Chapter 3 — Fragments of the Past

Claire

The pale morning light filtered through the sheer curtains in Claire’s loft, dappling the wooden floor with shifting patterns that reminded her of water rippling over stones. The room smelled faintly of coffee and lavender, a comforting blend that did little to quell the unease twisting in her chest. Her laptop screen glared back at her, the cursor blinking in rhythmic defiance against the blank document she’d abandoned hours ago. Her vintage camera sat on the desk beside her, its leather strap coiled like a sleeping serpent, as if waiting for her to wake it from its slumber. Weeks had passed since she’d picked it up with any real purpose. Weeks since she’d felt the familiar spark of inspiration that used to pull her out of bed in the mornings.

The text from last night lingered in her mind, its words etched into her thoughts like faint grooves in glass. She could still hear the quiet ache in Ethan’s—no, the sender’s—message, raw and unguarded in a way that felt both intimate and overwhelming. Reckless, she chastised herself. Responding had been reckless. And yet, something in his words had reached her in a way nothing else had in months. A shared loneliness, perhaps. A recognition of grief’s weight, even if it wasn’t her own.

Her gaze drifted across the room to Sophia’s side of the loft, its vibrant chaos a stark contrast to her own subdued corner. Brightly patterned throw pillows spilled off the couch, and a pair of Sophia’s statement earrings—oversized teal hoops—perched atop a stack of unopened mail like tiny sculptures. The room seemed to hum with Sophia’s energy, her personality spilling out in colors and textures that demanded attention. Claire felt a flicker of envy, sharp and fleeting. Sophia’s vibrancy was effortless, a natural extension of who she was. Claire, in comparison, felt like a faded photograph—a ghost of the person she used to be.

Her mind wandered to the first time they’d moved into the loft together. Sophia had spent hours arranging her things, her laughter filling the space as she teased Claire for her meticulous unpacking. “You’re going to drive yourself mad arranging things just so,” Sophia had said, waving a statement earring in the air like a wand. “Live a little, Bennett. Not everything has to be perfect.” Claire had laughed then, but now the memory stung. Perfection wasn’t the problem—fear was.

She pushed herself up from the chair, her joints stiff from sitting too long. Crossing the room, she knelt by the small dresser tucked into the corner. Her fingers hesitated on the handle of the bottom drawer, the air in her lungs suddenly heavy. Slowly, she pulled it open and retrieved a small wooden box. It was unassuming, with a simple latch, yet it seemed to radiate an almost unbearable weight.

Claire lifted the lid, her breath catching as she confronted the fragments of her past. A photograph of her and Michael, her ex-fiancé, laughing on a sunlit hike. A folded note he’d once left on the kitchen counter, his handwriting looping with casual affection. And beneath it all, the engagement ring. The diamond sparkled in the morning light, refracting tiny rainbows onto the muted walls of the loft.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the photograph. Her own face stared back at her, younger, unburdened, her smile impossibly wide. Michael’s arm was slung around her shoulders, his confident grin a perfect match for the optimism they’d shared that day. She could almost hear the crunch of dirt underfoot, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the sound of their laughter echoing through the trail.

“Someday, this will be us,” Michael had said, pointing to the distant mountains. His voice had been full of certainty. “Crossing every peak together.”

“Every peak?” Claire had teased, nudging him with her elbow. “That’s ambitious.”

“You’re ambitious,” he’d replied, his grin softening. “That’s why I know you’ll open that gallery someday. And when you do, I’ll be right there beside you.”

For the first time in years, she had believed in a future that felt both exciting and attainable. And then it had all unraveled.

Claire traced the edge of the photo with her thumb, her mind replaying the memory like an old film reel, its colors fading with each pass. Her throat tightened as she set the photograph back in the box and closed the lid with a soft click. The memories were heavy, like stones pressing against her ribcage, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw them away. Not yet. Maybe not ever. They were a part of her, even if they were a part she wished she could forget.

She turned back to her desk, her eyes falling on the vintage camera. It had been a gift from her grandmother when she graduated high school, a tangible encouragement to pursue her passion for photography. Her grandmother had believed in art’s power to tell truths, to reveal beauty and pain in equal measure. Claire had once believed that too.

But practicality had a way of eclipsing beauty. After Michael left, she had taken safe jobs—freelance gigs that paid the bills but dulled her creative spark. She had stopped submitting her work to competitions, stopped dreaming about gallery openings and artistic breakthroughs. The camera had become a relic of a life she no longer recognized.

Her phone buzzed on the desk, pulling her from her thoughts. She glanced at the screen. It wasn’t him. It was Sophia, likely reminding her of some errand or teasing her about spending too much time brooding. The notification preview read: *“Get out of your head, Bennett. The world’s not going to photograph itself!”*

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Claire’s mouth, but it quickly faded. Sophia’s words echoed in her mind as she opened the text thread with the sender. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. What could she even say? She’d already crossed a line by responding in the first place, and now she was caught in an emotional limbo of her own making. For a moment, her thumb hovered over the option to delete the thread entirely. She imagined the message disappearing, the connection severed before it could go any further. But the thought filled her with an ache she couldn’t name. She could still hear his words, the raw honesty of them, as if they were meant for her and no one else.

With a sigh, she locked the phone and set it aside.

Instead, she reached for the camera. The weight of it in her hands was both familiar and foreign, like holding a memory she wasn’t sure she could trust. She adjusted the strap and slung it over her shoulder, moving to the window. Below, the city pulsed with life—cars weaving through intersections, pedestrians navigating crosswalks, a cyclist balancing a tower of takeout containers with precarious precision. The world outside her window was messy, chaotic, alive. She raised the camera, framing a shot of the street corner where the sunlight hit the pavement just so, casting long, jagged shadows.

Her finger hovered over the shutter button, her mind a tangle of doubts. What was the point? It wasn’t like this photo—or any photo—would change her circumstances. It wouldn’t erase the mistakes she’d made or the dreams she’d let slip through her fingers.

But then she thought of the sender’s words. The way he had poured his heart into a message meant for someone who couldn’t respond. The way he had reached out into the void, not knowing if anyone would answer. It had been an act of courage, however small. Maybe she could muster the same.

Claire pressed the shutter. The click of the camera broke the silence of the loft, sharp and satisfying.

She lowered the camera and reviewed the image on the small screen. It wasn’t perfect—the lighting needed work, and the composition felt rushed—but it was something. A beginning.

For the first time in months, Claire felt a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. Hope, maybe. Or courage. She didn’t know where this connection with the sender would lead, or if she’d even find the strength to tell him the truth. But for now, she had the camera in her hands and a city full of stories waiting to be captured.

That, she decided, was enough for today.