When We Collide

Aiden Hale arrived in Lyria on a cold morning that smelled faintly of rain and wet concrete. The train station was quieter than he expected for a place that was once called the city of constant motion. People hurried past him without looking, their footsteps echoing against the glass walls as if the building itself was hollow. Aiden stood still for a moment and let the unfamiliar city press against him, the way a wave touches your legs before deciding whether to pull you in or leave you standing on the shore. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and stepped outside. The air felt sharp, not painfully cold but cold enough to remind him that this was a new place, a new chapter, and maybe a new version of himself. He walked until he found the street he had memorized from the map on his phone. The sidewalks were lined with thin trees that looked tired, as if they had been standing for too many seasons without real sunlight. Aiden wondered if people ever felt the same way. He suspected they did. His new apartment was on the fourth floor of an old brick building that had clearly survived things it should not have survived. The walls were cracked in places, the stairwell creaked under the slightest pressure, and the lights flickered as if they were struggling to stay awake. Yet Aiden felt something strangely comforting about it. It looked like a place that had already lived through storms, which meant it would not collapse from the weight of his own. He unlocked the door. The apartment was small but not suffocating. A single window faced the street, and sunlight filtered through it in long, pale lines that stretched across the wooden floor. Dust hung in the air like tiny suspended stories. Aiden set his backpack down, walked to the window, and looked out. The city stretched far, a collection of rooftops, distant bridges, and the faint shimmer of skyscrapers. Long ago, he would have imagined what kind of life each rooftop held. Now, he simply watched in silence. He did not feel excitement. He did not feel fear. He felt something quieter, something like a soft ache under the ribs. It was not sadness exactly, but it was close enough that he recognized the taste of it. Aiden reached into his bag and pulled out his camera. It was old, scratched, and heavier than it looked, but it was the only thing that had stayed with him through everything. He wiped the lens with the edge of his shirt and lifted the camera to his eye. He framed the city through it. Buildings. Light. A person walking quickly on the sidewalk. A kid playing with a scooter. A dog tied to a lamppost. He clicked the shutter. The sound echoed in the empty apartment. Photography had always been easier than speaking. Easier than feeling. Easier than trusting. A photograph required distance. A photograph required observation, not participation. For Aiden, that felt safe. He set the camera down when he noticed his hands shaking slightly. He had been fine on the train. Fine walking through the station. Fine climbing the stairs. But now that he was alone, the weight of everything seemed to settle on him. He sat on the floor and rested his head against the wall. The silence filled the room like water. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly. His therapist back in his hometown had taught him this. Breathe in for four. Hold for two. Breathe out for five. Slow. Steady. Gentle. Aiden was not sure it ever fixed anything, but it stopped him from breaking in public, and that was enough. After a few minutes he stood again and forced himself to move. He unpacked his clothes, placed his books on an old shelf, and set his small houseplant on the windowsill. The plant looked fragile, almost wilted. Aiden touched one of its leaves and wondered if it would survive here. He wondered if he would too. Once everything was arranged, he grabbed his coat and stepped outside. Staying inside would make the ache worse. He needed to know what kind of city he was living in. He needed to see it through his lens, as if understanding it visually would help him understand his place in it. Lyria was beautiful in a quiet, understated way. The buildings were tall, but their edges were softened by weather. The streets curved gently instead of cutting in straight lines. Street artists painted on hidden corners. Small cafes spilled warm light onto the sidewalks. Aiden walked without a destination. Sometimes he raised his camera and captured strangers. Other times he simply watched. There was something comforting about blending into the background. No one expected anything from him here. No one knew his name. No one could look at him and see the pieces he worked so hard to keep together. While walking past a narrow alley painted with shades of blue and purple, Aiden felt a strange tug in his chest. Not fear, not recognition, but something like familiarity. He stopped and lifted his camera. A girl stood at the far end of the alley, her back turned as she painted a wide stroke of color on a brick wall. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, strands falling over her neck and shoulders. Paint speckled her fingertips. The warmth from a nearby lamp cast a soft glow on her skin. Aiden blinked twice. Something about her posture, the curve of her shoulders, the way she held the brush, felt important, even though he had never seen her before. He lifted his camera and took a photo. The shutter clicked. The sound was softer this time. Almost hesitant. He lowered the camera quickly, feeling a strange rush of guilt. It felt wrong to capture someone without asking, even though street photography always walked that line. Still, he stepped back before she noticed him and slipped out of the alley. He did not know her. He did not even see her face. Yet his heartbeat had changed. He walked faster, as if distance would quiet the sudden stirring inside him. Emotions were something he avoided. They were unpredictable and unreliable. They pulled people apart. They disappointed. They destroyed. At least, that was what his past taught him. He continued walking until he reached the river that split Lyria in two. The water was dark and slow, reflecting distorted shapes of buildings and the pale glow of streetlights. Aiden leaned against the railing and watched the surface ripple with every passing breeze. He tried to imagine the city at night when he was a kid. He wondered if he had ever wanted a life like this. He wondered if he had ever dreamed of moving somewhere far away and starting fresh. He could not remember. He only remembered the hospital room. The machines. The soft, constant beeping. The smell of antiseptic. The sound of nurses whispering in hallways. The empty chair where his mother used to sit. Aiden closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He told himself he moved here to study. To rebuild. To live without being haunted by every street, every corner, every memory back home. But deep down, he knew the truth. He moved here because staying would have suffocated him. When the wind grew colder, he turned back toward his apartment. Walking through the city at night felt different. Lights glowed in warm shapes behind windows. People laughed inside restaurants. Music drifted faintly from a bar. Life was happening everywhere, but none of it touched him. Not yet. He reached his building, climbed the creaky stairs, and stepped inside his apartment. The room was still quiet, still half empty, still soft in the glow of the single lamp he turned on. Aiden removed his coat and placed his camera on the table. He scrolled through the photos he took. City lights. Strangers. Buildings. Reflections. Then the girl in the alley. Only her back, her arm raised mid stroke, paint staining her hand. He stared at the photo for longer than he intended. There was something about her that unsettled him. Not in a frightening way, but in a way that suggested she could become important. He did not like that feeling. He did not want anything in this city to matter to him. Not yet. He set the camera down. He lay on the bed and watched the shadows move across the ceiling. He told himself he came here to be alone. To focus. To stay quiet. He told himself he was not ready to let anyone in. Still, he could not shake the feeling that the city had other plans. And somewhere in Lyria, a girl with paint stained fingertips continued painting, unaware that a quiet boy with a camera had unknowingly taken the first step toward her story.