Chapter Ten: Through Her Eyes
1598 Words
It was never planned.
They were sitting on the edge of a quiet park bench, early evening folding the sky into soft golds and slow shadows. Eli had set his camera beside him, forgotten for the moment.
Amina nudged it with her elbow.
“You always carry this thing… but no one ever turns it on you.”
Eli raised an eyebrow. “I’m more comfortable behind it.”
“Maybe,” she said, picking up the camera carefully. “But I think it’s time we even the playing field.”
He laughed. “You want to take my picture?”
Amina grinned. “Why not? I’ve always seen people through lines and light. Sketches. Maybe I want to see you the way you see the world.”
He hesitated for a second. Then nodded. “Alright. But only if you let me show you how it works.”
She handed it back. “Deal.”
Eli adjusted the settings — ISO, aperture, focus — explaining as he went. She listened, surprisingly focused, her brows drawn together as if sketching mental notes.
Then he handed it to her.
“Okay… now aim for my good side.”
She smirked. “Which one’s that?”
“Exactly.”
He leaned against the tree nearby, hands in his pockets. Amina squinted behind the viewfinder, adjusting.
Click.
“Terrible,” she said. “Blinking.”
Eli laughed. “Photographer error.”
“Subject error,” she shot back.
Another click.
Then another.
He wasn’t posing. Just smiling. Just… being. And she captured that — unguarded, honest.
She lowered the camera. “This is actually fun.”
“Told you. Seeing is addictive.”
“Okay,” she said, handing the camera back. “Now your turn.”
“For?”
“Revenge. Fair is fair.”
He stepped closer, camera up. “You sure?”
She nodded.
He snapped a few quick ones — her brushing her hair from her face, half-laughing at something he didn’t say.
Then, on impulse, she leaned in beside him. “Let’s take a stupid selfie.”
He blinked. “We’re doing selfies now?”
“Yes, and you’re not allowed to pretend you hate it.”
He hesitated only a second before flipping the screen and lifting the camera. They leaned in, close enough he could smell the faint trace of coffee on her sweater.
Click.
The photo wasn’t perfect. Their faces weren’t centered. Her eyes were mid-laugh, and he looked like he’d just remembered how to smile for real.
But somehow… it was perfect anyway.
Amina looked at it and whispered, “I like that one.”
“Me too.”
They sat back down, quietly scrolling through the shots. Her fingers brushed his once.
Neither of them pulled away.
There was something about the way they laughed together that made the rest of the world blur.
Not in a loud way.
Not in the kind of way people write songs about.
But in the quiet, ordinary way — like when the sun hits a sidewalk just right, and for a second, you remember how to breathe slower.
Eli didn’t know what he was walking into with Amina.
But he knew this:
He hadn’t looked at a photo of himself and smiled in months.
And now, because of her, he had one that felt like a memory and not just an image.
It wasn’t falling.
It wasn’t fire.
It was ease.
And that’s what scared him most.
Because the softest things are always the hardest to hold onto.
Then the other afternoon,
They didn’t make a plan.
Just a text from Amina that read:
“If you’re not busy, meet me by the riverwalk. Need air.”
Eli showed up fifteen minutes later, camera slung over his shoulder — not to use, just to carry.
She was already sitting on the low stone wall, watching the water move like it knew where it was going.
She looked tired, not physically — but soul-tired.
Like someone who’d been running from something with no finish line.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
Amina shrugged. “Today’s just… a little heavier.”
He didn’t press. Just sat beside her.
They watched a dog chase ducks. A child drop an ice cream cone and cry. A jogger run past twice, looping the path like it was all they could control.
Eventually, Amina spoke.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m too much when I’m quiet… and not enough when I talk.”
Eli turned to her slowly. “What makes you say that?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Then:
“People always want the version of you that makes them feel good. But what if all you’ve got is silence and slow healing?”
He let that sink in.
“I’d take slow over fake any day,” he said. “You don’t owe anyone a polished version.”
She looked over at him, really looked. “That’s easy to say when you’re the quiet one people already like.”
Eli blinked. That hit harder than she probably meant it to.
“I’m not always liked,” he said softly. “But I’ve learned I’d rather be misunderstood for being real than loved for pretending.”
They sat there, unspeaking, as a breeze shifted through the leaves.
Amina finally exhaled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… I just—”
“You don’t have to explain,” he cut in gently. “Really.”
She looked at him again, her expression unreadable. “You make it too easy to open up.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s the point.”
But in the back of his mind, a voice stirred — the familiar whisper of what-ifs and past wounds.
What if she changed her mind?
What if this was just borrowed calm?
Still, he stayed.
And so did she.
Until the sky turned amber and their shoulders touched just barely — not by accident this time.
Before the Storm Breaks
Some days, the silence between them felt like healing.
Other days, it felt like a storm building — waiting for someone to flinch first.
Eli wasn’t sure which this was.
But he knew one thing:
He could feel the weight Amina was carrying.
And even if she never said it out loud…
He was already bracing for the moment she’d finally let it drop.
The next day,
They met at a bookstore Amina liked — one tucked behind an old record shop that smelled like paper and cinnamon.
She seemed okay at first.
Smiling, recommending titles, flipping through worn poetry books.
But something about her felt… distant.
Not cold.
Just somewhere else.
Eli noticed it in the way she held her bag tighter than usual.
How she laughed a second too late.
How she avoided eye contact longer than normal.
They walked after — down side streets neither of them knew, letting the city move around them like background noise.
At first, the conversation was soft.
He told her about a random photo gig offer.
She nodded, interested, even asked questions.
But her eyes didn’t stay on him long.
And eventually, she stopped replying.
Just silence between steps.
“Everything alright?” he asked gently.
Amina blinked. “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”
He didn’t believe her.
Not fully.
They sat on a quiet bench at the edge of a park.
No kids. No music. Just the sound of leaves brushing pavement.
Eli stayed beside her, not forcing anything.
And that’s when it started.
Not a sob.
Not even a sniff.
Just a soft shake in her voice as she whispered, almost to herself:
“I feel like I’m always carrying things no one can see.”
He turned slightly toward her.
“I get through the week. I smile. I show up. But inside, I’m exhausted — from pretending, from holding in everything I don’t know how to explain.”
Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t blink fast enough this time.
A single tear slipped out.
She wiped it quickly, almost angrily.
“God, I hate crying in front of people.”
Eli didn’t move.
Didn’t speak right away.
Then — gently — he said,
“You’re not weak for feeling it. You’re strong for holding it in this long.”
That cracked something.
Her breathing changed — short, uneven.
She looked away, trying to compose herself.
But the dam had already broken.
“I don’t want to be this version of me forever,” she said, voice cracking. “I don’t want to scare people away just because I’m still… figuring out how to exist without breaking.”
Eli did the only thing he could.
He reached out, slow and careful, and wrapped his arms around her.
She stiffened at first — not out of rejection, but shock.
Then she folded.
Not dramatically — just… into him.
Her head rested against his shoulder. Her hands stayed tucked in. But she let the weight shift.
She let someone hold it — hold her — for once.
They didn’t speak.
There was no “it’s going to be okay.”
No solutions.
No fixing.
Just the sound of two hearts remembering they didn’t have to survive everything alone.
Eli had been hugged before.
But never like this.
Never where it felt like someone was trusting him with their breaking point.
Not their body.
Not their smile.
Their quietest moment.
And for the first time in a long time — it didn’t scare him.
It didn’t make him want to run.
It made him want to stay.
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