He nods slowly, his fingers lingering on the edge of the lens. “Yeah. It started as a hobby, but it’s grown into something...more. Especially recently, with all these new career changes on the horizon... I don’t know. I guess some people would see the Firebrand movie as an incredible opportunity. And I’m not ungrateful, I know how amazing it is, but it also seems like a cage in some ways. Like if I don’t make the most of my time now, I might not ever have it again. Shana Torres’s contest feels like it might be my last chance to really make something of myself as a photographer and live the life I want.”

I offer him a weak smile. “How’d you find out about the contest anyway?”

Emmitt laughs quietly. “Funnily enough, through my dad. He must have bought one of Shana Torres’s photos at the beginning of her career, because we have one framed in our apartment back in London. She was one of the first photographers I ever looked into. When I saw she was hosting this contest... I knew I had to apply. Everything inside me was screaming at me to do it.”

“You love it, don’t you? Photography?” I ask, but I can read the answer plainly on his face. The air around me is suffocating, awareness buzzing in my ears. We’re more alike than I ever thought possible.

As if he reads my mind, Emmitt says, “The same way you love films.” A shadow of a smile touches his lips. “I heard you, you know. That day you were giving advice to Christina.”

Blood rushes up to my cheeks, until it feels like my face is baking in the sun. “I—I didn’t think anyone was...”

“I know,” he says, looking down at his lap. “And I’m sorry. It wasn’t for my ears. But, as awful as this sounds, I’m glad I overheard you.” He shrugs. “We got off on a really bad foot, and I had no intention of helping you with your short film. Then I heard what you said to Christina and I realized...this short film is to you what this photography contest is to me.”

My throat is choked with some unnamed emotion, butterflies cramming themselves into my chest until my ribs threaten to snap. I think about how much I want to win the Golden Ivy competition, how much I need to win it, and realize I have yet another thing in common with Emmitt. “You could never give up on it?”

“Something like that,” he says, biting his lip. “This isn’t a hobby for you either, is it? It means everything to you.”