When We Collide

A Quiet Shift In The Room

Aiden woke up earlier than usual the next morning. He had not planned to. His body simply refused to let him sink back into sleep. For the first time in months, the quiet in his apartment felt different. Not heavier, not lighter, just different. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, replaying the memory of Elara sitting on the studio floor from yesterday. Her voice. Her eyes. The way she pressed her thumb against her palm when she was nervous. The way she spoke gently, as though her words had weight she was afraid to drop.

He tried to shake it off, but the memory stayed with him like a new color mixing into the palette of his thoughts. He exhaled and rubbed his hand over his face before sitting up. There was no logical reason to feel this drawn to someone he had spoken to for a total of maybe two hours. Yet logic was the last thing on his mind.

He got dressed and grabbed his camera bag. He wanted to take new photos for the gallery’s upcoming exhibit. That was the excuse he told himself. The truth sat quietly underneath it. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to know if the strange warmth he felt yesterday was real, or if his mind had turned loneliness into something else.

Aiden arrived at the art studio earlier than usual and found the door unlocked. The lights were still dim inside, the morning sun filtering faint gold through the high windows. He liked the studio like this, quiet and untouched. Most of the city was still waking up, but something about this place always felt alive even when no one was in it.

Elara was sitting at her table, headphones on, leaning over a sketchbook. Her hair was pulled up in a loose ponytail, shorter strands falling around her face. She tapped her pencil lightly as if marking time with thoughts instead of music. She did not notice him right away, and for a moment Aiden simply watched her. There was something calming about the way she concentrated, something soft and unguarded.

He cleared his throat gently. She startled a little and removed her headphones.

“You are early,” she said, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. Her voice held a small smile.

“I could say the same about you,” Aiden replied.

She closed her sketchbook slightly, not shutting it completely, just enough to signal that whatever she was drawing was still private. He respected that. He had his own notebooks he never let anyone see. They held thoughts he had never said out loud, memories that refused to fade, and moments that still carried him on the worst days.

“I woke up and could not go back to sleep,” she said. “So I came here.”

He nodded. “Same.”

There was silence for a moment. Not awkward, just gentle. Elara looked at him as though she wanted to ask something but was unsure if she should. Aiden waited.

“Can I see your camera?” she asked finally.

Aiden opened the bag and handed it to her. She held it carefully, tracing her thumb along its edge. Her expression shifted with curiosity.

“This looks expensive,” she said.

“It was a gift,” Aiden replied. He watched her fingertips move over the lens. “My mom gave it to me.”

Elara’s eyes softened. “She must have known you would be good at this.”

Aiden looked at her, surprised by how easily she understood. “She always said the world already had enough noise,” he said quietly. “She wanted me to learn how to listen to the quiet things instead.”

Elara held the camera the way someone would hold a fragile memory. “She sounds like someone who saw you clearly.”

There was something in the way she said it that made Aiden’s chest tighten. People rarely spoke with that kind of sincerity. Most people kept conversations on the safer surface. Elara did not. She drifted deeper without realizing it.

“Do you want to take a photo?” he asked.

Her eyes brightened a little. “Can I?”

He nodded and stepped back. Elara looked through the viewfinder and hesitated.

“I do not know what to take a picture of,” she said softly. “I do not think I see things the way a photographer does.”

“You do,” Aiden said. “You see everything around you when most people see nothing.”

Elara blinked once, startled by the compliment. She turned slowly, searching the room until her gaze landed on the corner of the studio where a large window cast soft lines of light across the floor. She lifted the camera and pressed the shutter. The quiet click echoed gently.

She lowered it and smiled, a real smile this time, not guarded or polite. Something warm and natural.

“That felt nice,” she admitted.

Aiden smiled too. “It looks nice.”

She tilted her head. “You did not even check the picture.”

“I do not need to,” he said. “I can tell.”

Her cheeks warmed at his certainty, and she placed the camera back on the table. She seemed lighter today, but still carrying something inside her. Aiden wanted to ask what it was, but he did not want to push too hard. People who carried pain often hid it behind small smiles. He knew that from experience.

Elara returned to her seat, and Aiden moved to his usual corner to review the photos he had taken the previous day. For a few minutes, the two of them worked in silence, both aware of the other in the quiet way that happens when something is starting to grow even before you name it.

After a while, Aiden looked up. “Can I ask you something?” he said.

Elara lifted her eyes from her sketchbook. “Yes.”

“Yesterday,” he said carefully. “When that man came in. You looked like you froze. Are you okay?”

Her pencil stopped moving. She stared at the page for a moment, as though the answer might be hidden in the lines she had drawn.

“That was my dad,” she said in a quiet voice.

Aiden felt his stomach drop at the sadness threaded through her words.

“He used to be different,” she went on. “He used to be gentle. Then something changed. He became strict, angry, controlling. I moved out two years ago.”

Aiden set his camera down, giving her his full attention.

“I am sorry,” he said softly.

She nodded, but her eyes stayed on the sketchbook. “He wants to pretend everything is normal when it is not. I do not know how to talk to him anymore.”

Aiden understood that more than she knew. Broken relationships had a habit of leaving invisible scars.

“You do not have to force anything,” Aiden said. “Sometimes distance is the only way to breathe.”

Elara looked up at him. The room felt smaller for a moment, tighter around the two of them, like something unspoken was settling between them.

“You get it,” she whispered.

“I do,” Aiden replied.

Their eyes held for a little longer than before. Something shifted, quiet but meaningful. The kind of shift you feel before you recognize it.

Elara was the one who looked away first. She closed her sketchbook and stood up.

“Do you want to get some fresh air?” she asked. “Just outside. I need a break.”

Aiden nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

They stepped out onto the small garden behind the studio. The morning breeze was cool, brushing softly across their faces. The faint sound of cars and distant voices blended with the smell of wet grass. Elara wrapped her arms lightly around herself.

“I come here a lot when things get overwhelming,” she said. “It helps me breathe.”

Aiden stood beside her. Not too close, not too far. He liked the way the silence here felt. Open. Safe.

She glanced at him. “You are easy to talk to,” she said.

“You are easy to listen to,” he replied.

Her lips curved into a small smile. A real one. She exhaled, and for a moment, she looked free.

Aiden wondered how someone who carried so much heaviness could still be this gentle. He wondered how many times she had cried where no one could see. He wondered why he felt the sudden need to protect her, even though he barely knew her.

And then he realized something.

This was only the second day he had known her, but he already felt the shift in his chest.

He already felt himself collide with her world.