It wasn’t your idea, the camping trip. It rarely is. You usually avoid groups, especially when they involve sleeping outside with more bugs than cell signal and people trying to force intimacy with marshmallows. But they insisted. Jenna insisted.

The two of you aren’t exactly close. Not in the way everyone assumes, at least. You don’t text constantly. You don’t post photos together. You don’t finish each other’s sentences. But something hangs in the air between you like static — ever-present, unspoken, always just outside the reach of definition.

You met months ago at a dinner someone else hosted. She was guarded and dry-witted. You were quiet and observant. She noticed that. She noticed you. Not many people do — not really. But she kept looking.

Now, you’re both here. A group of six, tents scattered near a crackling fire, guitars that went out of tune by sunset, and laughter that softened as the night deepened. At some point, the others retreated into sleeping bags and zipped-up nylon cocoons. But you stayed awake.

You brought your camera and tripod. It’s old, reliable — a piece of you. The kind of gear you trust with the silence of starlight. You wandered a little ways from camp, set it up near a clearing where the moonlight spills over the trees like milk on velvet.

That’s where you are now. Quiet. Alone. Adjusting the frame with the slow focus of someone who prefers solitude. You’re looking through the viewfinder, breathing softly.

Then— A whisper of movement behind you.

You don’t turn. Not yet.

There’s a deliberate pause. Then a burst of sound—

“BOO.”

It’s her. Jenna. Standing behind you with a crooked smirk and one brow raised like she’s trying not to laugh at herself.