Chapter 1

Skylar

The silence in my studio wraps around me like a suffocating blanket. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in their unforgiving glare, each shadow sharp-edged and accusatory. The stacks of prints lean against the walls like disappointed witnesses to my failures. Landscapes nobody wanted. Portraits that gathered dust instead of admirers. Street photography that captured moments no one cared to own.

My fingers trace the edge of the nearest stack. The paper feels expensive under my touch, which makes this whole situation even more pathetic. Quality materials. Professional equipment. Zero return on investment.

The desk calls my attention back to reality with its mountain of unopened envelopes. Bills. Past due notices. Final warnings. Each one a tiny paper knife twisting deeper into my chest cavity. Rent for the studio space I can barely afford. Equipment payments that seemed reasonable when I signed the contracts. Insurance premiums that mock my optimism from six months ago.

I pick up the electric bill. Ninety-seven dollars past due. The internet service notice threatens disconnection in five days. My phone buzzes with a text from the landlord asking about this month's rent, which was due three days ago.

"Where the hell is the money supposed to come from?"

The question bounces off the empty walls and comes back to me unanswered. My savings account shows a balance that wouldn't cover a decent dinner, let alone keep this place running another month. Every credit card maxed out. Pride preventing me from calling my parents again after the last awkward conversation about "practical career choices."

I close my eyes and pull in a breath that tastes like recycled air and broken dreams. The familiar weight of my camera hangs around my neck—a five-pound reminder of what used to feel like possibility instead of burden.

But underneath the panic, something stirs. A memory surfaces like developing film in a darkroom, slow and inevitable.

Seventeen years old. Dad's old Nikon in my hands for the first time. The weight of it surprising, solid and important. The viewfinder opening up a whole new universe where ordinary moments transformed into something extraordinary. That first roll of film, developed in the school's makeshift darkroom. Watching images emerge from nothing in the chemical baths like magic.

The thrill of capturing Mrs. Jenny feeding pigeons in the park, her wrinkled hands gentle against the gray morning sky. The way light fell across my best friend Maya's face during lunch, turning her laugh into something that belonged in galleries. Street corners that looked mundane to everyone else but revealed their secrets through my lens.

I'd stayed up until three in the morning, poring over those first prints. Planning the next day's shots. Dreaming about cameras I couldn't afford and places I wanted to photograph. The world had suddenly become full of stories waiting to be told.

My hands move without conscious thought, reaching for the worn photo book tucked beneath a pile of invoices. The leather cover bears scuff marks and coffee stains, evidence of countless late nights spent reliving these moments when photography felt like breathing instead of drowning.

The first page reveals a black and white portrait of my grandmother, taken during my sophomore year of college. Her eyes hold decades of wisdom, and I'd somehow managed to capture that weight. The composition isn't perfect—a younger me hadn't yet learned about the rule of thirds—but the emotion radiates from the paper with raw honesty.

"You've got something special, baby girl."

Grandma's voice echoes in my memory, her fingers tracing the edges of the print I'd shown her with trembling hands. She'd insisted on hanging it in her living room, right next to family photos that had been there for decades.

I flip through more pages. A series from the downtown farmers market, capturing vendors in their element. The coffee shop owner's concentrated expression as he perfects latte art. Children running through fountain spray, their joy frozen in mid-laugh. Couples sharing quiet moments on park benches, unaware they were becoming part of something larger.

Each image represents hours of waiting for the perfect light, the right expression, the decisive moment when ordinary life revealed its hidden beauty. I'd carried my camera everywhere, addicted to the possibility that the next frame might be the one that changed everything.

The clock on the wall ticks with mechanical persistence. Each second another reminder that time doesn't pause for artistic crises or financial meltdowns. The sound grows louder in the silence, punctuating my thoughts like a metronome keeping time to my anxiety.

Tick. Rent due.

Tick. Bills mounting.

Tick. Dreams slipping away.

The weight of it all presses down on my shoulders. These walls that once felt like sanctuary now seem more like a trap. The equipment that used to represent endless possibility now looks like expensive anchors dragging me toward bankruptcy.

But my fingers keep turning pages in the photo book, drawn to memories when creation felt effortless and hope came naturally.

A calendar hangs on the wall beside my desk, and December stares back at me with its red circled dates. Christmas. New Year's. The holidays that everyone else anticipates with joy while I'm over here calculating whether I can afford both heat and food next month.

The irony isn't lost on me. December used to be my favorite time of year. Family gatherings where everyone actually got along for five minutes. Mom's famous sweet potato pie that could solve world hunger if she'd just share the damn recipe. Dad telling the same stories about his college football days while Uncle Jerome pretended to listen for the thousandth time.

