[FRAME ONE]

You called, asked me whether I wanted to have dinner with you. You said you wanted to celebrate something. I picked you up at your office, a thirty‐minute drive from mine. The evening air was thick when you stepped out of your building. You were seven minutes late, slightly breathless, tucking your hair behind your ear.

The Italian place was quiet for a Friday. Wine glasses clinked, shadows danced on white tablecloths, and the owner’s grey cat watched us from its usual spot by the window. Our knees touched under the small table while you told me about a book you would never finish reading. Something parallel universes and how time wasn’t really linear. I watched the way your fingers traced the rim of your wine glass, leaving prints that disappeared like secrets.

[FRAME TWO]

The drive back was filled with comfortable silence until we reached your building. You didn’t move to get out. Instead, you stared at your windows, dark against the night sky. “My place feels too quiet lately”, you said, fingers playing with the strap of your bag. Your hand reached inside, searching for something, then stopped halfway. The streetlight above us flickered, catching the hesitation in your expression. “I don’t want to go home yet”, you whispered, almost to yourself.

“We could go to my place” I said, like an afterthought, though we both knew it wasn’t. You looked at me then, really looked at me, as if you had seen this moment coming from miles away. Your fingers found mine across the center console, and you nodded.

Just once. Just enough.

[FRAME THREE]

Your eyes mapped the geography of my organized chaos, and I saw my apartment through your gaze. Negative sheets spread across my desk, empty film canisters pilled up in a cardboard box and a half-empty coffee mug from three days ago. Books stacked like building blocks beside my bed. You didn’t comment on the mess; you simply trailed your fingers across my negative sheet.

The room felt smaller with you in it. You tiptoed to reach my face — I had never noticed how much shorter you were without your office heels. Then came a kiss. Sweet as watermelon, warm as sunset.

The taste of wine still lingered on your tongue.

[FRAME FOUR]

Your blouse fell quietly to the floor beside my bed. In the darkness of my room, I could sense your soft, delicate figure. I asked if you wanted to stop, and you answered by pressing your lips against mine, with your hands pulling me closer. There was a gentleness in the way your fingers traced their way across my shoulders.

A small scar below your rib cage caught the streetlight filtering through my blinds. Your hands shook slightly as they moved across my skin, and I wondered if you were as nervous as I was. Some moments were meant to stay unspoken. Like how your fingers quivered. Like the way you held your breath.

[FRAME FIVE]

Strange how naked felt like the easiest part. It was everything else that made us tremble.

[FRAME SIX]

I realized you never had a good night’s sleep. Your body twitched beside me and your fingers clutched the sheets. In the blue darkness, I watched your face contort against whatever haunted your dreams. As if your past was a regular guest that pays you a visit every night, sitting at the edge of the bed, leaving impressions only you can see.

I held your hand and whispered that everything’s gonna be okay. The lie tasted familiar on my tongue. You squeezed back unconsciously, and for a moment, your face softened as if you believed me.

[FRAME SEVEN]

In the silence between breaths, we both knew something we were afraid to admit: You, that you might stay. Me, that I wanted you to. Us, that there might be an us.

Some people collect broken things. Some people are the broken things. I’m not sure which one of us is which.

[FRAME EIGHT]

You’re gone, but your presence lingers. A long dark hair curls on my pillowcase. The faint trace of your perfume clings in my sheets. A coffee mug on my desk with the ghost of your lipstick on its rim: coral pink, slightly smudged. This morning feels cold and hollow.

You are a shattered vase filled with withered roses. And as I try to piece together the fragments of you left behind, I realize: the tighter I hold these memories, the more distant they feel.