When summer learned to breathe

CHAPTER 4: POLAROIDS OF SUMMER

By the time July stretched into its golden rhythm, meeting Adrian had become second nature. It wasn’t scheduled or promised, but I knew somehow that he’d show up. Whether at the crosswalk, the café, or sitting on the library steps with a drink in hand, he’d be there, like the city had stitched him into the map of my days.

One afternoon, he surprised me with something new.

“Close your eyes,” he said as we walked through the park, sunlight flickering through the leaves.

I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That’s not convincing.”

He sighed dramatically, then pulled something from his backpack. When I peeked, I saw the flash of an old Polaroid camera.

“Seriously?” I laughed. “Where did you even get that?”

“Thrift shop,” he said proudly. “Found it last week. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to use it.”

“And I’m the right moment?” I teased.

“Obviously.” He lifted the camera, aiming it at me. “Okay, now don’t move.”

I groaned, but before I could protest, the camera clicked, spitting out a square of film. Adrian shook it gently, waiting for the image to appear. He grinned when the outline of my face began to surface.

“You look like you’re about to punch me,” he said, laughing.

“That’s because I was about to punch you.”

He only smiled wider, tucking the photo carefully into his backpack like it was something precious.

That day turned into an adventure neither of us had planned. We wandered through the park, his Polaroid snapping pictures of random things kids chasing bubbles, a stray cat stretched out in the sun, the faded graffiti on the side of a playground slide.

But most of the time, the camera pointed at me.

“Stop wasting film on me,” I protested after the fourth shot.

“It’s not wasting,” Adrian said matter of factly. “One day, I’ll look back at these and remember this exact summer. And you’ll be there.”

I didn’t know how to reply. The thought of being someone’s memory someone’s forever Polaroid was both terrifying and strangely comforting.

So instead, I snatched the camera from his hands and turned it on him.

“Your turn.”

He raised his eyebrows but leaned against a tree, pretending to pose dramatically. “Make me look good.”

I snapped the picture. When the image appeared, his eyes were crinkled mid-laugh, his grin lopsided but genuine.

“Perfect,” I said softly.

We ended up sprawled on the grass, a pile of Polaroids between us. The photos weren’t perfect,some blurry, some off-center, one where my hand accidentally blocked half the frame. But they were real. Tangible pieces of us.

Adrian picked one up, holding it to the light. “You know what I love about Polaroids? They don’t wait. You take the picture, and it’s there. Imperfect, unedited, but permanent. Kind of like life.”

I turned my head toward him, watching the way sunlight dappled across his face. “You say the weirdest things sometimes.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, grinning. “But admit it, you’ll remember them.”

I didn’t reply, but the truth was, I already knew I would.

As the sun sank lower, we gathered the photos. Adrian tucked half into his backpack, then slid the rest across the grass toward me.

“Yours,” he said simply.

I hesitated. “But”

“No buts. You keep them. Proof this summer happened.”

I picked them up, my heart swelling as I looked at the messy little snapshots: my face half-covered in sunlight, Adrian’s blurred smile, our drinks balanced on the café table. Proof, he’d said. Proof of us.

That night, I pinned the Polaroids above my desk. The wall instantly felt different, alive. For the first time in a long time, my room didn’t feel empty.

I stared at one picture in particular,the one of Adrian laughing under the tree. His eyes sparkled even in stillness, his smile somehow too big to fit in the frame.

Something inside me whispered that this wasn’t just a summer fling, wasn’t just chance meetings at a crosswalk. This was something bigger, something that would leave its mark even when the season ended.

And the scariest part? I wanted it to.

The next day, Adrian and I met again, almost like we couldn’t help it. We bought ice cream from a truck parked on the street corner, and the summer heat melted it too quickly, dripping down our hands.

“You’re terrible at this,” Adrian laughed as I tried to keep the strawberry scoop from sliding off the cone.

“Shut up,” I said through laughter, trying to catch the drips with a napkin.

He leaned over suddenly, brushing his thumb across my wrist where a streak of pink ice cream had landed. The touch was so unexpected, so soft, that my breath caught. He pulled back immediately, clearing his throat, like even he hadn’t meant for it to linger.

But it did.

The warmth of his touch stayed with me long after the ice cream was gone.

That evening, when I looked at the Polaroids again, I realized something: we were making memories faster than I could pin them to the wall. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t just want them to be summer snapshots.

I wanted them to be permanent.