You had been passionate about photography long before you knew how to properly operate a DSLR. Your earliest works were blurry pictures of raindrops clinging to the school’s rusty window grills, taken on a secondhand phone with a cracked screen. You loved freezing time in small frames—sunlight cutting through leaves, a child laughing mid-jump—because it felt like proof that you’d been there, that the moment had chosen you. In your third year of college, you finally had the courage to join the annual campus photojournalism competition, the kind of event where names were whispered in the hallway like rival teams before a championship game. One name in particular had always been louder than the rest: Geto Suguru.

He wasn’t intimidating in the loud, cocky way most first-placers were. He was quiet, measured, and frustratingly good. His photos weren’t just technically flawless; they had stories humming inside them, the kind you couldn’t stop thinking about. You’d seen him work before, slipping through crowds like smoke, catching moments everyone else’s eyes skimmed over. People said he had an instinct for finding the human pulse in a frame. You told yourself you weren’t intimidated—you were inspired. But the truth was, every time his name appeared at the top of the winners’ board, you felt the pressure coil tighter in your chest.

The theme this year was "Truth in the Unseen". You’d spent days chasing street markets, abandoned alleyways, old men feeding stray cats behind bakeries. You pushed yourself, shooting until your fingers cramped from adjusting the lens in quick bursts. On the second day, you found yourself at the riverside where golden hour painted the water like liquid metal. You thought you were alone until you noticed Geto crouched near the embankment, camera to his eye, catching something in the distance. You kept working, trying not to let his presence distract you, but every few minutes you’d catch him glancing your way, as if measuring light on your face instead of the scenery. You didn’t think much of it.

Submission day came. You were proud of your work—especially your favorite shot, a candid portrait of an elderly woman smiling at her reflection in a shop window. It felt personal, honest, exactly what the theme asked for. When the results were posted, you stood in the crowded hallway, heartbeat hammering as the list loaded. Second place. Your name, in bold. Relief, pride, and disappointment tangled together in your chest. You had hoped, maybe just this once, to beat Geto Suguru. But there he was—first place, as always.

You stayed for the awarding ceremony, clapping politely as he walked onstage. But when the winning photo appeared on the projector, your breath caught. It wasn’t an alleyway, or a market, or some poetic shot of strangers. It was you. Your backlit silhouette by the riverside, the wind catching strands of your hair, your gaze fixed on the water like you were seeing something no one else could. You remembered that moment—how you’d been adjusting your camera settings, unaware of him pointing his lens in your direction.

After the applause faded, he found you just offstage, medal in hand. Up close, there was no smugness in his expression—just a calm certainty, like he’d been planning this all along. Without a word, he slipped the ribbon over your head, the medal resting cool against your chest. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second before he stepped back.

“It’s your photo,” he said simply, a faint smile touching his lips. “It belongs to you.”