The Submerged Leica

The pollen was a physical weight. It coated the screen of Candice’s phone in a fine, yellow dust that made every swipe feel like sandpaper. Around her, the campus was a fever dream of forced cheer.

Pink petals drifted from the cherry blossoms, landing in girls' hair and getting stuck in the sticky gloss on Candice’s lips. It wasn't romantic. It was messy. It was a chore. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a pink smear on her thumb. Her jaw was so tight it felt like her molars might crack. She needed the shot. One perfect shot for the grid. A 'new leaf' post. A 'we’re better than ever' lie.

Danny stood three feet away, looking like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He was wearing the linen shirt she’d bought him. It was wrinkled. He hadn't tucked it in right. His hair was a bird's nest of brown curls that caught the sunlight in a way that made him look disheveled rather than effortlessly cool. He kept shifting his weight. His left foot tapped a rhythmic, annoying beat against the gravel path.

“Chin down, Danny. Not that much. You look like a thumb. Just... lean into the branch. No, the other way. You’re blocking the light,” Candice said. Her voice was flat. She didn't have the energy for inflection.

“We’ve been here for twenty minutes, Candice. My face hurts,” Danny muttered. He didn't look at the lens. He looked at a group of freshmen walking by, their laughter echoing off the brick buildings.

“It’s been eight minutes. Don’t be dramatic. I need this. The last photo of us flopped. People are asking questions in the DMs. Just give me the ‘soft boy’ look and we can go get a matcha.” She tapped the screen to focus. The little yellow box pulsed over Danny’s miserable face.

“I don’t want a matcha. I want to leave.”

“Focus, Danny. Left shoulder up. Close your eyes, then open them on three. One. Two. Three.”

Flash. Flash. Flash. She took fifty. Fifty identical frames of a man who looked like he was being held hostage by a lifestyle influencer. She scrolled through them rapidly, her thumb a blur. Trash. Trash. Mid. Total trash. His posture was a disaster. He looked slumped, defeated. It ruined the aesthetic. It didn't look like a couple in love; it looked like a funeral for a brand.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. She didn't look up from the screen. “You’re sabotaging the reach.”

“The reach? Are you serious?” Danny stepped out from under the tree. A shower of petals fell on him. He didn't brush them off. He looked exhausted, the skin under his eyes dark and thin. “I’m not a prop, Candice. I’m a human being. I have a midterm on Monday. I have a life.”

“Our life is the brand, Danny. How do you think we got the sponsorship for those sneakers? By sitting in the library?” She finally looked at him. Her eyes were hard, scanning him for flaws. “Fix your shirt. We’re doing the fountain next.”

“No.”

Candice froze. The word was small, but it cut through the noise of the festival—the distant acoustic guitar, the hum of voices, the wind. She felt a prickle of sweat run down her spine. The air felt too thick. Spring was supposed to be light, but it felt like a humid blanket.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I’m done. I’m actually done.” Danny reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at something else. A text. A notification. “I’ve been seeing someone else. From the psych department. Yen. You don’t know her. She doesn't have an Instagram.”

Candice felt a surge of heat in her chest. It wasn't heartbreak. It was a glitch. It was a system error. The psych department? That was where the boring people went. People who wore sensible shoes and didn't care about lighting.

“Yen?” Candice spat the name out. “Is she even mid? Why are you telling me this here? Look around, Danny. People are watching.”

“Let them watch,” Danny said. He sounded weirdly calm. It was the calmness of someone who had already checked out. “She’s not ‘mid.’ She’s real. She listens. You’re... you’re literally exhausting, Candice. Being with you is like being a stagehand in a play that never ends. I can’t breathe.”

Candice’s heart hammered against her ribs. Shallow breaths. She could feel the panic rising, not because she loved him, but because the narrative was slipping. If he left now, the 'Spring Renewal' campaign was dead. The followers would smell the blood in the water. She needed a pivot. A hard pivot.

“You can’t leave,” she said. She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a hissed whisper. “Danny, I’m serious. I was going to tell you at dinner. I’m pregnant.”

Danny stopped. His jaw dropped. The tapping of his foot ceased. For a second, the world went quiet. The lie felt heavy in her mouth, like a stone. She’d seen it in a show once. It was a desperate move, a low-tier tactic, but she needed him to stand still. She needed to regain control.

“You’re... what?”

