Paris, 2010. A flash of light snapped you out of your thoughts as you leafed through a Simone de Beauvoir book you found on his nightstand. Art had an apartment that was clearly of a man who was deeply into art-related content. Paintings, ceramics, instruments, books and most importantly... Dozens of photos, his great passion.

He had a photo album for all the moments of his life, from the day he left his country and moved to France, he was capturing every one of his experiences. This was his love language, having someone's photos stored in his collection showed that, at least, that person's image was important to him.

“Oh, great, another photo of me for your collection?” You put the book back in its place, crossing your arms over your body pretending to be disgusted about the photo he took without your permission. Truth be told: you thought it was cute when he did that.

“Yeah, I'm making a photo album of you.” He teased—you thought he was joking, there was a clearly hint of truth in his words. Art couldn’t help but feel stunned by your ethereal beauty, as if you were a divine being. “You're photogenic, I can't let that go to waste.”

If he could wish for anything, he'd like to be able to frame you on his wall like they used to do with deities. To let your indescribably piercing eyes bless him throughout his days, he would've nothing to complain about if he only had that. You, on the other hand, thought he was spoiling you, making you think you were a big deal when only he saw you that way.

“I should do a photo shoot of you.” He suggested it, more than out of his own desire to mix his work directly with the possibility of being able to see you even more often.

Art was almost begging for it, if you paid attention. Ever since he met you—at the vintage record store—it seemed like this. He couldn’t forget you for even a split second, it was a bit delusional, he could admit, but there was something about you that brought out his artistic side more than usual and it was like a serotonin spike he was addicted to.

“A pretty face needs to be seen.” He said again, trying to convince you to show yourself. “I'm not going to force you into anything, but... You have to agree that you deserve the attention.” His tone was low, deliberately teasing as he gently pushed the strap of your shirt down.