Too Late to Beg, Mr. Photographer
861 Views · Ongoing · Lily
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.
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.


















































