When We Collide

The Man Behind The Lens

Morning in Lyria arrived slowly, unfolding like soft fabric being pulled open after a long night. Light seeped through the thin curtains in Aiden’s apartment, stretching across the walls in pale gold ribbons. The stillness of the room made it feel like the city was holding its breath, waiting for someone to move first. Aiden lay awake long before the sun reached him, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and listening to the distant hum of early trains.

Sleep had never come easily to him. It often wandered close, hovered above him, then left before it settled. Last night was no different. His mind drifted through familiar places he wished he could forget. It replayed scenes he did not ask it to replay, memories that pressed against his ribs like they wanted out.

When light finally touched his face, he sat up. His body felt heavy in the way it usually did after a night of half sleep and racing thoughts. He rubbed his eyes, stretched his legs, and forced himself to breathe evenly.

A new day meant a new chance to occupy his mind with something outside himself.

He stood, walked to the window, and pushed the curtains aside. The street below was beginning to wake. A woman walked her dog. A cyclist rushed past. A bakery across the road cracked its door open, allowing the faint smell of warm bread to drift through the air. Aiden watched them quietly. There was something comforting about observing lives that did not require him to participate.

His camera sat on the table where he had left it. The photo of the girl from the alley lingered in his mind. He had only seen her for a few seconds, yet she had stayed with him all night. The paint on her fingers, the way her shoulders curved as she reached upward, the focused energy in her posture. He did not even know her face, but something about her presence had startled him.

It was not attraction. Attraction was easy to recognize and even easier to ignore. This was different. This felt like the faint tap of something significant trying to announce itself.

Aiden grabbed his camera and placed it around his neck. The familiar weight steadied him. It always did. Cameras never left. Cameras never disappointed. Cameras never made promises they could not keep. They showed the world as it was, even when it was ugly.

He stepped outside into the cool morning air. The city smelled of coffee, fresh rain from the night before, and something metallic he could not name. He walked without a destination in mind, letting the rhythm of footsteps pull him into the flow of the awakening streets.

Aiden had always believed people learned most about a city by watching its mornings. Mornings stripped away performance. There were no polished smiles or carefully chosen outfits yet. There was only honesty. Tired eyes. Rushed movements. Real emotions showing in the small in-between moments.

He found himself drawn to the waterfront again. The river glimmered with early light, casting thin reflections across the surface that trembled with each passing ripple. Aiden lifted his camera and captured the scene. He took a photo of the water. Another of a fisherman casting a line. Another of a woman sitting on a bench with her hands wrapped around a paper cup, steam rising into the air.

Aiden liked photographing loneliness. Not sadness, but loneliness. The quiet kind that existed even in crowded streets. The kind he knew intimately.

He walked farther until he reached a small street market that had just begun setting up. Vendors arranged fruits, hung handmade jewelry, and wiped down tables. Aiden moved through them unnoticed, snapping photos of hands passing apples, children chasing each other between stalls, and old men laughing with the kind of ease that comes only from years of familiarity.

He lowered his camera when he noticed a reflective surface in the corner of his vision. A shop window. His own reflection looked back at him. His eyes were tired, a little too dark under the lids. His hair was messy. His expression unreadable even to himself.

Aiden did not like mirrors. They reminded him that he was not invisible.

He turned away and continued walking.

As he reached a quieter street, he saw an older man setting up a mini exhibition outside a photography shop. Prints were clipped along a long rope that stretched between two poles. Black and white portraits. Landscapes. Dramatic city shots. Aiden stopped, unable to keep himself from analyzing them.

The man noticed him and smiled.

“You like photography?”

Aiden hesitated, then nodded.

“Yes.”

“Are you a student?” the man asked.

“Starting next week. The arts program at the university.”

“A photographer studying photography” the man said with a grin. “That is a good sign.”

