wasted this whole day. Packing up in defeat, I wander around campus, feeling dejected.

I don’t know what I’m going to shoot now. I was so sure. What if I’m not meant to do this? What if I’m not good enough to be a photographer? What if I have no original ideas or passion for it? What if all this time, I was chasing this dream, but I’m not good enough for it?

That thought bums me out more. There are plenty of talented photographers out there, but it takes more than being proficient with a camera to be successful. It’s understanding what you’re taking and the audience viewing it. It’s what I’ve wanted to be for so long, and I can’t imagine doing anything else.

I know I’m overthinking, but how could I not?

I think over everything my teacher said as I walk. Is he right? Do I have nothing to say?

What am I passionate about?

Taking photos, that’s all I know. I’ve never really considered my object/model to be my passion. They’re just an instrument I need to use. I’ve never felt connected to or emotional about them, and maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I need to find something that ignites my emotions.

Only one thing pops into my head right away—Alek Anders. Good or bad, I feel when I’m with him. I feel stronger than I have ever felt, like he taught me what true emotions are.

Rage, desire, happiness, guilt, and want are all magnified with him.

As if my thoughts conjured the asshole, I see him before me.

I don’t know how or why I ended up at the park once more, only that my feet brought me here. Hell, I can still see where we were shooting earlier. It’s later now, but there he sits, alone on a bench, with a sandwich in one hand and a book in the other. His eyes are locked on it, his brow furrowed slightly. My heart kick-starts. It’s like I come to life when I see him.

Every argument, fight, kiss, and stolen moment fuels me.

Before I realize what I’ve done, I lift my camera and take a picture. It’s black and white because the settings are fucked, but as I look down at it, I realize it might as well be the first real photo I have ever taken. It’s raw and gritty, but it has emotion.

There is longing, want, hatred, and desire.

It captures what it’s like looking in from the outside, never quite fitting in or getting what I want.

This is the passion my teacher was talking about. I could turn in those other images, but they would pale in comparison to this quickly shot photo. They are empty. Pretty, but empty.

He told me to find my passion, and I did, it just so happens to be Alek Anders, and that’s both a good and bad thing. My life seems so entwined with his, like the threads of fate keep bringing us back together.

What we have together is just that—passion. It’s fucked up, but it’s something worth exploring, even if it hurts in the long run. It might not be everyone’s version, but it’s mine, and maybe by exploring what makes me feel, I’ll start to understand and become a better photographer.

I decide to take one more chance with him.

I tell myself this is the last time. I won’t come back after this if he kicks me away again. No more hot and cold. This is it.

Taking a deep breath, I sit silently next to him. I know the moment he notices me, his inhale loud, but I just stare down at my camera.

“Evan?”

Not rich boy, not an insult.