The campus photograph reached three hundred reactions before Nina finished examining the impossible jacket. By Sunday evening, strangers had assigned us a love story, recovery narrative, plus future wedding color. Nina closed the feed after one comment praised her for transforming me into someone worth photographing.
"I did not select your face," she said, placing my phone facedown beside the garment bag while irritation sharpened her voice.
"The chicken influenced my jawline," I replied, trying one joke before deciding whether she wanted company inside the anger.
"I am serious, Kofi," Nina said, looking toward me without blaming the humor, "people keep treating you as my project, then congratulating me for the result."
I understood why the comments insulted her, though a smaller part of me enjoyed being considered a result worth claiming. That response embarrassed me more than the photograph; visibility felt generous until I examined who received credit for my existence.
