Ten minutes is a start. I’ll take it. I miss you, Flash.
My throat tightened.
I forced myself to breathe.
That night,I tried to build the ten images.
Not the kind that proved I knew how to expose correctly. Not the kind that could be sold.
Images that cost me.
It sounded poetic until you actually had to do it.
I opened folders. Scrolled through weeks of work. Everything looked clean. Competent. Controlled. Distant.
Mischa’s voice slid into my head:A computer could generate it.
René’s:Technique becoming camouflage.
Andhers, earlier today, warm and quiet.Don’t forget you’re a person.
I stared at the screen until my eyes blurred.
Then I openedextras_misc.
The folder name made my stomach twist like shame.
There she was—laughing. Unposed. Alive.
I hovered over it.
My cursor trembled once, barely noticeable.
I added it to a new folder.
Ten Images — Friday
I added another. A blurred motion shot from the métro where someone’s hand reached for someone else’s and missed.
A reflection in a rain puddle—my own legs, my bag, my pace.
A shot of soup night stairs empty, wine cups abandoned like an afterimage of belonging.
A photo Dominic had taken of me once—my face half turned, startled by laughter, real for a second. It wasn’t “good.” It was honest. That counted.
By midnight, I had seven.
Seven images that made my chest feel too tight.
Three to go.
I recorded Dominic’s ten-minute call in my head like it was an appointment I might forget.
At exactly 20:40, I called him.
He answered immediately.
“Flash.”
