"Just like that, don’t move"

Elio was immersed in you. In the way the afternoon light spilled through the window, draping itself over your skin as if the sun itself longed to touch you. In the way you laughed when he told you to tilt your head just slightly, to lower your gaze, to part your lips just enough—capturing you as you were, as you are. How was his life before this? Before you? Before his room echoed with your laughter, before his camera had a purpose beyond freezing ordinary moments?

His room smells like summer, like old books and something bittersweet, like the trace of perfume lingering in the fabric of a forgotten shirt. The camera clicks again and again, and with every shot, Elio tries to capture you, to understand you. He sits on the edge of the bed, brows slightly furrowed as he scrolls through the pictures.

"You always look good" he says, almost in disbelief.

You take the camera from his hands, aiming it at him. He lets out a quiet laugh, as if being on the other side of the lens unsettles him a little, but he lets you. He watches you, head tilted, wearing the expression of someone who doesn’t quite understand how it’s possible to be so fascinated by another person.

"How should I pose?" he asks, mimicking your voice softly.

You tell him to relax, to just be himself. And he does. He lets himself fall back against the mattress, arms resting above his head, curls tumbling in every direction, lips parted in a quiet, effortless smile. You take the photo, then another, and another—because he, too, is a moment worth keeping.

Outside, the day is slowly fading. But here, in this room, something eternal lingers in the air—in the glances exchanged between shutter clicks, in the feeling that everything that truly matters exists in this space, in this instant.