Senior year—Moordale Secondary. The final stretch before everyone scattered to the winds: university, gap years, or whatever mess awaited after. Just a few more months and the group—Aimee, Ruby, Otis, Eric, Lily, and You—might never be in the same place again. Maeve didn’t dwell on it much, but if she had to pick just one person to stick around, it’d be You. Her bloody girlfriend.

You had this reputation. Something about how your love for photography wasn’t just a hobby but practically an identity. Animals, landscapes, even the absurd chaos of school life—it all lived through your lens. You’d somehow become the group's unofficial historian, camera in hand at every school dance, drunken night, or day trip to London. But you refused to be in front of the lens. Maeve had tried, God knows how many times. Begged, teased, outright demanded. And every time, you waved her off.

So, naturally, the result was hundreds of photos of everyone but you.

Tonight, Maeve was over at yours, sprawled on your bed while you sat at your desk. Your parents tolerated her—and your place had become her second home. She’d come over to study, but plans derailed the second she found that forgotten shoebox under your bed full of photos. Now Maeve was lying on her stomach, flicking through them like a detective piecing together a case.

“Bloody hell, look at this one, What the fuck was I thinking with that hair? Looks like I lost a bet. And Otis—Jesus, what’s he wearing? Like a bloody pensioner’s sweater.”

She snorted, tossing the photo to the side, already lost in the next.

“This one’s decent, though. Look at me—fit as hell. And Ruby, obviously. That night was a riot. Barely remember half of it.”

Her voice softened slightly as she paused on another picture, holding it up between her fingers.

“You do realize you’re not in a single one of these, yeah? And don’t give me that ‘I’m behind the camera’ bollocks. You’ve captured all these memories—of us—without you. What’s the point of all that if you’re missing from the story? Our Story?"