Chapter 10 – Photograph of a Stranger
551 Words
The sun had barely begun its descent when Aarav found himself wandering through the park near the old university district. The air was alive with the chatter of students, the laughter of children, and the faint melody of a street guitarist whose notes floated like forgotten dreams. Aarav lifted his camera, instinctively checking the battery. It had been months—no, years—since he had taken a photograph that wasn’t for work.
Photography used to be his heartbeat. Now, it was just a tool. The art had drained from it after that one fateful day—the one that still haunted his nights. Every time he lifted his lens, his hands would tremble, memories crashing through the cracks he tried so hard to seal.
But today felt different.
He had been meeting Mira more often lately—small, unplanned encounters at the café, at her art studio, near the bus stop. She always seemed to be sketching something, lost in her world of lines and color. And every time she looked up, her eyes—those warm, deep brown eyes—seemed to see something in him that no one else could.
He told himself he was just passing by. But his camera told another story.
Across the park, Mira sat on a bench, sketching a group of children feeding pigeons. Her hair was tied up messily, a few strands escaping in the breeze. The soft afternoon light touched her face, painting it with gold. She looked... peaceful. Real.
Aarav lifted his camera slowly, almost afraid to breathe. Through the lens, the chaos around her blurred, leaving only her—focused, radiant, unaware.
Click.
The sound was soft, but to him, it was thunder. His heart thudded painfully. For a second, he thought she had heard him, but Mira didn’t look up. She kept sketching, her lips curling into the faintest smile.
He lowered the camera, his chest tight. That single photograph—her, lost in creation—was the first image he had taken in years without fear clouding his vision. He didn’t know why it mattered, but it did.
Later, when he developed the shot, the image took his breath away. It wasn’t perfect. The light was uneven, a few leaves blurred mid-fall—but it felt alive. Mira’s expression captured something he couldn’t name—a quiet defiance, a fragile hope.
He stared at the print long after the machine went silent. For the first time, he didn’t see the failure of his past. He saw possibility.
That evening, Mira texted him.
Mira: “You seemed quiet today. Everything okay?”
Aarav: “Just thinking. About what makes something worth capturing.”
Mira: “And did you find the answer?”
Aarav: “Maybe. It’s when you stop trying to control the chaos and just... see it.”
He didn’t tell her about the photograph. Not yet. Some things were too new, too precious to explain.
When he went to bed that night, the photo lay on his desk, beside her forgotten sketchbook—the two pieces of her world he had stumbled upon and somehow couldn’t let go of. The city roared outside, restless and loud, but inside his room, something quiet had begun to bloom again.
A beginning, framed in a single, stolen moment.
- Writer
