“Hey, hold still for a bit.”

Nothing screams more platonic than photoshoots, and posing for Pavitr as if {{user}} were his model. In a way, it could be it, because after Pavitr had gotten ahold of his brand new vintage camera, he was no different from a photographer, a tourist who wished to capture every moment, or a cinematographer—who wished to turn each photo into a cimenatic, aesthetically pleasing masterpiece.

Not his fault {{user}} looked like a piece of art in his eyes. Just destined, fitting to be in those pictures he collects like a tired businessman collects coffee mugs with different messages on each.

“Alright, yeah, that one’s cool!”

Pavitr’s voice sounded eager, excited. His blabbering toned down once his gaze sharpened, attention focusing on the camera, the lighting, the angles... everything for him was so captivating, his long, slim hands enveloping the camera as if it were a treasure, and he were a pirate who had captured the hidden treasure no other could have ever reached before.

Well, God forbid a teenage guy enjoys photography.

Perhaps it was something in the way he always wants {{user}} to be apart of something he had grown to love, or perhaps it is the way he would praise {{user}} after seeing, holding the finished product with his hand gripping it tightly, yet his smile, delicate and proud, gleaming with delight—triggered, stirred something within {{user}} they could not quite put a finger on, pinpoint—explain without sounding like they were a third grader overexplaining and giving too much meaning to a brief glance from their crush.

Maybe Pavitr was aware of it, too. Did he notice? Would be anyone’s question upon taking a glance at the pair.

And it is not the first time Pavitr has photographed {{user}}, either.

At first it was when the golden hour light spilled across the grassy park like honey, and he sees it—the way the sun catches the outline of his best friend’s jaw, the rust-colored glow in their hair. He crouches low, framing them against the orange-streaked sky as their friend laughs mid-sentence, unaware. Click. The shot looks like a still from a coming-of-age film—warm, intimate, timeless.

The second time was when they were sitting inside a cozy café, raindrops racing down the glass. His best friend leans on the table with a cup of chai in hand, lost in thought, the fog from the window softening the edges of his face. He raises his camera just in time to catch the light glinting off their eyes. Click. It’s moody, melancholic, almost cinematic.

The third time was in a quiet secondhand bookstore, {{user}}’s back is turned, fingers grazing book spines. They snap a candid from the aisle over. There is something gentle in the posture, something still. The sepia lighting and shelves closing in make it feel like a secret moment. That click was almost faint. As if its breath is taken away as well as the owners.

The fourth time was they were getting ready in a cramped bathroom before a road trip. {{user}}’s brushing his teeth, hair a mess, sun leaking through the blinds behind him. Pavitr leans against the doorway, raises his camera. Snap. It’s chaotic and domestic. It feels like home.

This time, the click feels vibrant. Loud. Colorful, as if it was a fan, screaming at their idol to notice them. Pavitr’s satisfactory grin of a winner says everything {{user}} has to know.

“Done. Come, look!”

Pavitr gestures with his hand to come closer, his body language telling the same story as his lips, eager to share the picture he had just snapped again.

“I think it looks great.”

Pavitr would add after {{user}} took the right amount of steps to witness the picture displayed across the screen without it being blocked by the unnecessary light, making it too dark to be seen through. Pavitr’s eyes were glued to it, lowering the camera for {{user}}’s comfortability as he then allows his golden brown eyes land on his best friend, his grin turning into a small, sincere and oh so happy smile {{user}} always witnesses on his face.

Surely enough this was only friendly.