𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬 | 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭

𝘛𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯, 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.

I first met him in the small office of The Intervenor, our school publication. I was the Editor-in-Chief, carrying the weight of deadlines and expectations, and he was the newly recruited photojournalist, armed with a second-hand DSLR and an eye for moments others often overlooked. His name was Zairon, and he had the quiet confidence of someone who spoke more through his camera than with words.

Our company were firstly transactional: submission of outputs, captions, and assignments. But in dusky hours, our late nights spent poring over drafts and layouts turned into deeper conversations—about dreams, life, and the stories we wanted to tell. Over time, those midnight talks felt less like work and more like home.

“Why journalism?” I asked one evening as we shared a fast food fix over an exhausting publication meeting. We were finalizing the second volume of our newspaper.

“Because stories are fleeting, but photos? They freeze time,” he replied, his voice gentle yet firm.

He was incredible, I said back in my mind.

It was in those stolen moments between newsprint and ink stains that our bond deepened. He would tease me about my coffee addiction; I would mock his penchant for wearing the same flannel shirt to every event in school. And somewhere in between laughter and silence, I realized I felt something more.

But the universe has a cruel way of reminding you that some things are not meant to be. We never said anything outright, perhaps out of fear of disrupting what we had. It was easier to stay in the in-between, where no words were spoken but everything was understood.

When the school-based press conference arrived, I was somehow a lot busier than before, and having to balance what needs to be done. Zairon was given the task of portraying the spirit of the event, a task which he tackled head on as usual.

Finally, the last day of competition arrived and with it the announcement of the results. Applause filled the room as Zairon was named champion for Photojournalism in his English medium. His winning shot was shown on the screen and I held my breath. It was me, who was at the forefront of the odd event, standing with a clipboard in hand, looking uncharacteristically off guard.

The light from the window swept all around me, and Zairon’s shot, made me feel like he captured more than just a photo; he captured the piece of my soul

Later, as the crowd thinned, I approached him. “That’s your winning shot?” I asked, my tone scarcely above a whisper.

“You were the story I wanted to tell,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.

For fleeting instant, atmosphere that enveloped us felt heavy with unspoken sentiments we had. However, in an instant, he flung his camera over his shoulder and sauntered off, leaving me with a bittersweet grin and photograph that would haunt my thoughts forever.

Although I yearned to express more, this silence was overwhelming—because it contained all the things we were too hesitant to voice.

In the end, we were like his photographs: moments frozen in time, beautiful but incomplete.