Now? December means higher utility bills because nobody wants to freeze their ass off during family visits. It means watching everyone else exchange gifts while I'm mentally calculating the cost of wrapping paper. It means smiling through questions about my "photography hobby" from relatives who still think I should've gone to law school like my cousin Marcus.

I flip the calendar back to November, as if pretending we're still weeks away from the holiday storm might help. The previous months mock me with their optimistic notations. "Portfolio review - Modern Gallery." Crossed out in red ink. "Wedding consultation - Johnson family." They went with someone else. "Art fair application deadline." Rejected.

Each crossed-out opportunity represents another door slamming shut, another chance I let slip through my fingers like water.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid."

The words taste bitter on my tongue, but they're accurate. Six months ago, I had options. The marketing agency downtown offered steady work shooting corporate headshots and product photos. Boring as hell, but it would've covered the bills with money left over for actual groceries instead of ramen noodles every night.

But no. I was too good for that. Too artistic to waste my talent on corporate bullshit. I wanted to be the next Annie Leibovitz, not some photographer who spent her days making middle managers look approachable for LinkedIn profiles.

Pride. That's what got me here. Pride and delusions of grandeur that reality has thoroughly crushed.

My phone buzzes against the desk, probably another creditor or my landlord asking questions I can't answer with anything resembling good news. But when I glance at the screen, it's Maya's name that appears.

"Girl, please tell me you're not sitting in that studio having another existential crisis."

Her voice cuts through my pity party like a knife through butter. Maya's always had this ability to read my moods from three states away. We've been friends since middle school, when she talked me out of cutting my own bangs and I saved her from wearing that hideous orange dress to the eighth-grade dance.

"I'm not having a crisis. I'm having a complete fucking meltdown. There's a difference."

"Language, Sky. What would your grandmother say?"

"She'd probably say I should've listened when she told me to have a backup plan." I lean back in my chair, letting the familiar comfort of Maya's voice ease some of the tension in my shoulders. "Remember when we thought being adults would be glamorous?"

"Honey, I remember when we thought thirty was ancient. Now look at us, almost there and still figuring our shit out."

Maya works in pharmaceutical sales now, making more money than both our parents combined while driving around in a car that costs more than most people's houses. She never makes me feel small about my choices, but the contrast between our lives is impossible to ignore.

"Speaking of figuring shit out," she continues, "I might have something for you. My company's sponsoring this charity gala thing next month. Christmas celebration for some local foundation. They need photographers, and I threw your name in the hat."

My spine straightens. Work. Actual paying work. "What kind of charity?"

"Something about helping underprivileged kids during the holidays. Very feel-good, very photogenic. Lots of rich people in expensive clothes pretending to care about poor children while writing tax-deductible checks."

The cynicism in her voice mirrors my own thoughts, but I'm in no position to be picky about the motivations behind the paycheck. "What's the pay like?"

"Decent. Not amazing, but decent. Plus, these events are networking goldmines. Half the city's elite will be there, and they all need photographers for their various vanity projects."

Networking. The word makes my stomach clench with anxiety and hope in equal measure. I've never been good at the schmoozing part of this business. Give me a camera and natural light, and I can work magic. Ask me to work a room full of strangers while selling myself like a used car, and I turn into an awkward mess who forgets how to form complete sentences.

But beggars can't be choosers, and I'm definitely in beggar territory now.

"When is it?"

"December third. Black tie, fancy venue, the whole nine yards. They want someone who can capture both the formal moments and the candid stuff. You know, make it look like everyone's having a genuine good time instead of just fulfilling their social obligations."

December third. A week away. Enough time to prepare, maybe even buy something that doesn't look like I pulled it from the discount rack at Target. If I can stretch my credit card one more time.

"I'll take it."

"That's my girl. I'll send you the contact information for the event coordinator. Her name's Patricia something. Very uptight, very specific about what she wants, but she pays on time."

After we hang up, I stare at the calendar again. December doesn't look quite as threatening now. One job won't solve all my problems, but it's a start. It's movement in the right direction instead of this free fall I've been experiencing.

I grab a pen and circle December third in blue ink. "Charity gala - Christmas event." The first positive notation this calendar has seen in months.

Maybe I can't afford to be picky anymore. Maybe it's time to take whatever work comes my way, even if it means photographing rich people patting themselves on the back for their charitable contributions. Pride might have gotten me into this mess, but pragmatism might get me out.

The stack of bills still towers on my desk, but somehow they don't seem quite as insurmountable now. One job at a time. One paycheck at a time. Whatever it takes to keep the lights on and the cameras clicking.