I was proud of my exhibition. Weeks of late nights, editing, retouching, framing—it had all come together. People were murmuring compliments I didn't fully register, professors were nodding, strangers were trying too hard to sound profound. I smiled, nodded, posed for the photos, and let the compliments roll over me like white noise.
But I was tired.
Not just physically—mentally, emotionally. The gala was polished and loud, the kind of boredom that squeezes you from all sides. Laughter too loud, glasses clinking, people trying to outshine each other with words instead of presence. I needed air.
I slipped through the side doors into the courtyard. Relief washed over me immediately. The string lights tangled in the trees cast soft glows on the stone benches, the cool night air hitting my face felt like the first real thing I'd experienced all evening. I sank into a bench, stretching my legs, letting my camera bag fall to the ground beside me. For a few minutes, the world could wait.
That's when I noticed him
He sat beside me without saying a word and said
-You know they're inside waiting for you, right? - he said casually, startling me.
I caught myself studying him without thinking. Something in me tightened—interest, curiosity, something quieter that I hadn't expected.
I blinked, caught off guard by his tone. Not nervous, not shy—just… there.
-At least five people are probably rehearsing compliments about my "visual language," - I replied dryly, letting a small laugh slip out.
He shrugged, flicking his sneakers.
-Fair. I'm Light.
-Pond, - I said automatically. My voice sounded hoarse even to me.
-Yeah, I know, - he said lightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. - Same department.
I tilted my head, noticing how he looked at the photos first, then back at me, as if he was curious rather than impressed.
-Photography track? - I asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear him say it.
-Trying to be, - he said. - I wanted to see the exhibition. They've been talking about pushing me to apply for the advanced studio next year. I wanted to see other people's work. Yours especially.
Something in me shifted. He hadn't come to flatter me. He didn't even know me, and yet he had singled out my work. My chest tightened, a strange warmth pooling somewhere deep in my stomach.
- Why mine?
-Because it doesn't feel like it's begging to be liked. I'm tired of photos that try too hard to prove something, - he said, shrugging.
I leaned back against the back of the bench behind me, exhaling slowly. Finally. Finally someone who wasn't trying to impress me or themselves. Someone who could just… be.
-You always sit next to strangers and psychoanalyze them? - I asked, a smirk tugging at my lips.
-Only the ones who run away from their own gala, - he said softly, still relaxed.
I laughed quietly. ,Fair. That was fair.
I eventually noticed he was a really good company "friend," though I wasn't ready to call it that, even to myself. The calm way he carried himself, the way he spoke without trying to fill silence, made the space around him feel… easy. Safe. I wanted to be near that ease.
I didn't know it then, but stepping outside to breathe, escaping the polished noise of the gala, was the moment the first thread of fascination began. Watching him, quiet and unbothered, unknowingly pulled me in. And I didn't want to pull away.
At first, I didn't feel any connection. Not really.
I was proud of my exhibition, tired from weeks of late nights, and just… existing in the noise of the gala. I stepped outside for air, thinking I needed a break from the clinking glasses, the rehearsed compliments, the weight of everyone expecting me to be "the hot photographer," "the talented one," the one who always had it together.
And I thought, he's just a freshman. It's nothing. Just noticing someone, that's all.
But then I felt it.
And I didn't understand why. My whole life, I'd been told I had to be straight, that anything else wouldn't be part of the family, that feelings like this weren't acceptable. That's why I was serious at first. This is nothing. Don't think about it.
But every time he laughed, lightly, without pretense, or the way his eyes focused on the photos instead of me, I found myself drawn in. And I kept asking myself, over and over: Why am I feeling like this?
It wasn't just curiosity, or admiration for his presence. It was something sharper, quieter, subtler. A pull in my chest, a twinge in my stomach. And I realized—slowly, terrifyingly—that maybe I didn't want to ignore it.
I wanted to watch him. To talk to him. To know what it felt like to just… be near him, without pretending, without performing. And the more I watched, the more I noticed, the more impossible it became to pretend it was nothing.
At first, I didn't feel connection. But by the time I caught him looking at my work, genuinely interested, I knew that something had already begun. Something I wasn't ready to name, and maybe wouldn't for a long time.