I WISH I NEVER DID

Chapter Eight: A Chance Collision

It had been a few days since Eli last saw Amina at the café. Life had settled into its usual rhythm, the kind of routine that made moments like this feel unexpected.

Eli was walking down a bustling street, headphones on, music filling his mind. He wasn’t paying much attention — just enjoying the city’s pulse.

Suddenly, a soft collision.

“Sorry!”

Eli looked up to see Amina, steadying herself with a laugh.

“You!” he said with a smile, genuine surprise lighting his eyes.

“Hey,” she grinned, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”

“Same,” Eli said, lowering his headphones. “This isn’t exactly our usual spot.”

“No,” she agreed, glancing around. “Just out grabbing some groceries.”

Eli nodded, then gestured to the bag in her hand. “Anything I can help with?”

She laughed. “Unless you want to carry my avocado, I’m good.”

They walked together for a few steps, the casual ease between them growing.

“So, I was thinking,” Amina began, “about that photo you took. I’d love to see it again — maybe on my phone this time?”

Eli’s smile widened. “I was actually going to send it to you.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. “Then maybe it’s time you got my number.”

Eli’s eyes met hers, steady and calm. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

She typed her number into his phone, the small screen glowing between them like a promise.

“Now you have an excuse to message me,” she said, playful.

“Don’t need much excuse,” Eli replied. “Especially if it’s just to share pictures.”

They exchanged a look — easy, real, something quietly thrilling.

As they parted ways, Eli felt the same flutter in his chest from before. Not loud, not overwhelming. Just there — steady, hopeful.

They started walking in the same direction, slowly weaving past people on the sidewalk. It wasn’t planned, but neither of them pointed it out.

“So… are you always out walking around with your camera like some mysterious artist?” she asked.

Eli chuckled. “Not always. But when I need to clear my head, it helps. Something about looking through the lens makes the world feel quieter.”

Amina nodded thoughtfully. “I get that. I sketch sometimes. Not for anyone… just for myself. It slows everything down.”

“You a quiet kind of person?” he asked, half-curious.

“I am,” she said. “But don’t let that fool you — I still notice everything.”

Eli glanced over, amused. “Like how I walked past the café three times?”

“Exactly.” She smiled, proud of her observation. “You were pacing like someone deciding whether or not to dive into a pool.”

“I did dive, though,” he said, tilting his head slightly.

“And didn’t belly-flop,” she added with a grin. “So that’s something.”

They both laughed — a light sound in the middle of the noise around them. It felt easy.

As they reached the corner, Amina slowed down. “This is me,” she said, gesturing to the side street.

Eli nodded. “Guess I’ll let you go then — but I’ve got your number now.”

She turned to face him fully, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Use it.”

He smiled, not saying anything — just a small nod that promised he would.

Then she leaned in slightly, voice lower, eyes locked on his. “Don’t take too long.”

And with that, she turned and walked away — her steps unhurried, confident.

Eli stood there for a moment, watching her disappear around the corner. The city buzzed on, but for a few seconds, everything felt quiet again.

He reached for his phone, glanced at the new contact saved under Amina, and smiled to himself.

That evening, Eli sat by his window again. His laptop hummed quietly beside him as the photo of Amina loaded onto the screen — the one he took right before she smiled like the world had let her in on a secret.

He stared at it for a while. Not to over-edit it, not to tweak perfection. He just… looked.

She looked peaceful. A little lost in her own thoughts. A little aware that someone was watching — but not bothered by it.

He ran it through his usual process. A soft glow here. A touch of contrast. Nothing too dramatic. He wanted to preserve the honesty in it.

And when he was done, he leaned back and stared at it again.

That smile — that moment — was starting to live rent-free in his head.

Without thinking too hard, he saved the photo, uploaded it to a locked folder in his personal portfolio, and quietly changed his phone wallpaper.

Then he hesitated.

Phone in hand, finger hovering over the contact saved as Amina.

He wasn’t nervous. Just… aware.

He opened the thread, started typing a message.

Hey. It’s Eli. Just finished the photo. You want me to send—

He paused. Backspaced.

Then hit Call instead.

The phone rang twice before she answered.

“Hello?” Her voice was soft. A little unsure, but not unfriendly.

“It’s me,” Eli said. “Didn’t want to settle for a text.”

A pause. Then a smile in her voice. “You said you might call.”

“I did,” he said. “I figured a photo like this deserved a voice behind it.”

There was a light laugh. Then silence. Not awkward. Just space for something to settle in between them.

“Did it come out okay?” she asked.

“Better than okay. You looked like a memory.”

Another pause. Then a softer voice: “That’s beautiful.”

He sent it to her right then, while they were still on the phone. Heard the ding on her end. Then her breath.

