Chapter 2 — Through Their Eyes
Dual POV
Clara
The morning light spilled across the wooden floor of Clara’s studio apartment, casting soft, golden hues over the quiet clutter of her space. Photographs, some framed, others curled at the edges, lay scattered across her desk like fragments of an unfinished story. Her vintage film camera sat on the far corner, its leather strap twisted and worn, a relic of both her past and her hesitation. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mixing with the steam rising from her coffee mug, curling upward like the inspiration she hadn’t felt in years.
Clara cradled the mug, her thumb idly tracing its chipped rim. Her gaze lingered on the camera. It had been her father’s, passed down with the kind of reverence reserved for heirlooms. She remembered the way his hands would deftly adjust the settings, his voice steady as he explained aperture and light. “Capture what matters,” he’d said, his hazel eyes—so much like hers—bright with pride.
But now, every time she looked at it, the weight of her own expectations pressed down harder. What if what she captured didn’t matter? What if her work was just... ordinary?
The creak of a floorboard broke the silence as she shifted in her chair. Her phone buzzed on the table, startling her. She hesitated before picking it up, her heartbeat quickening.
[Unknown Number]: “Sorry again about the mix-up yesterday. I promise I’m usually better at texting strangers. Or, you know, not texting strangers at all. Hope the universe didn’t conspire to ruin your day.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. There was something endearing about his awkwardness, a sincerity she wasn’t used to. And yet, the reminder that the text wasn’t meant for her stung more than she cared to admit. Still, she typed:
[Clara]: “No harm done. The universe is on probation, though. You’ve got it writing a heartfelt apology next.”
The response came almost instantly.
[Unknown Number]: “Noted. I’ll take dictation and make sure it’s poetic.”
She laughed softly, setting the phone down. Her gaze drifted back to the camera on her desk. What if she picked it up? What if she tried? Her stomach twisted with equal parts longing and dread.
She reached for the camera, the leather strap rough against her fingers. It was heavier than she remembered, the weight of her doubts pressing into her palm. Her thumb brushed the shutter button, its familiar ridges grounding her.
The light from the window pooled over her desk, illuminating a small stack of untouched photo paper. She imagined framing the scene before her—the golden light, the tangled strap, the empty stillness. Her index finger hovered over the shutter button. She took a breath.
The soft click of the shutter broke the silence. She lowered the camera, her chest tight, unsure if the moment she’d captured was worth keeping. But at least she’d tried.
---
Lucas
Lucas sat hunched at the worn wooden table in his apartment, the faint aroma of tea curling up from the mug beside him. His leather notebook lay open, pages scarred with half-formed ideas and crossed-out lines. He tapped his pen against his lip, staring at the blank space beneath a hastily scribbled title: *The Weight of What We Leave Unsaid.*
Nothing came.
With a frustrated sigh, he closed the notebook and shoved it aside. His eyes drifted toward the stack of unsent letters on the shelf across the room. Each envelope bore Emma’s name in his looping handwriting. He hadn’t opened the folder in months—it sat there like a monument to everything he hadn’t been able to let go of.
The mistaken text from yesterday gnawed at the edges of his mind, though not for the reasons he’d expected. It wasn’t the embarrassment. It was her reply—Clara’s reply. There had been something about her kindness, her willingness to engage with his clumsy message, that felt... significant.
His phone buzzed, and he grabbed it, relieved for the distraction.
[Clara]: “Poetic, huh? No pressure, then. I’ll expect Shakespeare-level groveling.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. Her wit was sharp, but there was warmth beneath it—a quiet strength that intrigued him. He hadn’t felt this kind of spark in a long time.
[Lucas]: “Shakespeare’s a bit overdone, don’t you think? I was thinking more E. E. Cummings. Or maybe a haiku for efficiency. ‘Universe messed up. / Sent my heart to a stranger. / Who knew? Not too bad.’”
He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the send button. Would she think it was too much? Too silly? He exhaled and hit send, leaning back in his chair. Vulnerability, even in humor, wasn’t something that came easily to him.
The phone buzzed again.
[Clara]: “Okay, that was good. Maybe the universe can stay.”
A grin spread across his face. He glanced out the window, the faint hum of the city filtering through the glass. For the first time in weeks, his chest felt a little lighter.
---
Clara
The day passed in a blur of emails and half-hearted edits to a corporate shoot. The photos were clean, professional, but sterile. They weren’t hers. They didn’t carry her voice. She was just a pair of hands behind a lens, capturing someone else’s vision.
Her phone buzzed again that evening as she folded laundry, the message lighting up the quiet of her apartment.
[Lucas]: “So, what’s your thing? Everyone’s got a thing.”
She frowned, sitting on the edge of her bed.
[Clara]: “My thing?”
[Lucas]: “Yeah. Your thing. The thing you love or do when no one’s watching. The thing that makes you feel alive.”
Her fingers hesitated over the screen. It should’ve been an easy answer. Photography. It was always photography. But now...
[Clara]: “Photography, I guess. Though it’s complicated these days.”
[Lucas]: “Complicated how?”
Her gaze drifted to her frosted glass jar on the bedside table. How could she explain the suffocating weight of her own expectations to a stranger? Instead, she typed:
[Clara]: “It’s like trying to catch light in your hands. You want to hold onto it, but it keeps slipping through your fingers.”
The response came slower this time, as though he was thinking it over.
[Lucas]: “That’s the most beautiful non-answer I’ve ever heard.”
She smiled despite herself, setting the phone down. The conversation lingered with her, filling the quiet spaces of her apartment as she moved through the rest of her evening.
---
Lucas
Later that night, Lucas sat by the window of his apartment, the city lights twinkling against the dark. His notebook lay open on the sill, a fresh page waiting for his pen.
*Trying to catch light in your hands.* Clara’s words echoed in his mind, cracking something open inside him. He picked up his pen and began to write, the ink flowing in uneven lines:
*"It’s not the weight of what we hold that breaks us, but the weight of trying to hold on. Light slips through our fingers, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re not meant to keep it forever—just long enough to see by it."*
He paused, rereading the lines. They weren’t perfect, but they felt true.
His phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen.
[Clara]: “Thanks for the chat. It’s been... nice.”
He smiled, typing back.
[Lucas]: “Nice is an understatement. But yeah, thanks. For catching some light with me.”
{{new_chapter}}
