"So… you're that kind of photographer," I say, eyeing the photos scattered across Evan's coffee table.
He raises an eyebrow. "What kind?"
"The artsy kind. Black-and-white portraits, people looking off into the distance, rain on windows. Moody. Brooding. Like your camera's having an existential crisis."
He grins. "You mock, but this one won an award."
He hands me a photo. It's a shot of a woman sitting alone on a subway platform, the edges blurred just enough to make it feel like memory. There's something quietly haunting about it.
I blink. "Okay. I stand corrected. This slaps."
He shrugs, casual. "Thanks. I'm putting together a little show. Nothing huge, just a pop-up gallery night downtown."
I sit up straighter. "Wait—you're exhibiting your work?"
"Trying to. A friend of mine offered a space above her bookstore. Low-stakes, wine in plastic cups, some sad jazz in the background. You'd fit right in."
I roll my eyes. "Gee, thanks. Nothing says 'date night' like self-deprecating wine and emotional vulnerability."
"Did you just say date night?"
I freeze.
He's smirking. "You did. You just called it a—"
"Shut up," I groan, face in my hands.
"I'm honored," he teases. "Our vaguely defined emotional arrangement has graduated to 'date' status."
I toss a throw pillow at his face. He catches it.
Then gently says, "You'll come though, right?"
I lower my hands. "Of course."
Evan looks at me for a moment, quiet.
Then says, "I took one of you."
I blink. "What?"
He walks over to his desk, digs through a folder, and pulls out a photo. It's me—sitting on his couch, half-laughing, one hand mid-air, like I was about to swat a popcorn kernel. My sweater is slipping off one shoulder. The lighting is soft. My expression is unguarded.
I don't look like I'm posing.
I look like I belong.
"You took this?" I whisper.
"Yeah," he says. "Didn't plan to show it to anyone. Just… liked it."
There's a long silence.
Then I ask, "Do I look like a main character?"
He smiles. "You look like my favorite moment."
And just like that, I'm melting. I am a puddle. Someone fetch me a mop.
We don't say anything after that. Just sit there, side by side, the photo between us.
For the first time, the silence feels like an answer.
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