“Wow,” she whispered. “I don’t usually like pictures of myself… but this—”

“You weren’t posing,” Eli said. “That’s probably why.”

He heard her shift, maybe sit down. The tone in her voice changed, just a little.

“You know,” she said quietly, “I don’t really let people see me like that.”

Eli leaned back in his chair. “You did. For a second.”

“That’s rare,” she added. “I guess I’ve learned to hold a lot back. Most people don’t notice.”

“I did,” he said. Not boastful. Just… honest.

Another quiet pause. Then her voice came back lighter.

“There’s this little art space I go to on Sundays,” she said. “It’s nothing big. Just… quiet. You might like it. They hang old photos and sketchbooks. There's a bench in the back with a view of the street.”

Eli smiled. “Are you inviting me?”

“I guess I am,” she said. “If you’re around.”

“I will be.”

And somehow, that was it.

They said goodnight. Nothing dramatic. No promises. But something had shifted — gently.

When the call ended, Eli didn’t move for a while. Just sat there, the quiet around him suddenly softer than usual.

It wasn’t love. Not yet.

But it sounded like something new.

Something worth picking up the camera for.

Eli sat in the stillness after the call, his phone face-down beside him.

The photo of her smiled from his screen — calm, open, real.

It wasn’t the kind of connection that demanded attention.

It didn’t pull him away from himself.

She didn’t feel like a distraction.

She felt like space.

Space to breathe.

To be seen.

To speak without measuring every word.

Four months ago, he wouldn’t have picked up the call.

Maybe not even taken the photo.

But something in him had shifted — not fully healed, but no longer bleeding.

He wasn’t looking to be saved.

He just wanted to feel real again.

And somehow, Amina made that feel possible.

And when Sunday came,

The art space wasn’t marked by any bold signs or flashy banners. It was quiet — almost shy — tucked between an old bookstore and a flower shop that smelled like fresh rain.

Eli arrived a few minutes early, camera in hand, though he hadn’t planned on taking photos today.

He stepped inside.

The place smelled of old paper, soft wood, and something like lavender. Photographs hung along one wall — some grainy and nostalgic, others crisp and alive. Sketchbooks lay open on shelves, their pages worn with fingerprints and charcoal smudges.

It was still.

Still… but alive.

He wandered until he found the bench she mentioned — near the back, in front of a tall window with a soft view of the street. He sat. Waited.

And then she appeared.

Amina walked in wearing something simple, comfortable — her hair pulled back, eyes scanning until they landed on him.

She smiled. No surprise. No rush. Just ease.

“You came,” she said, joining him on the bench.

“Told you I would,” Eli replied, his voice low but certain.

They sat side by side, not touching, but not far. The quiet around them wasn’t awkward. It felt like part of the space.

They sat in silence for a minute, watching the street through the tall window. Outside, people moved like passing thoughts — no one rushing, no one staying.

“This place feels like it doesn’t belong in the city,” Eli said.

Amina nodded. “That’s why I come here. It lets you breathe.”

She stood and motioned for him to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you my Favorite piece.”

They walked slowly, weaving through the quiet halls. Every wall whispered stories — childhoods caught in polaroids, old faces in pencil, someone’s broken poem framed like glass.

Amina stopped in front of a charcoal portrait — a girl, not much older than them, eyes dark with worry but mouth stubbornly straight.

“This one,” she said softly. “I don’t know why, but she looks like someone who’s survived more than she ever talks about.”

Eli studied it. “She looks like she’s learned how to hold herself together.”

Amina smiled faintly. “Exactly.”

There was a beat — and then something shifted. Amina’s voice turned quiet.

“When I was younger, I used to hate how quiet I was. Everyone thought it meant I had nothing to say.”

Eli looked at her, but said nothing. Just waited.

She glanced at the drawing again. “But sometimes quiet means you're just carrying more.”

A small silence settled between them — not heavy, just real.

“I like that you didn’t try to fill every moment,” she added.

Eli let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Sometimes the best parts of people live in the quiet ones.”

She turned to him then, soft light painting the side of her face.

He raised his camera slightly. “Can I?”

“No smiling this time,” she whispered again — but with the hint of one anyway.

Click.

This one… was different. Not bright. Not playful. But raw. And true.

They lingered a while longer, then slowly made their way back to the front.

Outside, the city had shifted. The street was quieter now, bathed in late-afternoon gold.

“This was nice,” Amina said as they stood on the sidewalk.

“It was more than nice,” Eli replied. “Thanks for letting me in.”

She shrugged lightly, but her eyes held a softness that hadn’t been there before. “Not everyone gets that far.”

They exchanged a long look.

“I’ll send you the photo,” he said.

“I’ll wait for it,” she replied.

Then she turned, walking away just like last time — steady, graceful.

But this time, Eli didn’t feel like something was ending.

It felt like something was beginning.