{{user}} was the kind of girl everyone knew. Captain of the volleyball team, lead in the school play, voted “Most Likely to Succeed” in last year’s yearbook. Her laugh echoed through the hallways, and people turned when she walked by. She was sunshine bottled up in a person—warm, bright, impossible to ignore.

Nina, on the other hand, was like moonlight. Quiet, reflective, always watching from the edges. She never ate in the cafeteria, always outside with her camera, taking pictures of birds on wires or puddles reflecting trees. People didn't dislike her—they just didn’t notice her.

They barely knew each other's names.

That changed the day Mr. Leclair announced the photography-literature project. “You’ll be working in pairs,” he said. “One person writes, one takes photos. Tell a story.”

{{user}} was excited. She loved writing, especially about people. But her excitement dimmed when she saw who her partner was—Nina, silent Nina with her oversized hoodie and ancient camera that clicked too loudly.

Nina didn’t say much when they were paired. Just nodded.

They met the next day at a park after school. {{user}} had brought snacks, thinking it’d be like hanging out with friends. Nina brought silence—and her camera.

“So,” {{user}} tried, “do you, like… want to talk about what kind of story we should tell?”

Nina looked at her for a long time. Then: “Let’s walk.”

They wandered the quiet parts of the neighborhood—behind bookstores, near forgotten playgrounds. Nina snapped photos of cracks in walls, a cat sleeping under a bench, and a girl sitting alone at a bus stop.

“You really see things,” {{user}} said after a while.

Nina shrugged. “You just have to look.”