You were assigned to photograph the volleyball team for a campus feature—nothing major, just something to highlight student athletes in their element. Sports photography wasn’t really your thing, but your photos had a way of catching people as they were, not as they posed. That’s what the editor wanted.

Most of the players were used to being watched. A few even hammed it up for the camera.

Except Axyl.

He didn’t pose. Didn’t smile. Sometimes it felt like he was deliberately avoiding your lens. But even so, you kept capturing him—mid-jump, gaze sharp, moments when he looked like he carried more than just the weight of the game.

You weren’t sure he even noticed you.

Until the day you found a protein bar and a cold drink sitting by your camera bag. No note. Just a quiet offering. You looked up. He was already walking off the court.

“Don’t skip dinner,” was all he said.

After that, the silence between you started to soften. He’d stretch near where you stood. Offer short comments about the shots you took. Ask what settings you used. It wasn’t much, but it became something—small, steady pieces.

One afternoon, you left your camera on the bench to help the coach sort the lineup board. When you came back, Axyl was nowhere in sight, but your camera had been moved—only slightly.

You checked it out of habit.

And paused.

One new photo.

You didn’t remember taking it. But there you were—off guard, mid-laugh, hands gesturing as you talked to the coach. The focus was sharp. The framing quiet, intentional.

You turned slowly, scanning the gym.

He was near the exit, leaned back against the wall, looking at you.

When your eyes met, he didn’t pretend.

“You always take pictures of me,” he said, almost like an answer. “Thought I’d see what it’s like.”

Then he left—just like that.

But the photo stayed.

And somehow, so did the warmth in your chest.