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I often felt invisible as a teenager, but behind a lens, invisibility became my superpower. With a camera, I discovered a place in the world where I thrived. I’m a better photographer now, but the way I shot back then, standing on the edge of the dock, had a purity I’ll never recapture. I was doing something just for myself.
“I’m turning thirty-three tomorrow. You’d think I’d be a little braver.” “I think the older we get, the scarier shit becomes.”
He says my name like nobody else has. Like it tastes better than other names. Alice Everly. Alice Everly. Alice Everly.
“But the thing about love languages,” Charlie says, “is it’s not just about how we express love, but how we receive love. You need someone to do something for you that makes you feel loved. Someone to help you.” I shake my head. “I hate asking for help.” “That’s because deep down, you want someone to see what you need before you have to ask.”
“No, it’s because when you speak, he listens. When you smile, he smiles. When you need something, he offers help. When you give him something, he thanks you. You’re peas and carrots—I think you’ve found yourself a lifelong friend.”
“Just see where the sun takes you. And don’t forget: Good things happen at the lake.”
Because for once in my life, I don’t feel like I’m on the sidelines. For once, I’m in the photo.
I’ve made art for nobody but myself. Even if there’s nothing here deserving of a gallery wall, that’s worth something.
The effort of asking anyone to put down what they’re doing and help me is exhausting.
