Eluna’s P.O.V.
The main tent smelled like sugar and desperation. I stood near the center aisle, camera in hand, silently begging the frosting on Miss Abernathy’s cupcakes to stop sliding off like weary climbers abandoning their sugary peaks. The late spring sun had turned the tent into a marshmallow-scented sauna, and no matter how I angled my lens, there was no hiding the way the buttercream was starting to look like it had survived a minor landslide.
Click.
Cupcake.
Click.
Lopsided cake.
Click.
A pie that was possibly weeping.
Don’t get me wrong—I love photography. I really do. There’s nothing like capturing a quiet stream glinting in the early morning light, or a hawk in mid-flight against the canvas of a deep blue sky. But this? This was artificial lighting, and forced smiles,
