Page 104 of Faking It For Real

"My transformation," he repeated softly.

"Dr. Lawrence thinks it's my strongest work," I admitted. "She says I've finally found my voice as a photographer—seeing beyond the obvious narrative to the emotional undercurrents."

Ethan was quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. "You really have been seeing me all along, haven't you? Even when I was shouting at you for stepping on my ice."

"Especially then," I confirmed with a small smile. "That's when I first saw past the hockey star facade to the person underneath—complicated, driven, and much more vulnerable than you wanted anyone to know."

"Terrifying," he murmured, but his eyes were warm.

"What is?"

"Being truly seen." He brushed his knuckles softly against my cheek. "But also the greatest gift."

Under the stars, with campus quiet around us, I felt the enormity of what we'd found together—a connection neither of us had been looking for but now couldn't imagine living without.

The weeks before graduation passed in a blur of final projects, exams, and bittersweet lasts—last team dinner, last class presentation, last midnight coffee run. Increasingly, our conversations revolved around practical logistics of moving, storing belongings, and preparing for our summer apart.

"I still can't believe you own this many hoodies," I commented, sealing another box in Ethan's nearly empty apartment. "Don't theSealsprovide team gear?"

"Yes, but these are sentimental," Ethan defended, carefully folding a fadedWolvessweatshirt. "Each one represents a different hockey memory."

"The hockey memory hoarder," I teased. "We need a special box labeled 'Ethan's emotional security blankets.'"

"Hey, you're the one with seventeen different camera bags, each with a 'specific purpose' that looks exactly the same to the untrained eye."

"They serve completely different functions!" I protested. "The padded one is for lenses, the waterproof one is for outdoor shoots, the vintage leather one is for professional meetings—"

"I rest my case," Ethan interrupted with a triumphant grin. "We all have our things."

We'd developed an efficient system over the past few days—sorting his belongings into categories for Pittsburgh, storage, donation, or trash. The growing stack of boxes labeled "Pittsburgh" created a tangible reminder of his approaching departure, a reality I still hadn't fully processed.

"What about these?" I asked, holding up a stack of photographs I'd found tucked in his desk drawer.

Ethan glanced over, then flushed slightly. "Oh. Those are, uh, from our early 'dates' together. The staged ones."

Curious, I spread them across the cleared desk—awkward poses at the Harvest Festival, stilted smiles at campus events, careful maintenance of personal space despite supposedly being a couple. Looking at them now, our discomfort was painfully obvious.

"We were terrible actors," I laughed, picking up a particularly uncomfortable shot from the Winter Formal. "Look at this! You're barely touching my waist, like I might break if you actually held me."

Ethan came to stand beside me, studying the photos with an amused smile. "I was terrified I'd cross some invisible boundary and ruin our arrangement. And look at you—your smile doesn't reach your eyes at all."

"Because I was mentally calculating if the evening had lasted long enough to fulfill my contractual 'girlfriend duties,'" I admitted.

We continued through the stack, our laughter growing as we critiqued our awkward performances. At the bottom of the pile, I discovered more recent photos—candid shots Olivia had taken of us studying together, Dylan's badly framed selfie with us in the background looking at each other, a beautiful shot of us dancing at a team celebration.

The contrast was striking. In these newer images, there was no performance, no careful maintenance of boundaries—just genuine comfort and obvious affection.

"These tell quite a story," I observed softly.

Ethan nodded, picking up a photo of us laughing together over coffee. "From contractual obligation to the real thing."

That evening, we took a break from packing to meet Dylan and Olivia for dinner at the campus bistro. Over pasta and wine, we reminisced about the year's highlights and shared nervous excitement about our upcoming transitions.

"Let's make a pact," Dylan proposed, raising his glass. "No matter where we all end up, we meet back here for alumni weekend next year. Same table, same obnoxious stories."

"I'm in," Olivia agreed immediately, her eyes lingering on Dylan with uncharacteristic softness.

"Absolutely," Ethan and I confirmed together.

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