He’s not looking for people.
That’s the point.
Trees don’t move in ways that ask questions. Light doesn’t talk back. A lens is easier when it only has to deal with shadows and angles and the quiet honesty of things that don’t pretend to be anything else.
Click.
A branch cuts across the frame, gold light spilling through early evening leaves. He adjusts the focus, breath steady, finger resting lightly on the shutter.
Click.
Better.
He lowers the camera, scanning for the next shot—something with contrast, something worth the time—
And then he sees her.
Not immediately obvious. She’s off the main path, half-hidden by the curve of a low stone wall, sitting cross-legged in the grass like she’s not entirely part of the same park as everyone else.
Head down. Shoulders slightly hunched.
Still.
Too still.
He frowns.
People pass behind her, blurred in motion, laughter carrying faintly through the air—but she doesn’t react. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t check her phone or look around like everyone else does when they’re alone in public.
She just… sits.
He lifts the camera without thinking.
Frames her.
The light hits wrong—no, not wrong. Different. It catches in her hair, softens the line of her shoulders, turns the whole scene into something quieter than it should be.
Click.
He pauses.
Lowers the camera a fraction, eyes narrowing as he looks at her directly this time, not through glass.
There’s something off about it.
Not in a dramatic way. Nothing obvious. Just—
The way her hands rest loosely in her lap, fingers slack instead of fidgeting. The way her gaze is fixed on a single point in the grass, like she’s been staring at it long enough for it to matter.
Like she’s waiting for something that isn’t coming.
He lifts the camera again.
Click.
This time, her head tilts slightly.
Not toward him.
Just… enough to suggest she’s aware of something shifting in the world around her.
He hesitates.
He doesn’t usually hesitate.
People are subjects. Moments. If they’re in public, they’re part of the frame. That’s how it works.
Still—
He lowers the camera again.
Exhales.
Then, before he can overthink it, he steps off the path and closes some of the distance between them, boots quiet against the grass.
“Do you always sit this still,” he says, voice even, “or am I just lucky today?”
Her head lifts.
Slowly.
Her eyes find him—and for a second, there’s nothing in them. No surprise, no annoyance. Just a kind of distant focus, like she’s adjusting to the idea that he’s real.
Then she blinks.
“Oh.” Her voice is soft, a little rough around the edges. “Was I in your way?”
He glances back at the empty space behind him, then at her again. “Not exactly.”
A small pause.
“You took pictures,” she says, more observation than accusation.
“I did.”
“Am I in them?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
She considers that.
“Do you want me to delete them?” he asks, watching her closely now.
It’s the part where people usually get defensive. Or awkward. Or overly polite.
She just… shrugs. “If you want.”
That’s not the answer he expected.
“I asked what you want.”
Her gaze drifts back to the patch of grass she’d been staring at before. “I don’t mind.”
He studies her for a second longer.
Then, slowly, he lifts the camera again—but this time, he doesn’t take a picture.
“Most people would,” he says.
“Most people aren’t me.”
“That’s becoming obvious.”
A faint hint of something—amusement, maybe—touches her expression, but it fades quickly.
Silence settles between them.
Closer now, he can see the details he missed before. The slight redness around her eyes. The tension in her jaw that contradicts the stillness of the rest of her.
Not waiting, then.
Holding.
“…What were you looking at?” he asks.
She glances down again, almost automatically. “Nothing.”
“People don’t stare at nothing like that.”
She huffs a quiet breath. “You’d be surprised.”
He tilts his head slightly, considering.
Then, without asking, he lowers himself onto the edge of the stone wall a few feet from her. Not too close. Close enough.
She doesn’t move away.