On my third day in Iceland, I saw my first aurora.
That night, the wind was strong.
The photography team set up their equipment in the snow.
I wore a thick insulated coat, and my fingers were a little stiff from the cold.
Daniel walked over and adjusted my tripod for me.
“How are your hands?”
“They’re fine.”
I lowered my head and looked through the viewfinder.
The sky was as deep as a vast sheet of black velvet.
Green light slowly spread from the distance, as if someone had torn open the Milky Way.
I pressed the shutter.
The first shot was a little blurry.
The second was underexposed.
In the third, the aurora stretched over the distant ice field, so clear it looked like a dream.
I looked at the photo on the screen, and my nose suddenly stung.
Four years ago, Ryan had said he would definitely take me to see the aurora one day.
Over those four years, he came here every year.
And every time, Lily was beside him.
He said I could not handle the cold.
He said the trip was too far and too exhausting.
He said there would be a chance after the wedding.
It turned out chances do not come from waiting.
They come from buying your own ticket.
That night, I kept shooting until three in the morning.
When I returned to the field base, I was so exhausted I could barely stand.
But I was happy.
That happiness had nothing to do with Ryan.
The next day, Daniel sent my photos to the editor.
That afternoon, the editor replied directly by email.
[This series has real spark.]
[Evelyn, we should consider doing a solo feature.]
I stared at that email for a long time.
My fingers hovered over the screen, unmoving.
It had been four years.
I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be truly seen.