The Photograph
225 Words
The Photograph Rain slid down the windows of Drea's
London flat in quiet sheets, the kind that
muffled the city but never her thoughts.
Midnight had come and gone, yet she
remained on the couch, laptop balanced
on her knees, scrolling through a stream of
faces she didn't know and places she
would never go.
Until she found him.
He was sitting at a table in Rome, phone in
one hand, a glass of amber liquid in the
other, sunlight catching just enough of the
wall behind him to warm the edges of the
frame. But it wasn't the location that froze her, nor the aesthetic of the shot. It was the smirk-subtle, secretive, and magnetic.
It felt as though he was aware of her, alone
in her flat, staring at his photo. Something
about the ease in his posture, the slight tilt
of his head, and the unreadable depth of
his eyes struck her like an unexpected note
in a familiar song.
No real name. Just a pseudonym at the
top: @VeritasNoctis.
Drea clicked to his profile. Thirteen posts.
Minimal captions. Black-and-white streets,
empty benches, half-hidden figures. Latin
phrases she had to translate. Veritas in
tenebris lucet. The truth shines in the dark.
She scrolled again. And again. She couldn't
explain why, but every post felt like it had been left for her specifically.
- Writer
