A trip to San Francisco for the first time without stopping to see the famed Golden Gate Bridge amounted to one of the greatest sins, and Spencer couldn't have that on her conscience. International Orange looked good against the background overcast skies. She had enough sunny days waiting for her on her most beloved island. Right then, she relished existing in the cold, observing the fog roll over the bay. Fellow tourists strolled around in their heavy coats, tightly wrapped scarves, and visible puffs of smoke-like air as they breathed in and out. In her head, she heard that familiar voice saying Good Morning, San Francisco. Looks like it's gonna be another awesome day in the Golden City. And indeed, it did. Nothing beat saying good morning with a perfect view of the beauty of the bay.

They hopped off the bus, wadded through the sea of tourists, and found a spot a little further down with fewer people to battle for a great shot. Sakura had navigated them with the expertise of someone who had lived there long enough to not need a map to get around anymore. On the other hand, Spencer worried too much about whether it was painfully obvious that she was a tourist.

Then again, that didn't matter. Popular tourist spots earned that title for a reason, more often than not. She thought about all Hawai'i's "must-see" spots and how she had zero desire to visit them herself, as someone born and raised on the islands. But that didn't mean others weren't allowed to be excited about them. (Her general conflicted thoughts and feelings about Hawai'i tourism aside.)

"Get a good one?" Sakura asked after Spencer snapped a few shots on her phone.

She leaned in close, using her hand to block any glare. Close enough that her hair tickled the side of Spencer's cheeks.

Spencer cleared her throat and pulled away. "Yeah, these look great." She shoved her phone back into her purse and her hands into the pockets of Sakura's coat. "Should we head to that palace you were telling me about? You said it's not that far from here, right?"

Sun filtered through the wispy clouds to illuminate Sakura's smile in a way that inspired the most romantic at heart to pen stories. Spencer looked away, suddenly enamored with the bridge she spent ten minutes taking pictures of.

"You don't want any pics of yourself?" she asked. "We came all this way."

Spencer shook her head. "Oh, no. No. That's okay. These are good."

"Why not?"

"I don't take pictures of myself."

Sakura scoffed. "And I repeat—why not?"

About six months after Sakura moved, Spencer ventured through town and into Waikiki Beach. The last time she went there, and probably only the third in her entire life. She steered clear of Waikiki for most of her life, akin to Las Vegas locals avoiding the strip, but convinced herself that Kanaka shouldn't look down upon any part of their home because of the effects of tourism. She felt like that fed into the colonization and gentrification of her home. Hawaiians, first and foremost, should be able to enjoy any Hawaiian lands.

She wanted to take a picture with the Duke Kahanamoku statue. Beautiful lei hung from each arm, salt air clung to her skin, and the sun had come out to play. They were also celebrating their anniversary with a dinner at one of the fancy hotels she had never seen the inside of in her life, followed by a staycation with plans to lounge by the pool in the morning. By all accounts, a perfect day in the making.

"Here—" Spencer handed her phone over. "Before that giant ass group comes over here."

He hesitated before taking it from her, eyes darting back and forth on either side of them. After a few seconds, he huffed and held it up. She didn't get a warning or even a countdown. He just started taking pictures, most of which she was sure had captured her eyes closed. Because life had incredible comedic timing, a gust of wind picked up just in time to blow her hair directly into her face as well. As soon as the group of strangers had traveled close enough, he shoved it back in her direction, almost dropping the phone in the sane. Spencer barely had any time to check the photos before realizing he had already started walking back toward the hotel for check-in.

Spencer opened her mouth to speak. Then closed it again, tired.

"When did you stop straightening your hair?"

"Huh?" she asked.

He stared at her hair, not in her eyes. Her hair. "You used to straighten it every day, right? It looked pretty like that."

Spencer fingered the ends of her hair. It used to be curlier but after years of heat styling—pressure forced on her by Western beauty standards by which she did not naturally fit—the pattern had loosened up quite a bit. The front pieces still curled up nicely, especially around her fringe, but the bottom layers had deflated into sad waves. (Not that waves were a bad texture.) (And not that people who looked like her didn't receive judgment even with only waves.) A few weeks ago, she decided to embrace her hair in its natural state. Gave herself a personal goal to not touch her straightener for at least the rest of the year. It would take a long time to grow out the damaged part of her hair and adapt a routine to take care of the new growth, but Spencer was determined to make it happen. She didn't want to spend the rest of her life modifying every element of her appearance to fit some standard that, at the end of the day, would never embrace her for herself. The change in her appearance went by mostly without fanfare. On one hand, she didn't want to be ogled like a circus act. On the other, it felt bad to think nobody cared enough to notice the effort she was making.

"I wanted to try something new," she nearly whispered.

He nodded and didn't say anything else.

When Spencer returned home the following night and finally looked over the pictures properly, she confirmed that none of them were decent. Eyes half-closed, endless sun glares, and hair in her face. That small, nagging voice in her head that told her she would never be seen as pretty or beautiful or anything else she wanted to be called by someone she loved, screamed about how ugly and frizzy and dirty her hair looked.

Quietly, she deleted every single picture.

"Come on," Sakura insisted with a persuasive smile. "You'll look great. I promise."

Spencer didn't have it in her to say no, so she handed over her purse and stood at a spot with the best angle of the bridge behind her. Sakura waited for a family to pass before holding up the phone, blocking that perfect, polished smile from view. She started counting down but then stopped and skipped back over to where Spencer stood. The latter waited frozen, wondering if maybe she had taken the picture of all, as she was used to. Instead, Sakura brushed Spencer's waves out of her face and tucked the strands behind her ear.

"When did you start wearing your hair like this again?"

"Um... a few years. Off and on. It's kind of frizzy right now, sorry."

"Frizzy is nice," Sakura replied gently but quickly. She dropped her hand after lingering for a few seconds. "So pretty. It's my favorite when it's like this."

Spencer nodded. Looked down at her feet until Sakura's Converse faded out of frame.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Later that night, back in Sakura's apartment with Japanese Breakfast playing softly in the background, Spencer flicked through all of those moments captured by one of her oldest friends. It might have been that only someone who understood her the way Sakura did could do so in such an honest way. Maybe it was that small part of Spencer's inner self that needed to heal from years of being told how the world could only view her. Perhaps it was a combination of both.

Either way, she didn't delete any of those pictures.