“Because we had Visual Studies class together last year. And Mrs. Bryce hung up your photo on the bulletin board the second week of school. You’d captured the image of a five-year-old boy pushing his grandmother in a wheelchair. The little boy was Asian, just like me. And the grandmother’s hair was dyed ruthlessly black, just like Khun Yai’s. They were smiling like the sun rose and set with each other.”

He drops his gaze to his fingers. “Khun Yai passed away around that same time. I felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of my lungs. But I walked past your photo every day, and for that one moment, I was able to breathe a little bit easier. Because of it.” He raises his eyes. “Because of you.”

He lifts his hand, and it hovers in the air, as though he’s not sure where to put it. And then he cups my cheek, holding it as though it were Lalana’s blown-glass butterfly. “Thank you, Alice. Thank you for helping me breathe when I needed it most.”

I don’t know if I can speak. The tears coat my throat, drowning my words, stealing my vocabulary. I’ve always hoped someday my photos would mean something to somebody. I never dreamed that it had already happened without my realizing it. “Thank you,” I finally manage. “That’s the best compliment I’ve ever received.”

“You have an unbelievable talent,” he says. “Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Don’t let people like Uncle Charlie belittle you for your art. And stop wasting time on your foodie account!”

I laugh, shocked. “What? How do you even know about that?”

He crinkles his eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, your food photos are great. And if I ever need inspiration for what to make for dinner, I know just where to look. But your talent lies in capturing movement, in showcasing emotion. Not food. That’s what’s going to get you closer to reaching your potential. Photos that reveal your true heart. Not ones that hide your talent behind dinner.”

My jaw’s hanging open. Bandit follows my account? He must, since he wouldn’t be able to offer such sound advice otherwise. Advice that I’ve known in my gut—but have been too scared to follow.

He slouches against the wall, his eyes glowing with amusement. But he appears to be laughing at himself, rather than me. “I’m @ThiefOfYourHeart.”

My mouth clicks closed, only to open again.

@ThiefOfYourHeart religiously likes all my photos. He comments at least once a week. “Now who’s the stalker?”

He grins. “Only of the cyber variety. You’re the real-life kind.” He fiddles with the sleeve of my shirt. “So will you come with me to Charlie’s? It’s a two-hour drive. I could use the company.” He pauses. “Unless, uh, you have a boyfriend? Someone like Zeke?”