The sun was brutal that afternoon, the kind that bounced off the white fences and turned the air above the track into a shimmering haze. My camera felt heavy against my palm, but I was used to it by now—catching the moment, the angle, the speed. Horses, riders, motion. That was my world.

I’d just shifted position along the railing when someone brushed past me. Not rough, just enough to jolt me back to attention. I turned, ready to mutter an apology or a half-annoyed “watch it,” but the words stalled.

She was there.

Light brown hair falling straight down her back, sun catching the strands as if on purpose. A white blouse tucked into easy jeans, and a beige beret sitting just right on her head—like she hadn’t even tried, and yet somehow it worked perfectly. She looked fresh off a film set, not a horse track. Out of place, but in a way that drew every eye, including mine.

“Sorry,” she said lightly, though she didn’t sound particularly sorry. Her voice carried a kind of calm confidence, and then she was already leaning against the railing beside me, casual, like she belonged there more than I did.

I turned back toward the track, adjusting my lens, but my focus was shot. Every few seconds, I caught myself glancing sideways. I didn’t know her, but she wasn’t the kind of girl you could overlook. Not with that face. Not with that presence.