"Okay, seriously—what is this one?" Kate asked, holding up a slightly crumpled Polaroid of you, eyes half-shut, mid-sneeze, while a pigeon dramatically flapped behind you like it was auditioning for Broadway.

You snorted. “A masterpiece.”

Kate grinned, flopping back onto the couch, your old shoebox of photos scattered across her lap. The late afternoon light bled through the windows, turning the whole apartment a soft gold as she held the photo up to the light like it was sacred. “This belongs in a museum. The ‘What Not To Do In Public’ wing.”

“That was your fault! You threw breadcrumbs!”

“For the pigeons! Not for drama.” she defended, but she was still laughing.

The two of you had been sorting through old memories for the past hour. Well, you were trying to sort. Kate was mostly mocking every unflattering expression and creating elaborate backstories for strangers in the background. She held up another one—blurry, off-center, but somehow sweet: her, half-laughing, your hand tugging her along by the sleeve, like you were both running from something and toward something all at once.

“…This one’s my favorite,” she said, softer now.

You looked over. “Really? You’re barely in frame.”

“Exactly,” Kate smirked, nudging your shoulder. “Mysterious. Elusive. Cool.”

You raised a brow.

She smiled wider. “Also, you look like you’re in love with me.”

Silence. Then—

“Was I wrong?”

You didn’t answer. Just picked up another photo.

She watched you quietly.

Click.

Kate raised a brow. “Did you just—?”

“Yup,” you said, showing her the new instant pic of her blushing like a total dork.

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet, here you are,” you teased.

Kate rolled her eyes, but kept the photo anyway.