The gala was a drag.
Not the dramatic kind that at least made a good story afterward. This was the slow, polished boredom of people standing too close, laughing too loud, and pretending a glass of champagne could replace personality. The walls were lined with photographs, each one carefully lit, carefully framed, carefully judged.
Pond had been there since early evening.
He'd smiled for the department photos. Let professors clap him on the shoulder like proud relatives. Let strangers tell him his work felt "raw," "honest," or "emotionally devastating" without ever explaining why. He nodded, smiled back, and played his part like he always did.
Ever since his first year, people had expectations of him.
The talented one.
The photographer with an eye.
The hot photographer.
Tonight, all of it felt heavy.
So he slipped out through the side doors and into the courtyard.
The noise dulled immediately, replaced by cool air and the soft glow of string lights tangled in the branches above. Pond dropped onto a stone bench, leaning back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Black hoodie, dark trousers, camera bag resting near his feet. He looked effortless in a way that came from exhaustion more than confidence.
He checked his phone. Nothing important.
Then someone sat down next to him.
No warning. No awkward pause. Just a quiet thud as half the bench was claimed.
—You know they're inside waiting for you, right?
—At least five people are probably rehearsing compliments about your "visual language."
Pond turned, surprised by the voice.
The guy beside him wore an oversized grey sweater, sleeves covering his hands. Dark hair fell messily over his forehead, streaked with muted pink. He looked familiar, now that Pond actually focused. Younger. Softer.
Cute.
Pond scoffed quietly.
—I think I've had enough visual language for one night.
—One more compliment and I might fall asleep standing up.
The boy smiled, completely relaxed.
—Fair.
—I'm Light.
—Pond.
—Yeah, I know —Light said—. Same department.
—You're kind of hard to miss.
Pond raised an eyebrow.
—You don't look like a third-year.
—Second-year —Light corrected—.
—One year behind you.
That clicked.
—Photography track? —Pond asked.
—Trying to be.
Light shifted on the bench, swinging his feet slightly.
—I wanted to see the exhibition.
—They've been talking about pushing me to apply for the advanced studio next year.
Pond glanced at him, more interested now.
—So you came to spy on the competition?
Light laughed softly.
—More like… study the survivors.
—I wanted to see other people's work.
—Yours especially.
Pond tilted his head.
—Why mine?
Light hesitated for half a second. Just enough to be honest.
—Because it doesn't feel like it's begging to be liked.
—It just exists.
—I'm tired of photos that try too hard to prove something.
Pond leaned back, staring up at the lights above them.
—That's funny.
—Most people think effort is the whole point.
—Effort is fine —Light said—.
—But obsession shows.
Pond laughed under his breath.
—You talk like someone who's already half in.
—Maybe —Light replied—.
—I just don't want to disappear in the department.
That was familiar.
Silence settled between them, comfortable and warm.
—So —Pond said finally—, what did you actually think of the photos?
Light turned toward him.
—I thought they looked lonely.
—Not sad. Just… like whoever took them was standing slightly off to the side.
Pond's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
—You're observant.
—You're not as subtle as you think.
Pond glanced at him again. Really looked this time.
—You always sit next to upperclassmen and psychoanalyze them?
Light smiled, unapologetic.
—Only the ones who run away from their own gala.
Pond huffed a laugh.
—Fair.
Another pause.
—You're not going back in yet, are you? —Light asked.
Pond looked toward the doors. The noise. The expectations.
Then back at Light.
—No.
—Not yet.
Light's smile widened, just a little.
—Good.
—I still have questions about your work.
Pond studied him for a moment, longer than politeness required. There was curiosity there, yes, but also something quieter. Something careful. The kind of interest that wasn't about status or reputation.
—Then ask —Pond said.
Light blinked, clearly not expecting that.
—Just like that?
—Just like that.
Light laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck.
—Okay, then.
—Why do all your photos feel like they're taken a second too late?
Pond froze.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Light noticed.
—A second too late? —Pond repeated.
—Yeah —Light said—.
—Like something important just happened… and you arrived right after.
Pond looked away, jaw tightening slightly.
—Maybe I like the aftermath.
Light nodded slowly, like that answer made sense.
—Yeah.
—I think I do too.
The courtyard lights flickered faintly above them. Inside, the gala continued, loud and demanding. Out here, time felt stretched thin, suspended between breaths.
—You know —Light said after a moment—, if you ever want feedback that isn't performative…
—I'd be happy to look at more of your work.
Pond turned back to him.
—Careful —he said—.
—I might take you up on that.
Light smiled, unbothered.
—I hope you do.
Light said staying in silence while looking at the sky
—You're going back in?
Light suddenly said,Pond hesitated, glancing toward the glass doors before answering.
—I think so.
—At least for a bit.
Light nodded, like he'd expected that.
—Yeah. Makes sense.
There was a small pause, the kind where Pond seemed to debate something internally before speaking again.
—Hey —he said, quieter—.
—Do you have your number?
Light looked at him, surprised but not uncomfortable.
—My number?
—Yeah —Pond replied—.
—If you want… I could show you more of my photos sometime.
—The ones that aren't part of all this.
He gestured vaguely toward the building.
Light considered it for a moment, then shrugged.
—Sure.
—I'd like that.
Pond nodded, pulling his phone out.
Giving his qr code (number)