“You wound me.” He presses both hands to his chest and gasps, as if he’s really suffering from a fatal strike to the heart. “Does our love mean nothing to you? Don’t you know how I feel about you?”

I snort as if he’s just told a horrible joke—and it might just be that, but sometimes I find it hard to tell with Oliver. Is he flirting out of habit or boredom, or is there a chance he actually likes me? “Are you sure you’re talking to the right person?”

“Certain. As certain as I am that we’d be great together. I mean, I’m hot, you’re hot. Can you think of a single reason why we shouldn’t—” He cuts himself off, his eyes widening at something behind me. I whirl around, but all I see is Cyrus, whose expression is perfectly neutral. “Just kidding,” Oliver says in a rush, backing up so fast he almost crashes into one of the bamboos. “That was a really stupid thing to say. I’m, uh, going to continue taking pictures of my face now. See you two around.”

“What was that?” I mutter to Cyrus, watching in bemusement as Oliver runs off to the other side of the clearing like he’s being chased by a wolf.

“A rare moment of self-awareness, perhaps,” Cyrus says with a shrug.

“Maybe,” I say, raising the camera higher and squinting into the viewfinder. My experience with photography has always been limited to other people taking photos of me, telling me where to go, how to stand, how to be prettier, suck in, breathe out, stare to the side, laugh without laughing too hard, stop holding back your laughter, stop, stay still. It’s a strange relief, in a way, to be totally in control for once, to see the world inside the lens without worrying how the world might see me. I snap a photo of the bamboos kissing the lake’s glowing aquamarine edge, the lone pavilion waiting across the waters, a sparrow soaring through the brilliant blue of the sky at the perfect time, and slide the developed film into my pocket.

Then, as I’m adjusting the composition of my next shot, Cyrus moves into the frame.

He’s straightening the collar of his jacket, even though his outfit is already perfect, not a single wrinkle to be found, and he’s focused on something in the trees. His eyes are luminous under the long silk strands of his hair, so bright they could make the stars feel insecure, his mouth soft and sullen, the sharp angles of his profile stark against the deep, perennial greens of the forest. Another kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you.

I don’t mean to take the photo. Or maybe I do. Maybe I want to collect this moment the way I’ve been collecting words throughout the trip, in case I might need it again.