(after a letter never meant to be read)

I owe you an apology—

not the kind you hear in a hallway

when someone bumps your shoulder and doesn’t look back,

but the kind you write alone,

in a quiet room,

to a class that never showed up.

I came full of light.

Not the kind from phones,

but real light—

sun through leaves,

cafeteria gold,

the blue glow of a hallway before first bell.

You never looked.

Or if you did,

you looked away.

I brought you shutter speeds and ISO,

offered you depth of field

and the strange honesty of bad framing.

I waited for you to find your focus

while you waited for the bell.

And I failed.

I failed to pull you from your scrolling trance,

to make the camera matter more than the screen.

I failed to transfer the weight of the moment,

to pass on the sacred panic of a fleeting shot,

to show you how a good photo holds still

even when the world doesn’t.

You missed it.

And so did I.

I won’t pretend this didn’t cost me.

Teaching isn’t performance.

It’s offering.

And what I offered

fell flat

on tile floors

and glowing faces.

But somewhere—

in the back row maybe—

someone saw something.

Or will,

later.

When they’re older.

When silence returns.

When light comes through a window

just right

and they remember

some guy named Miller

who once begged them to care

about shadows

and truth

and timing.

So this is my apology.

For failing to light the spark.

For still believing it mattered.

For leaving the room

with more love than noise.

And for aiming my camera

at a future

you weren’t ready for

yet.