I make sure to walk out of his line of sight, the photo pressed warm between my palm and my shirt like a secret, my heart beating unsteadily, before I let myself study it. The hazy, vintage quality of the instant film makes him look even more dreamlike, his hair even darker, his skin even softer and impossibly flawless. And while I doubt Oliver’s selfies could ever pass for art, it doesn’t seem so ridiculous at all to call the photo of Cyrus exactly that.

Art.

You’re meant to be taking photos of nature, I remind myself, tucking the photo deep into my other pocket, knowing I’ll never show it to anyone else. Focus on the contest. If you lose this one too, you’re never going to be able to fully prove to your aunt how much you’ve changed.

But as I scan my surroundings, I quickly realize that everyone’s photos are going to turn out very similar. They’re meandering around the same few trees, their cameras pointed toward the bamboo leaves or the wildflowers growing on the banks of the lake. If I want my photos to stand out, I need to get a little more creative than that. I need to go somewhere higher, with a clearer view of the forest.

So I follow the stone steps leading up the mountain, taking two at a time. It’s not long before I lose sight of the group amid the dense greenery, but I can still hear their footsteps and voices somewhere down below. They probably won’t even notice I’ve wandered off. I keep walking, my camera out and ready, stopping every few feet or so to take a photo. The more I climb, the rougher the path becomes, twisting up and down, the blocks of stone fading into the dirt or strewn sporadically along a slope, like the people in charge of construction ran out of materials halfway through the process. In some places, the steps come to an abrupt stop, leaving me to pick my way alone through the grass, my muscles burning, sweat prickling my hairline. I have to focus most of my energy simply on not slipping.

And then I notice the silence.

I freeze, straining my ears for the sound of Oliver’s loud, obnoxious laughter or Wang Laoshi scolding someone in the group for bringing too many snacks. Yet the only thing I can hear now is my own heartbeat, thudding faster and faster in my eardrums.

“It’s okay,” I tell myself out loud. I’d thought my voice would help steady me, clear away any fear, but it comes out small and hollow and uncertain, lost to the cool mountain air. I couldn’t have gone that far, I finish inside my head.