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated. She tried to make her eyes watery. She thought about a dead kitten. Nothing happened. She settled for a squint. “That’s why I’ve been so stressed. That’s why the photos matter. We have to be a family, Danny. For the baby. For the... for everyone.”

Danny stared at her. He looked horrified. Not happy. Not even angry. Just pure, unadulterated horror.

Then, Candice’s phone buzzed in her hand. A loud, sharp vibration. A notification popped up on her screen. @Yen_Psych tagged you in a post.

Candice blinked. Her thumb moved before her brain did. She tapped the notification. It was a video. A video of Danny and a girl—presumably Yen—at a coffee shop. They were laughing. Danny looked happy. Truly happy. The caption was: ‘Real moments > Curated lies.’

Candice’s face went white. Then red. The lie about the pregnancy evaporated instantly. She forgot she’d even said it. The digital insult was louder than the biological fiction.

“Who is she to tag me?” Candice screamed. The minimalist control she’d maintained snapped. “Who the hell is Yen? Is this a joke? You’re cheating on me with a girl who uses a basic filter?”

“Wait,” Danny said, his voice rising too. “You just said you’re pregnant. Are you or are you not?”

“Who cares about that?” Candice waved her phone in the air. “She tagged me, Danny! She’s trying to tank my engagement! She’s clout-chasing off my name!”

Danny started to laugh. It was a jagged, ugly sound. “You’re insane. You actually forgot the lie you just told me because of a notification. You’re a monster.”

“I’m a monster? You’re the one cheating! You’re the one who’s mid-tier at best without my styling!”

They had reached the center of the festival now. The campus fountain was a tiered monstrosity of stone and bubbling water, surrounded by students sitting on the grass. The argument was no longer a whisper. It was a broadcast.

“Give me your camera,” Candice demanded, reaching for the expensive Leica hanging around Danny’s neck. It was her favorite accessory for him. It made him look intellectual.

“Get off me, Candice.”

“I paid for half of that! Give it to me!” She lunged. Her nails caught the strap.

“You didn't pay for anything! My parents bought this!” Danny shoved her back. Not hard, but enough to make her stumble.

Candice looked around. Every person in a ten-foot radius had their phone out. The freshman class was a sea of glass eyes, all pointed at her. She could see herself reflected in a hundred lenses. She looked unhinged. Her hair was frizzy, her makeup was smearing, and she was screaming at a boy who looked like he was about to cry.

She leaned into it. If the brand was going down, she’d take the ship with her.

“You’re a loser, Danny! You’re a boring, basic loser! You and your little psych girl can go rot in a library!” She grabbed the camera body, the metal cold and heavy.

“Candice, don’t,” Danny warned. He looked scared now.

“This camera is the only interesting thing about you,” she spat. She looked at the crowd, then at the fountain. With a violent jerk, she ripped the strap from his neck and hurled the camera into the air.

It felt like slow motion. The black body of the Leica arced over the blooming blossoms, a dark bird against the pink sky. It hit the water with a heavy, final splash.

Silence followed. Even the acoustic guitar stopped.

Danny looked at the water. Then he looked at Candice. There was no love left. Not even hate. Just a profound, quiet disgust.

“We’re done,” he said. He didn't yell. He just turned and walked away, his shoulders straight for the first time all day.

Candice stood alone by the fountain. The water bubbled, indifferent. She reached for her phone, her fingers shaking. She needed to post. She needed to explain. She needed to frame this as a 'toxic breakup' reveal.

But as she opened her camera app, she saw it. A video already uploaded to the campus story. It was her. Screaming. Claiming she was pregnant, then screaming about a tag. The caption read: ‘The fall of the Queen.’

It had ten thousand views already. The comments were scrolling so fast she couldn't read them. ‘Liar.’ ‘Unhinged.’ ‘Social suicide.’

She looked up. A girl nearby—Yen, she realized with a jolt of recognition—was holding her phone steady, a small, satisfied smile on her face.

Candice’s phone buzzed. A low battery warning. 10%.

She looked at the fountain, then at the crowd, then at the dead pixels on her screen. Her stomach turned over. She was suddenly, violently aware of the smell of the water—stagnant, chlorinated, and old.

She tried to take a breath, but the pollen was too thick.

She took one step toward the exit, but her heel caught in the gravel. She stumbled. A dozen more flashes went off.

She wasn't a brand anymore. She was a meme.

And then she saw the notification that ended it all.