“No, don’t,” she giggles nervously, holding out her palms to block the camera lens.

“Come on, Devon, just one picture? Please?” Wheedles the bearer of the camera.

“No.” She can feel her smile begin to fade, and struggles to retain her happy image. “No.”

“Aw, just one. Come on!”

“No.”

“Why not? Huh?”

Why not? She thinks. Does she really not see why not? No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t see that my smile isn’t real. She has no way to know that if she snaps that picture, I will forever be captured in an image that is not truly of me. If you’re going to take a picture of me, make it real. Let me show you the scars on my arms. Let me show you the tearstains on my pillow. Will you still want to take a picture of me?

She longs to say all of this, but, even as her hands are still outstretched, the shutter snaps, the camera clicks, and the damage has already been done.