Emmitt’s face pales, but he doesn’t back down. “She might love me, but it’s not enough. It comes with terms and conditions. Her career is already in the way of our relationship. I’m not adding one more thing to the list without definitive proof of my talent.”

I scoff, even though the noise hurts my throat. “And who determines that? Some random panel of judges? A ridiculous ranking? This whole contest is just an excuse not to tell your mother, because you’re banking on the fact that you won’t win. If you love photography, that’s all that should matter. Even if your mother doesn’t approve, it’s your dream. You deserve to chase after it. Why are you waiting around for outside validation to do what you should’ve done ages ago?”

“As if you’ve sat down with your parents and had an honest conversation about what you want,” he says sharply. “You can’t point a finger at me.”

For a moment, I’m thrown back to our first meeting, the scathing remarks, the vicious undercurrent of emotion. But this is so much worse, because he knows me now, and I know him, and we see each other, but it’s not enough. Even after everything, it’s not enough. I can almost hear my heart breaking, a slow, painful crack that vibrates inside me. All our shared memories, all our shared dreams fade until there’s nothing left but a throbbing ache.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Emmitt! My parents will never look at me the way your mother looks at you, so don’t pretend you understand what I’m going through. I told them what my dreams are and they dismissed them, so now I have to live with that. And I’m trying, but all of you keep acting like wanting to live a life without them is a crime.”

“It’s not a life without them, Mina. It’s a life without all of us,” Emmitt says, his eyes narrowed to slits. “How much are you willing to sacrifice for your dreams?” Too much.

I shake my head, laughing hoarsely. “How much are you willing to sacrifice for yours?” Not enough.

Only silence prevails, both of us breathing heavily, looking at each other without an answer.

Finally, I turn on my heel and start running, heading for the subway. As I go, I pray he doesn’t follow me, because I don’t know what I’ll do if he does. I fear I might break apart at the lightest touch of his fingers.

When I get to the station, I swipe my card through the turnstile and run into the first train I see. It’s local and nearly empty, and as soon as I take my first trembling breath aboard it, I start crying again.