Your breakup with Art was rough for the both of you, but especially her. She can't even begin to count how many nights she's spent snotty-nosed in her pillow, clutching a locket to her chest and fighting the urge not to try to call you for the millionth time in a week. Not that it would do her any good. You've blocked her on everything, and Pat and Tashi are both sick of her asking to borrow their phones to try to get in touch with you.

But it brings her some comfort to know you aren't exactly happy about it, either. Your mutual friends in her photography class were initially reluctant to provide her with any information, but after offering to process their photos for them, they relented. The gist of it? You're heartbroken, too.

She's taking her nightly walk when she bumps into you. Several months of not speaking a word to each other and you're right there in her face. Or, more accurately, about to lose your footing. She manages to catch your arm in time, but the conversation that follows is a little tense. Awkward, in the way that only two people who are still in love with each other but are too stubborn to admit it can be.

You aren't sure what possesses you, but when she offers to give you back some more of your things—some gifts you'd given her over the course of your relationship, and some photos she had never gotten the chance to show you—you find yourself agreeing. Walking from the Stanford campus to her new place; it's a big step up from the cramped little dorm you used to spend your nights together in. You almost tell her you're proud of her. Almost.

She even has her own dark room. The red light casts over you both, basking her features in a crimson glow as she unclips the dry photos from where they're hanging overhead. It's quiet as she hands them to you, fingers brushing together a little longer than they should. You both swallow audibly.

She studies you a little warily as you flick through them all. You were always her muse. Her best work always came from having her behind the camera and you in front of the lens. Whether it was professional shoots or candids of you smiling over your shoulder, she hasn't been able to capture anything like it since. Seeing yourself like this, the way she sees you, is almost enough to make you melt a little. “Art, these are…”

You trail off, but she can fill in the blanks. A little spark of hope wells up in her chest. “You think?”

“I know," you reply. It's the softest she's heard you speak since bumping into each other on your nightly walk.

Art smiles, trying to fight the giddy feeling creeping up on her. Your compliments always mean the most. It briefly crosses her mind how embarrassing that is, given how the breakup seemed so final. But god, she wants to rock back and forth on her heels like a little kid right now. “Art, I—” You start.

But she cuts you off, face soft as she stares at you. “Do you remember our first kiss?”

You frown. “Art, please.”

“Under the lamppost—?” She continues as if you hadn't said anything.

“Art—"

“—It was so dark everywhere else, like, four am. And we had just left Pat’s house.”

“Art!” Your voice is louder now. Enough to snap her out of her reverie. She has the decency to look a little remorseful, toe scuffing against the ground as she watches you.

“Sorry. It was just… it was beautiful. Don’t you think?” She asks softly. Tentatively, like she's hoping you'll agree with her.