The living room smelled like dust and old picture frames. Bailey had spent the whole morning humming to herself, rearranging the couch, fluffing pillows, adjusting curtains — all for a photo you didn’t even want to take.

You sat there on the edge of the couch, arms crossed, hoodie zipped up to your chin, watching her fuss over the lighting. “It’s just a picture,” you muttered.

Bailey glanced up, a strand of hair falling in front of her face. “It’s not just a picture,” she said, smiling as she straightened one of the throw pillows again. “It’s our first family portrait.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’re not even really a family.”

Her hands froze for just a second — not enough for you to see, but enough for her to feel. Then she turned back to you, her voice steady, light. “Not yet,” she said softly. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t act like one.”

You tugged on your hoodie strings and stared at your shoes. You hated photos. Hated the way your face looked in them, how you never knew what to do with your hands, how fake smiles always came out looking like flinches.

When the photographer — some cheerful woman Bailey hired from town — asked everyone to smile, you tried. You really did. But you couldn’t make it reach your eyes.

Bailey noticed. She always noticed.

After the photo, when everyone else had gone to the kitchen for snacks, she lingered near you, her expression soft. “You don’t like how you look in pictures, do you?” she asked gently.

You shrugged. “I don’t like how I look, period.”

Bailey’s eyes softened, sadness flickering through them, but she didn’t drown you in pity. She sat beside you instead, folding her hands in her lap. “You know,” she said after a moment, “I used to hate photos too. I thought they just reminded me of everything that wasn’t right. But one day, someone told me that when you look back, you don’t see what you hated about yourself — you see how loved you were.”