Page 21 of A Man To Remember
"Yeah, they're on the laptop. Come here."
Come here.
Two words that shouldn't sound like an invitation to sin, but somehow do when they fall from his lips.
I follow him to the couch, sitting down a careful distance away—close enough to see the screen, far enough to maintain some semblance of personal space. Austin opens his laptop, the screen illuminating both our faces in the dimmed light of the living room.
"Fair warning," he says, fingers hovering over the trackpad. "These might look different than you're expecting."
"Different how?"
"You'll see."
He clicks, and suddenly I'm staring at myself.
Except it's not really me.
Not the me I see in bathroom mirrors or in the reflection in bar windows. This version of me looks... confident. Comfortable in his own skin.
Like he knows something the real me doesn't. Some secret about how to exist in the world without constantly second-guessing every decision.
"Fuck," I breathe, leaning closer to the screen. "Is that really how I look?"
"That's exactly how you look." His voice is quiet, professional, but there's something underneath it. Pride? Satisfaction at having captured something true? "You just don't see yourself clearly."
He clicks to the next shot, then the next. Each one shows a different angle, a different moment, but they all share that same quality—like he managed to photograph the person I am whenno one's watching. When I'm not performing or apologizing or trying to convince everyone that I deserve to take up space.
"I look..." I trail off, searching for the right word. "Normal. Like a real person."
Austin glances at me sideways. "What did you think you'd look like?"
"I don't know. Awkward. Out of place. Like someone playing dress-up in someone else's life." I gesture vaguely at the screen. "Not like... this."
"This is just you, Jesse. This is who you are when you stop trying so hard to be someone else."
Ouch.
He keeps clicking, and I keep staring, mesmerized by this alternate version of myself. Then he stops on one particular shot, and the air in my lungs turns to concrete.
It's just my face and shoulders, bare chest barely visible at the bottom of the frame. But I'm looking directly into the camera with an expression I don't remember making.
Open. Like I'm offering something precious and hoping it won't get broken.
"This one's my favorite," Austin says.
"Why?" I rasp. "It's not even... I mean, you can barely see anything."
"That's exactly why. It's the most naked you look in any of them, and you're barely showing any skin."
I stare at the image, trying to see what he sees. "I don't understand."
"You're looking right at me. Not the camera—me. Like you trust me enough to let me see who you really are."
The explanation knocks something loose in my chest that I didn't know was stuck there. No one has ever talked about seeing me that way. Like I'm worth seeing at all, let alone worth capturing and keeping and calling their favorite.
And the fact that it's Austin saying it—Austin, who exists at the edges of my memory, someone I should remember better but don't—makes it feel significant in ways I can't begin to untangle.
I keep staring at the photo, at my own face looking back at me with such goddamn trust it makes my throat tight.
