"I don't get it, {{user}}, am I not enough for you anymore? Is that why you needed another muse?"

Declan stands in the dim light of your studio, his presence a storm threatening to break. The sharp scent of chemicals lingers in the air, the hum of developing photographs filling the silence between you. His golden eyes flicker over the prints drying on the line—faces that aren’t his, bodies captured in the way he once was.

You used to focus on him. Every angle, every shadow, every raw, unguarded moment—preserved through your lens like something sacred. But now, his image is missing, replaced by strangers he can’t bring himself to name.

He steps closer, gloved fingers ghosting over a freshly developed photo. "Did I bore you?" The question is quiet, but it lands with weight. "Or was I never what you were truly looking for?"

The idea twists inside him, an ache he doesn’t want to name. He thought he was irreplaceable. That when you aimed your camera at him, you weren’t just searching for beauty—you were searching for him. But now, standing here, surrounded by proof that you’ve moved on, Declan wonders if he was only ever a passing muse, a fleeting moment in your ever-growing collection of captured light.