The Poison in the Eye Drops

My name is Stella Lopez. In college, I was a fairly well-known photographer at the art academy. Everyone praised me for having talent, saying I could capture the soul of light. Only I know that, within my light, there has always stood a person named Todd Zimmerman. Todd Zimmerman is a student at the neighboring Institute of Technology, from a poor family, usually supporting himself by working multiple part-time jobs. He's not particularly remarkable; his skin holds a wheatish tan from years of running under the sun, his knuckles slightly rough, and when he smiles, faint lines appear at the corners of his eyes. The first time I met him was while I was photographing a series of fallen autumn leaves on campus. The light was always just a little off; I furrowed my brows looking through the viewfinder, my tone unintentionally tinged with irritation. He stood not far away, hesitating for a long time, then stepped forward and quietly asked if I needed help holding the reflector. I didn't have much expectation and replied casually. But after that, Todd Zimmerman became my personal "reflector stand." When I went to the countryside to shoot the sunrise, he accompanied me at four in the morning, crouching on the hillside, wrapped in a thin jacket against the cold wind. When I went to the old alley to capture its smoky atmosphere, he carried the heavy camera bag, skillfully weaving through the narrow lanes. He never said much, only adjusted the reflector's angle when I needed, handed me warm water when I was thirsty, and quietly waited while I reviewed the photos after each shoot. What truly stayed with me for a lifetime was that late autumn afternoon. I was going to shoot a series of backlit portraits; the model was a senior from the academy. To let the light fall precisely on her hair, creating a perfect halo, the reflector needed to be placed at a very low position. There was nothing nearby to lean on, so Todd Zimmerman knelt on the cold stone pavement without hesitation. At the time, I was solely focused on adjusting the camera settings and didn't pay much attention to his posture. Only after taking the last shot and putting the camera down, satisfied, did I realize he was still kneeling, his legs stiff and unable to stand. "Why aren't you saying anything?" I hastily reached out to steady him, my voice carrying a subtle note of panic. He forced a smile, rubbing his numb knee, speaking lightly, "I'm afraid moving it might mess up your shots." I looked down at his reddened knee, and my heart felt as if something had struck it—aching and fragile. That day, I treated him to a bowl of hot beef noodles. He ate with satisfaction, sipping every last drop of the broth. From that moment, the atmosphere between us shifted. He would walk me back to the dormitory after evening study, the streetlights casting our shadows long behind us. I developed the photos I had taken and secretly slipped him a few, each inscribed with a simple blessing on the back. We never explicitly confessed, yet silently, we understood and fell together. I believed those days would last forever—until I graduated and we worked together to establish ourselves in this city. But fate always strikes without warning. That day, I was in the darkroom developing photos when suddenly, everything went black before my eyes—I could see nothing. I was trembling all over with fear, groping blindly for the nearby table, barely managing not to fall.