Too Late to Beg, Mr. Photographer
Lily · Completed · 8.2k Words
Introduction
I lay in my hospital bed, staring at the ceiling for what felt like forever before finally picking up my phone and texting my boyfriend, Rowan.
"Can you come to the hospital and keep me company for a while today?"
Half an hour later, he replied.
"I'm busy right now."
Rowan was New York's hottest rising avant-garde photographer. Outsiders marveled at his uncanny ability to capture the human soul, but as his girlfriend, I only ever felt suffocated.
He was always complaining that my emotions were too intense and would contaminate his inspiration.
That was why, for three whole years, I had never been allowed to set foot inside his red-brick photography studio in Brooklyn.
To avoid disturbing his precious "creative flow," I had even called myself a cab to the emergency room when my fever once spiked to 104 degrees Fahrenheit.
Not once had I dared to bother him.
It wasn't until after I was discharged that I finally worked up the courage to visit his studio.
The door was slightly ajar.
A woman was reclining on the sofa, posing for a photograph.
Rowan stood in front of her, camera raised, capturing every angle.
I stepped closer for a better look, only to realize who she was.
His ex-girlfriend, Vivian Hart.
Chapter 1
The mild concussion from my car accident had left me with a splitting headache.
I lay in my hospital bed, staring at the ceiling for what felt like forever before finally picking up my phone and texting my boyfriend, Rowan.
"Can you come to the hospital and keep me company for a while today?"
Half an hour later, he replied.
"I'm busy right now."
Rowan was New York's hottest rising avant-garde photographer. Outsiders marveled at his uncanny ability to capture the human soul, but as his girlfriend, I only ever felt suffocated.
He was always complaining that my emotions were too intense and would contaminate his inspiration.
That was why, for three whole years, I had never been allowed to set foot inside his red-brick photography studio in Brooklyn.
To avoid disturbing his precious "creative flow," I had even called myself a cab to the emergency room when my fever once spiked to 104 degrees Fahrenheit.
Not once had I dared to bother him.
It wasn't until after I was discharged that I finally worked up the courage to visit his studio.
The door was slightly ajar.
A woman was reclining on the sofa, posing for a photograph.
Rowan stood in front of her, camera raised, capturing every angle.
I stepped closer for a better look, only to realize who she was.
His ex-girlfriend, Vivian Hart.
——
Nora's POV
My hand trembled, and the takeout container I was carrying slipped from my grasp, crashing to the floor.
Rowan froze, his camera still raised. When he turned around, a flash of panic crossed his eyes.
Before I could say a word, he instinctively stepped forward, positioning himself between me and Vivian, shielding her completely from view.
"Who told you that you could come here?" His voice was thick with suspicion.
I didn't answer. Instead, I looked around the studio.
The place I had been forbidden from entering for three years was littered with Vivian's personal belongings.
"How long has she been here?" I asked, my voice dry and hoarse.
Rowan pressed his lips together.
"Three years."
I forced a miserable smile, my eyes beginning to sting.
So while I had spent all those years obediently respecting his rules, the sacred creative sanctuary he was always talking about had long since become another woman's private playground.
"Nora, I've told you before that you're not allowed in the studio. Why do you keep breaking the rules?" His brows knitted together, and his voice grew increasingly irritated.
My nails dug deep into my palms as I forced myself to meet his gaze.
"Your little photo shoot must have been so intense that you forgot to close the door."
He froze and glanced over his shoulder.
Vivian leisurely adjusted her clothes, then smiled without a trace of guilt.
"I went to get the food delivery earlier and forgot to close it."
Rowan glanced at the mess on the floor and rubbed his temples, letting out a resigned sigh.
"Vivian, let's call it a day. You should head home."
She smiled carelessly and patted him on the shoulder as she picked up her bag.
"Sure."
As she passed him, she gave his shoulder another casual pat.
"Oh, and that jar of woody-scented candles you gave me last week smells amazing. It really helps me sleep. Remember to get a few more and have them delivered to my apartment."
After Vivian left, I finally couldn't hold back any longer.
"Was that the candle I gave you?"
Rowan waved his hand dismissively.
"It's just a scented candle. She said she liked it, so I gave it to her."
"That was the custom calming candle I spent countless sleepless nights making by hand just for you. And you simply handed it over to her?"
He spent most of his days cooped up inside that airless red-brick studio, constantly complaining that the atmosphere was stuffy and oppressive.
I knew how sensitive he was to scents and how much he hated the cheap smell of ordinary candles. So I had visited countless essential oil shops and stayed up for more than ten nights, painstakingly blending a custom firwood fragrance just for him.
And he had given it to Vivian without a second thought.
I smiled bitterly. The exhaustion that had accumulated over the years washed over me like a rising tide.
"Rowan, we're breaking up."
His expression instantly turned cold, and his voice took on a warning edge.
"Nora, don't threaten me with a breakup just because you're upset."
"You know nothing about photography. When I run out of inspiration, I ask her to come over and help. That's all there is to it."
"Help you with what? Her body? That's certainly cheap of her."
"Nora, you're being absolutely unreasonable!"
With a furious roar, he lost control and slammed his fist into the nearby worktable. Lens caps and light meters scattered across the floor.
"Not everyone is as mediocre and boring as you! She's the only person who makes me feel at peace with my own soul when I look through my lens!"
Mediocre and boring.
After three years of swallowing my hurt and giving in to him, those were the words I had earned.
Tears threatened to spill from my eyes.
I fought them back as I looked at the man who was both so familiar and so unrecognizable to me. The thought of saying another word to him made me sick.
I stopped arguing, turned around, and walked away.
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