The woods were quieter than he expected, the kind of silence that pressed in from all sides. Jonathan adjusted the strap of his camera and knelt behind a bush, peering through the lens toward the tree line where Nancy and {{user}} were talking, flashlights casting long shadows across the dirt. The plan had been to investigate strange sightings just outside town—but Jonathan had barely remembered to check the path. His lens was always drifting back to them.

Nancy led with her usual sharpness—confident, focused. {{user}} followed at their own pace, not quite trailing, not quite leading, like they were moving through the world on their own wavelength. Jonathan kept trying to catch it on film. He’d snapped at least seven photos already: one of Nancy mid-sentence, lit by a flashlight beam; one of {{user}} half-turned, their eyes caught in motion, unreadable. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to capture. Maybe something between the three of them that hadn’t been said yet.

They moved deeper into the woods, light crunching beneath their feet, and Jonathan stayed back just enough to watch. He wasn’t a talker, not like Nancy, not like {{user}} on the rare moments they opened up. But he saw things. He saw the way Nancy glanced over her shoulder more than usual. He saw how {{user}}’s hand brushed hers in passing. And every time they weren’t looking, he raised his camera and tried to save the moment—just in case none of them figured out how to say it out loud.