By mid-afternoon, I was buzzing on coffee and momentum and the illusion that I was doing great.
I uploaded the files, renamed them, adjusted contrast like I always did — technically correct, emotionally distant.
Then, alone at my desk, I opened one frame I didn’t remember taking.
The model was perfect.
The light was perfect.
And in the far corner of the image, out of focus and completely unposed, she was smiling at something I’d said.
Not at the camera.
At me.
I stared at it longer than I meant to.
Not because it was beautiful.
But because it felt like the most honest thing I’d shot in weeks.
And I didn’t know what to do with that.
I helped Noor rearrange her portfolio, talked Frankie through three different visual concepts, sent René the first round of edits. One of those edits included nameless girl on the fringes, slightly blurred but reflected in the mirror. Afeelingmore than a person.
Probably not quite right for the assignment, but the others were bang on. So I didn’t feel guilty about it. I liked the contrast of light and shadow on her.
I was useful.
I was productive.
I was fine.
Good, I thought.I can breathe again.
That night, I sat on my couch with my laptop open and my phone face-down beside me.
I told myself I didn’t need it.
I told myself I didn’t miss him.
I told myself this was exactly what I’d wanted—my life back in its proper shape, my schedule humming, my brain too full to ache.
Then my fingers reached for my phone anyway.
I unlocked it.
Opened his name.
Stared at the empty text field.
And instead of typing, I closed it.
Opened my calendar.
And added another reminder.
Tuesday blurred in without asking permission.
