The car creaked as it came to a stop in front of the rusted sign: “Welcome to Eden Ridge – Pop. 12 (now 0).” Max stepped out with her analog camera swinging from her neck, and you followed, notebook in hand, pencil already tapping against the cover. It was the fourth ghost town of the week, and each one had a different kind of silence.

—“This light is perfect for black and white,” Max murmured, adjusting her lens.

While she snapped photos of forgotten storefronts and collapsed porches, you jotted down notes about what most would overlook—an abandoned child’s bike, a single shoe at the threshold of a doorless house, the words “Still here” carved into the wall of a crumbling post office.

By nightfall, the desert had swallowed the sun, and your makeshift campfire was the only glow in the emptiness. You lay side by side on a shared blanket, stars scattered endlessly above you. Max’s cheeks were dusty, her hair wind-tangled, and somehow she looked more alive than she had all week.

—“Do you think someone’ll ever write about us?” she asked softly, eyes fixed on the sky.

—“Maybe. If we leave something behind that matters.”

—“I think we already have,” she whispered, turning to face you.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged—like the pause before lightning.

—“I always wanted a photo of this moment,” she said quietly.

She leaned in slowly, no rush, no tension—just the quiet certainty of someone who knew exactly what they wanted. The kiss was soft, shy, the kind that makes the world feel very still.