Chapter 3 — Evening Conversations

Dual POV

Clara

The soft hum of the city filtered through Clara’s partially open window. Traffic murmured below, a rhythmic backdrop to the glow of her laptop screen. She sat cross-legged on her worn gray couch, her fingers brushing the edge of her phone. The faint scent of lavender from a nearby candle mingled with the aroma of her half-finished mug of chamomile tea.

The latest message from Lucas lit up her screen.

*If your photography captures half as much as the way you describe the world, it must be breathtaking.*

Clara stared at the words, her heart thudding with a strange mix of flattery and disbelief. It was such an easy compliment, but somehow it felt heavier, more meaningful. She tucked her legs closer to her chest, the oversized sleeves of her sweater brushing against her cheek as she smiled faintly.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She hesitated, her mind flickering to the photos tucked away in boxes—moments she had once been proud of but now couldn’t bear to look at. The voice in her head, sharp and familiar, whispered that she wasn’t good enough, that sharing her work would expose her in ways she might not recover from.

*Thank you,* she typed back. The words felt insufficient, but she pressed on, her fingers trembling slightly. After a pause and a deep breath, she added: *Photography feels like catching fireflies. The light is fleeting, and sometimes it slips through your fingers, but when you capture it, even for a moment, it feels like magic.*

She hit send before she could overthink it. Her stomach tightened, her fingers gripping the edge of her phone as she waited for his reply.

Lucas didn’t keep her waiting long.

*Fireflies. I like that. I’ve always thought writing is like trying to carve shadows into something solid. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it just... vanishes.*

Her phone buzzed again almost immediately.

*Sorry, that sounded pretentious, didn’t it? I swear I’m not sitting here with a glass of red wine and a beret.*

Clara laughed softly, the sound surprising her in the stillness of her apartment. She could almost picture him—whoever he was—typing with an apologetic smile tugging at his lips. She imagined his notebook beside him, pages marked with ink smudges and words that spilled out in fits and starts.

*Not pretentious at all. Shadows can be beautiful too,* she replied. *And I’ll forgive the beret as long as there’s no snapping involved.*

Her phone buzzed again.

*Deal. No berets, no snapping. Just a bad cup of coffee and a blinking cursor.*

Clara chuckled, setting her phone down for a moment to sip her tea. The warmth slid through her, softening the hum of nervous energy beneath her skin. This was strange, wasn’t it? This connection with a stranger whose face she couldn’t picture, whose voice she’d never heard. But it felt... easy. Easier than she’d expected.

Her gaze drifted to her vintage camera sitting on the windowsill. The light from the streetlamps outside caught on its scuffed edges, making it look almost alive. She’d used it earlier in the day for the first time in what felt like years. The click of the shutter had been a small act of defiance against that nagging voice in her head, and for a brief moment, she’d felt the spark of something she thought she’d lost.

She reached for her phone, then hesitated, her fingers hovering above the camera icon. Sharing the photo felt like peeling back a layer of herself, one she wasn’t sure she was ready to reveal. The camera wasn’t just an object; it was a piece of her history, a gift from her father that had once been a source of joy and confidence. Could she risk showing that part of herself to someone who, despite his kindness, was still a stranger?

But his words lingered in her mind. *It must be breathtaking.*

She snapped a quick photo of the camera, the city’s warm evening glow framing it, and attached it to a message.

*Here’s my firefly net,* she typed, her breath catching as she hit send.

The reply came faster than she expected.

*It’s beautiful. Feels like it has stories to tell.*

Clara’s chest tightened. She ran her thumb over the edge of her phone, debating what to say next. But before she could decide, another message appeared.

*If you’re not careful, I’m going to ask to see the fireflies it’s caught.*

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. The thought of sharing her work—her heart, really—made her stomach twist. She thought of her father’s voice, encouraging her to take the camera out into the world when she was younger, telling her that not every photo needed to be perfect to matter.

*Maybe one day,* she sent back, her pulse quickening as she hit send.

She set her phone aside, leaning back against the couch cushions. The faint hum of traffic outside filled the quiet, grounding her. For the first time in a long time, she felt the edges of her walls softening.

---

Lucas

Lucas leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he stared at Clara’s message. *Maybe one day.* It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. He tapped his pen against the edge of his notebook, the rhythmic click filling the quiet of his apartment.

The photo she’d sent lingered on his screen. The camera had a worn, well-loved look, like it had been a part of her life for years. It fit her, somehow, even though he barely knew her.

Barely knew her.

The thought made him pause. This connection—whatever it was—had come out of nowhere. And yet it felt... significant. He’d spent so long drowning in the ache of unfinished letters and words left unsaid that he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this. The lightness. The spark.

He glanced at the mug on his desk, its contents lukewarm and bitter, a far cry from the rich espresso he usually grabbed from The Solace Café. He made a mental note to pick up a fresh bag of beans tomorrow, his thoughts drifting, unbidden, to the possibility of running into Clara there.

Flipping open his notebook, he passed over pages of scribbled notes and half-finished drafts until he found a blank page.

*Fireflies and shadows,* he wrote at the top, the words looping across the page in his cramped handwriting. His pen hesitated, hovering just above the paper, before he began to write:

*She said photography was like catching fireflies, and I couldn’t help but picture her standing in the soft glow of dusk, her hands outstretched. She would move carefully, reverently, her gaze fixed on the light as if it held the answer to a question she hadn’t yet asked. And maybe it did. Maybe it always had.*

He stopped, his pen hovering mid-air. The words felt raw, unpolished, but they carried a weight that made his chest ache. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, a small knot of doubt loosening in his chest.

Setting the pen down, he picked up his phone, typing quickly before he could second-guess himself.

*You inspire me, you know. I sat down to write tonight and the words didn’t fight me for once. Thank you.*

He hit send and leaned back, his heart pounding as he stared at the screen.

Her reply came a moment later.

*I could say the same to you.*

Lucas smiled, a quiet warmth spreading through him. For the first time in weeks, the blinking cursor on his screen didn’t seem quite as daunting anymore.

---

Clara

Clara lay on her couch, her phone resting on her chest as she stared at the ceiling. Her heart was lighter than it had been in weeks, maybe months. She felt the way she did after a good photograph—like she’d caught something fleeting and precious, something that made the world feel just a little more alive.

Her phone buzzed again.

*Goodnight, Clara. Catch some fireflies for me.*

She smiled, typing back before she could overthink it.

*Goodnight, Lucas. And don’t let those shadows get away.*

After setting her phone aside, she picked up her camera from the windowsill and held it in her hands. She didn’t need to take another photo tonight, but she wanted to feel its weight, its presence.

For the first time in a long time, the world didn’t feel quite so heavy.