Chapter 2
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.
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