Almost Something
1047 Words
By Monday, the house looked less like a construction site and more like a home. Sort of. Mom had conquered the kitchen, but my room was still a maze of half-unpacked boxes and clothes draped over every chair.
What I couldn’t stop thinking about, though, wasn’t the clutter. It was Ethan Carter.
Specifically, the way he’d said my name last night without ever speaking it out loud.
I told myself I imagined it, that the lightning had blurred my vision. But the image of his notebook, my name scrawled in ink haunted me every time I closed my eyes.
“Earth to Maya.”
I blinked, nearly dropping my camera as I adjusted the strap around my neck. Mom stood in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, her work blouse already pressed and perfect.
“You’re a million miles away,” she said, smiling softly. “Everything okay?”
I forced a nod. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
“About college?”
“Something like that,” I muttered.
She didn’t press. That was one good thing about Mom. She knew when not to dig. With a kiss on my forehead, she headed out the door, heels clicking across the porch.
I lingered at the window after she left, camera hanging at my side. The neighbourhood was awake now. Sprinklers ticking, dogs barking, the mail truck rumbling down the street.
And then I saw him.
Ethan crossed his yard, backpack slung over one shoulder. He spotted me instantly, like he’d known I’d be there, and tipped his head in a mock salute.
“Morning, Sinclair,” he called.
I narrowed my eyes. “Do you ever knock, or do you just appear in windows and porches?”
“Knocking’s overrated,” he shot back, grin crooked. “Wanna help me out today? Could use an extra pair of hands.”
“Doing what?”
“Work. Record store. Unless you’re too busy alphabetising your unpacked boxes.”
I opened my mouth to say no, but the truth was, I wasn’t busy. And I was curious. Very curious.
“Fine,” I said. “But only because my boxes don’t need me.”
The record store smelled like dust and nostalgia. Rows of vinyl lined the walls, their glossy covers like windows into other lives. A bell jingled overhead as we walked in, and an older man was behind the counter. Ethan’s dad, apparently lifted a hand in greeting.
“Sort these,” Ethan instructed, dumping a crate of records onto the counter. “Alphabetical order. Don’t mess it up.”
I raised a brow. “Do I look like your intern?”
“Yes.”
I rolled my eyes but started flipping through albums anyway. The music playing overhead was soft, some bluesy guitar that made the air feel heavy and slow.
“Why do people even buy these anymore?” I asked.
“Because vinyl’s permanent. You drop your phone in water, playlists are gone. Records last.”
“That’s poetic,” I teased.
“That’s a fact,” he countered, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Hours passed quickly than I expected. We bantered, argued over which albums deserved their legendary status, and laughed when I nearly knocked over a stack taller than me. At one point, our hands brushed reaching for the same record. I pulled back too fast, but not before I caught the flicker in his eyes. Something sharp, searching.
By the time we walked home, dusk painted the sky orange.
We cut through the park, our shoulders brushing occasionally, each touch sparking like static.
“You’re not as bad at sorting as I thought,” he said.
“High praise,” I replied dryly.
“You earned it.” His grin widened, then softened. “You’re… different, you know. Not in the weird way. In a good way.”
My chest tightened. “That’s vague.”
“Good vague,” he said, nudging me gently.
For a moment, the world narrowed to just us. The glow of streetlights, the rhythm of our footsteps, the closeness of his shoulder against mine. My heart hammered as he slowed, turning slightly toward me.
The air between us shifted. His gaze dropped to my lips.
He leaned in.
And my phone buzzed.
The spell shattered. I fumbled for it, cursing silently, but it was just Mom checking in. By the time I shoved it back into my pocket, Ethan had stepped away, hands shoved into his hoodie.
“Guess I’ll see you later,” he said, voice unreadable.
And then he was gone.
That night, I found it.
A Polaroid on my porch step.
This time, it wasn’t my porch. It wasn’t even the house.
It was me.
Taken from outside the window. Earlier today. My head bent over the crate of records, Ethan blurred in the background.
My throat went dry. The edges of the photo were warm, just like the first one.
I stormed to the window, ready to confront him, but his curtains were closed. Still, I could feel the weight of his attention, even if I couldn’t see him.
When I finally gathered the courage to ask, it was during our next porch talk.
“Was this you?” I held the photo up.
His eyes flicked to it. His expression didn’t change. “Maybe.”
“Ethan.” My voice wavered. “Why?”
He leaned back, gaze steady. “Because sometimes you have to capture something before it disappears.”
My breath caught. “And what if it doesn’t want to be captured?”
He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle. “Then I’d put the camera down.”
His words should’ve unsettled me. But instead, my pulse raced with something dangerously close to hope.
Later that night, long after I went to bed, I heard him again.
Through the thin wall of night, his voice low, urgent.
I crept to the window. His room glowed faintly, his back to me, phone pressed to his ear.
“She can’t find out yet,” he said. His voice was sharp, almost desperate.
The words twisted like glass in my stomach.
She can’t find out yet.
He wasn’t talking about anyone else. He was talking about me.
- Writer
