Love Lost to First Love

On the day of the swimming competition finals, Vivian Jordan didn’t show up to capture the moment. Instead, after I won the championship, she sent me a photo she found online, claiming a friend had taken it for her. The message read: “My husband is the best!”

In a dramatic twist, her first love posted a collage of nine flawless shots, highlighting every muscle, alongside a bank transfer screenshot of $131,420, captioned: “My one true love.” I didn’t confront her; I just walked away.

When I left, she posted a cryptic message on Facebook: “Not taking his picture, just avoiding the embarrassment of who’s the real eyesore. Is that worth making a fuss over?”

Six months later, I broke a world record and landed the cover of a major magazine. The photographer was Vivian herself, but I turned my back on the shoot. Despite her tearful cries behind me, “I’ll only photograph you for the rest of my life. I’ll give you all the royalties; just come back, please?”

After that, she took over ten thousand photos of me, but I never glanced at a single one. She never understood that what I wanted was never about the pictures.

Under Rory Castillo’s photo collage, there was an outpouring of admiration, including comments from employees at Vivian's photography studio whom I had met during a group dinner. “Our muse has posted photos again; just look at those perfect muscles, I'm practically drooling. It must be our Vivian who took them!”

“They make a great pair! The atmosphere on set was electric. Such a stunning couple!”

“I mean, the chemistry was palpable. If it weren’t for the lighting guy, I’d say sparks would fly any second. When will they do a couple’s shoot? It would be a sensation!”

The way they fervently discussed it felt as though Rory was Vivian’s boyfriend. A friend in the comments inquired, “Isn’t today Brandon’s swimming final? Why didn’t Vivian photograph it?”

I wanted to know the answer too. Despite her packed schedule, I had reminded her a month ago, and she promised to attend the competition and celebrate our six-year anniversary afterward. But instead, she was busy snapping nearly nude photos of a stranger.

Rory replied to the comments: “I’m not aware of her schedule either. Today’s my 24th birthday, and I just wanted to document my recent fitness progress. I didn’t expect Vivian to send such a generous gift and insist on celebrating with me.”

He seemed to accept her kindness with feigned reluctance. Others criticized my friend for asking the question, derisively saying, “Do you have a reading comprehension problem? Do you know the value of ‘one true love’?”

Suddenly, I felt a bitter irony. Six years with Vivian meant less than six months with a model she barely knew. Though they had only been acquainted for a short time, Vivian often mentioned this model as her muse at family dinners, and she had taken hundreds of photos of him, while I had none.

Even during the most crucial competition that she promised to capture, she broke her word, citing last-minute work as an excuse. Turns out, she simply wanted to celebrate his birthday.

As I stood on the podium, the second and third place winners were surrounded by family for photos, while I was left alone. The joy of winning was overshadowed by solitude.

I looked at the prize in my hands—an expensive underwater camera. Vivian had always wanted to shoot a mermaid series underwater. I thought today would be perfect to surprise her with this prize, as she always loved thoughtful gifts.

I imagined us possibly embracing on the podium, sharing intimate conversations at a cozy restaurant. Never did I picture myself looking at my phone, seeing her call another man her one true love.

Those words were like daggers piercing my heart, leaving me bleeding.

I picked up my phone and snapped a selfie, playfully biting the medal, without typing a single word. As soon as I posted it on Instagram, Vivian Jordan called, demanding, “Didn’t I take photos for you? Why haven’t you posted those?”

“Aren’t you still upset with me? I carved out time from my hectic schedule to watch your competition. It was too long, too crowded, and it made me anxious. I asked a friend to take your photos; aren’t they good enough?”

Looking at the photo she claimed was specially taken for me, I couldn’t help but notice the uncropped corner watermark, clearly grabbed from a news broadcast. Yet she insisted it was a friend's effort.

I chuckled to myself, said nothing, and hung up the phone. When Vivian switched from landscape to portrait photography, I was the one who paid thousands for her classes. Even the money to hire models for her artistic projects was hard-earned through my side gigs, risking expulsion from the swimming club.

Now she has her own studio and is a renowned photographer. All I wanted was for her to take a photo during the most important competition of my life, but she couldn’t manage that.

She even bought me the cheapest set of gear I asked for; halfway through the course, the goggles cracked under pressure. I pushed through and finished the competition, blaming myself for trusting her with something so crucial that was beyond her understanding.

Looking at those seemingly affectionate numbers, 143, it’s clear that it’s not about her not understanding—it's just that I'm not a priority to her.