It wasn’t entirely a lie. But the real reason was darker, sillier, and utterly irrational: Lena believed cameras stole pieces of her soul. Not in a poetic way—in a literal, visceral way. The first time a flash went off in her face at age seven, she’d felt a sharp, cold tug behind her navel, like a fishhook yanking something loose. She’d cried for hours and refused to be photographed since.
Her family called it a quirk. Friends called it annoying. Lena called it survival. Camera Shy
Her blood chilled. “What?”
Lena shook her head, a familiar tightness coiling in her chest. “I’m the one who captures memories, not makes them.” It wasn’t entirely a lie
Lena had always been a ghost behind the lens. In group photos, she was the one taking them. In crowds, she melted into the background. Her camera—a battered, vintage Pentax—was both her shield and her voice. The first time a flash went off in