The light in the lens
The blinds in the studio were lifted slightly by the wind, letting in the afternoon sunlight, which cast interlaced stripes of light and shadow on the floor. Ah Yu crouched in the shade, her fingertips tracing the cool metal ring of her new lens. The telephoto lens barrel, like a silent telescope, was pointed directly at Zhong Hua, who was looking down at his documents behind his desk.
With a soft "click," the lens cap fell to the ground, startling Zhong Hua into looking up. His silver-rimmed glasses, which had been perched on his nose, slid down to the tip of his nose, and the light reflected from the lenses fell directly onto the camera that Ah Yu was holding.
"Testing the new lens?" Zhong Hua's voice mingled with the rustling of papers turning, his fingertip tracing a circle along the edge of the report. "Is the focus adjusted?"
Ah Yu didn't respond, but slowly turned the focus ring. The image in the viewfinder gradually became clear: Zhong Hua's trembling eyelashes as he lowered his eyes, the first button of his shirt collar that had come undone, and the pale white on his knuckles as he held the pen—all were captured by the lens. This was a newly arrived telephoto lens, capable of bringing distant details to life, like reading the wrinkles of time with a magnifying glass.
"Look here," Ah Yu suddenly said, and the crisp sound of the camera shutter rang out.
Zhong Hua looked up in response, but blinked the instant the camera was pointed at him. The image in the viewfinder blurred instantly, leaving only the dappled shadows cast by his trembling eyelashes in the sunlight.
"What's going on?" Ah Yu peeked out from behind the camera and saw Zhong Hua smiling with his lips pursed, his eyes behind the lenses curving into two shallow arcs. He adjusted the focus and tried again, but the moment the shutter was pressed, Zhong Hua's eyelids gently closed again, like a butterfly folding its wings.
"You did this on purpose, didn't you?" Ah Yu suddenly stood up, his camera dangling around his neck. He rushed to the desk, the lens almost shoving into Zhong Hua's face. Zhong Hua leaned back in his chair, the swivel chair creaking slightly. He reached out to block the lens: "Don't get so close, it'll overexpose."
"Stop changing the subject." Ah Yu chased after him with her camera in hand, and Zhong Hua simply jumped up from his chair and ran around the desk. Their shadows stretched into strange shapes on the wall. The hem of Zhong Hua's shirt brushed against the edge of the desk, and with a "crash," Lin Wanqing's paintbrush holder on the side of the desk overturned, scattering more than a dozen paintbrushes all over the floor, and the indigo and ochre paints seeped into small clouds on the white ceramic tiles.
"Stop." Lin Wanqing came out of the darkroom carrying the picture frame, looking helplessly at the mess on the floor. As she bent down to pick up the paintbrushes, the ends of her hair brushed against Ah Yu's hand. "He didn't do it on purpose. He was afraid the flash would hurt his eyes."
Ah Yu paused, her camera still raised in mid-air. Zhong Hua took the opportunity to lean against the desk, catching his breath. His bangs were damp with sweat and clung to his full forehead.
“Last time you insisted on taking pictures of the reed marshes backlit,” Lin Wanqing said, putting her paintbrushes into the pen holder one by one, her voice tinged with laughter. “The light was strongest when the sun was about to set. You were squatting by the river adjusting the settings. Who was standing next to you holding up the reflector for half an hour? Your arms were so sore that you could barely hold a cup, but you still insisted that you were fine.”
Ah Yu's fingers unconsciously caressed the camera strap as he suddenly recalled that day. The late autumn wind whipped reeds across the river, and he lay on the cold stone taking pictures, but the light in his lens always seemed a little off. Until a soft light spilled over, gilding the reeds' downy feathers—it was Zhong Hua standing behind him, holding a reflector, the metal edge of which made his knuckles red, yet he maintained a steady angle.
"I was just..." Zhong Hua tried to explain, but before he could finish, Ah Yu pointed her camera at him. This time he didn't blink, but just turned his head slightly. The sunlight slid down his profile, casting a small shadow on his chin.
"Click." The sound of the shutter was as soft as a sigh.
Ah Yu put down the camera and looked down at the LCD screen. In the picture, Zhong Hua was turning to look at him, a smile still lingering on his lips. The brightest thing was not the sunlight outside the window, nor the camera flash, but the light in his eyes—like crushed stars, or like a newly lit candle flame, gently spreading out and warming the surrounding air.
"It's blurry." Zhong Hua leaned closer to look, his breath lightly brushing against Ah Yu's ear. Ah Yu shrank back, pretending to adjust the settings: "It's not blurry, it's better this way."
Lin Wanqing put the last paintbrush into the pen holder, then suddenly pointed at the screen and laughed: "Look, all he sees is you holding the camera."
Ah Yu's heart skipped a beat. When he looked at the photo again, sure enough, he saw a tiny version of himself holding a camera in Zhong Hua's pupils. He hurriedly pressed the back button, his cheeks burning, and turned to pick up a wolf-hair brush that had rolled to his feet. The brush handle was still stained with paint that Lin Wanqing hadn't washed off, and it felt cool against his fingertips.
“Hey,” Ah Yu handed the pen to Lin Wanqing, her voice a little muffled, “Next time he tries to steal my spotlight, you’ll have to help me hold him down.”
Zhong Hua was bending down to pick up the documents scattered on the ground when she heard this. She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling behind her glasses: "Who stole your spotlight? It's clearly you who always points your camera at me."
"I was just testing the shot!" Ah Yu's voice rose a little, and he bumped into the tripod as he turned around, the metal frame making a "clang". He squatted down, clutching his sore arm, and heard Zhong Hua walking quickly over, as well as Lin Wanqing's low laughter.
"You're so clumsy." Zhong Hua's hand hovered above his arm, not daring to touch him, but simply blew on it gently. "Did you get a bruise?"
Ah Yu didn't look up, but quietly raised his camera. This time, he didn't use the flash or adjust the telephoto lens; he used the most ordinary focal length to capture Zhong Hua's worried eyes and his slightly furrowed brows. The light in the viewfinder was soft, like sunlight filtering through the thin mist on a spring morning—not at all glaring.
Later, the photo was developed and pasted on the corkboard in the studio, next to a group photo of Qinghai Lake and a sketch by Lin Wanqing. Every time Ah Yu passed by, she would take a second look, and as she looked, she would recall that afternoon—the light in Zhong Hua's eyes was brighter than any scenery captured by a camera lens.
Zhong Hua would occasionally stand in front of the corkboard, gently trace his own eyebrows and eyes in the photos with his finger, then turn to look at Ah Yu, who was adjusting the camera, a faint smile playing on his lips. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the blinds, weaving a gentle net between them, capturing all the unspoken longings within this small space.
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