Aiden almost smiled but did not. Instead, he walked closer to examine the photos. One portrait in particular caught his eye. A girl sitting on a staircase, her face hidden behind her hands. The world around her blurred. It was a photograph that captured emotion without revealing identity. He liked that.

“You take photos like this?” the man asked.

“I try.”

“You got a portfolio?”

Aiden paused. “I have some things. Nothing organized.”

“Bring them sometime. I like seeing the work of young artists. You all see things differently. The world needs that.”

Aiden nodded again. He did not trust himself to speak without his voice sounding awkward. Compliments always made him uncomfortable. Praise made him suspicious.

Still, the interaction left a faint warmth in his chest. Not happiness. Just warmth.

He continued walking until the market noise faded behind him. His steps carried him toward the alley he had visited yesterday. Part of him did not want to return. It felt like crossing some invisible line he was not ready to cross. But another part of him felt compelled to see it again. To see if the girl was there.

He turned the corner.

The alley was empty.

Only the mural remained, half finished, streaks of purple and blue reaching across the wall like sky meeting water. Aiden stepped closer. The paint was still fresh. The scent of it lingered faintly in the air, as if she had been here recently.

He lifted his camera and took a photo of the mural. Then another. Then one more.

He did not know why he was drawn to it. He did not know why he felt something shift inside him when he looked at the colors she chose. It was as if her art carried something familiar he could not name.

He left the alley reluctantly.

By mid afternoon he found himself sitting in a small café near the train tracks. The inside was warm, filled with the scent of caramelized sugar and roasted coffee beans. He ordered a cup of hot chocolate, choosing it over coffee because his stomach always reacted poorly to caffeine.

He sat by the window and watched trains go by. Movement soothed him. Watching people get on and off, holding bags, hugging loved ones, rushing toward something or away from something. It made him feel connected without participating.

He took a few photos from his seat. A couple holding hands. A teenager sleeping with headphones on. A woman adjusting her scarf while searching for her train number.

Aiden was reviewing the photos when a soft voice startled him.

“Sorry. Is this seat taken?”

He looked up quickly.

A girl stood in front of him, holding a sketchbook against her chest. She wore light brown overalls speckled with paint, and her hair fell loosely around her shoulders. A streak of blue rested near her wrist like she had brushed it there accidentally.

Aiden blinked.

It was her.

The girl from the alley.

“No” Aiden said quietly. “You can sit.”

She smiled politely and placed her sketchbook on the table. It landed with a soft thud. A faint floral scent drifted from her hair, mixing with the café atmosphere. She took out a pencil and began sketching without looking at him.

Aiden tried to focus on his hot chocolate, but his heart thudded with a strange awareness. He felt the air shift, felt the presence of someone who carried color with them wherever they stood.

Minutes passed in silence.

She finally glanced at him.

“You are the boy with the camera” she said.

Aiden stiffened slightly. “You saw me.”

“Only for a second” she said. “Thought you were taking pictures of the wall. Then I realized you were taking pictures of everything.”

Aiden lowered his gaze. “Sorry if it bothered you.”

“It did not” she said. “Artists watch the world. It is how we survive.”

He looked up again, surprised by the gentleness in her voice.

She reached for her pencil, continuing to draw.

“My name is Elara” she said.

Aiden hesitated, then nodded.

“Aiden.”

She nodded back.

“I like that name.”

He had no idea how to respond to that. So he said nothing.

Elara looked down at her sketchbook, then lifted it slightly so he could see. She had drawn the café window with astonishing detail. The reflection of the train. The curve of the steam coming from his cup. The shape of his camera strap. She captured everything except his face.

She looked at him.

“You look like someone who has a lot to say but chooses not to.”

Aiden swallowed hard.

“Maybe.”

She smiled softly.

“That is alright. I talk enough for two people anyway.”

Aiden exhaled slowly, almost a silent laugh. Almost.

Something told him that his life in Lyria had just shifted. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just slightly, like a door opening a few inches.

Enough to let some light in.