Not the peaceful kind I’d begun to embrace when I first arrived, but the edgier kind. The kind that echoed with all the things not being said or done.
His sweater was gone from the living room now. I’d folded it and put it away like that made me responsible. Like it would make the ache of missing him smaller.
It didn’t.
His mug was still in my head, though—ghost-weight, phantom heat. The way he’d held it in both hands sometimes like the warmth was the point. Sometimes, I cradled that mug and imagined it was his hands over mine. Those are the days Ialmost decide to break the damn mug. Maybe I need to put it away too.
I shook myself out of today’s lingering daydream, because I’d found that if I could move fast enough—the feelings had a harder time catching up.
Coffee. Shower. Gear check.
Battery. Cards. Backup cards. Lenses.
My fingers were steady, at least. That was something.
Then my gaze lands on the photos of him taped to the wall. Not all of them are still up there, I’d put my favorite in a frame and it was on the mantle. The only photo in that whole space. Perfect for me to stare at while I’m working on the sofa.
After downing another mouthful of coffee, I made myself move. I had an hour blocked for Noor at lunch, a call with Frankie somewhere between two meetings, and a shoot in the afternoon that René had assigned me to assist but notwithhim. A different photographer. A different tone. A different expectation.
Another chance to prove I wasn’t sloppy.
Another chance to disappear.
I got to set early anyway. Fifteen minutes. Like it was a spell.
The studio was already alive—lights snapping on, stylists moving like they had choreography in their bones, the model perched on a stool while someone dabbed powder along her nose as if her skin were something fragile and expensive.
I found the call sheet near the monitor and scanned it the way I always did: times, names, roles.
And there, again, washers.
Printed in black ink. Simple. Direct.
A name I could pick up with the same ease I picked up a lens.
I saw it.
Then I looked away.
It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t even drama. It was just… control. A small, stubborn corner of my life that I was keeping unclaimed on purpose.
Like if I didn’t name her, she didn’thaveto mean anything.
“Hey,” she said behind me.
My body reacted before my brain did—the tiny lift of my pulse, the half-turn, the way my shoulders loosened as if she’d saidyou can breatheinstead ofhey.
She was already in wardrobe, hair pulled back this time with that effortless, careless elegance that made it look like she’d never met a brush in her life and still somehow won. Her outfit was neutral and soft, like the stylists were trying to make her blend in, except she didn’t blend into anything.
She filled the room with her mere presence and I swore the light, no matter the filter, loved her face.
“Hey,” I replied, and hated that my voice warmed.
She smiled, easy. No question in it. No expectation. Like we’d always been on speaking terms.
“Big week?” she asked, tilting her head. “You’ve got very strongI’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fineenergy.”
I snorted quietly and adjusted the strap of my camera like I needed something to do with my hands. “I’m always fine.”
