in the frame: My letter to you

I never liked you; it just wasn't possible. Your tendency to dismiss compliments, the constant presence of headphones, and the stunning detail in your photographs were all too much. Mr. Clarke, in front of the class and the glowing projector, would praise your work, emphasizing how your photos perfectly captured the assignment. "This is what you should aim for if you want to excel in photography," he'd say, visibly impressed and a bit exasperated with the rest of us.

His words felt like a sharp jab, yet he was right. Your photos were a class apart, effortlessly embodying the assigned themes. My attempts fell short, lacking the same depth, the interplay of shadows and light always missing the mark.

Driven by jealousy and immaturity, I shadowed you, making a spectacle of myself in your photographs in a clumsy attempt to capture your attention. Initially, it just seemed to annoy you, but as the light faded and our visibility diminished, you walked away, leaving me to reflect on my actions in silence.

My antics continued until your frustration erupted. Only then did I realize how unnecessary and foolish my behavior had been. I offered a genuine apology, and gradually, things returned to normal between us.

Yet, I felt an emptiness that seemed mutual when you offered to help me improve my photography. As we worked together, an unexpected touch sparked a new chapter in our relationship, awkward yet promising.

Our interactions grew warmer, and we found ourselves constantly drawn to each other, our cameras capturing moments of shared joy and connection. Photography, I learned, wasn't about technical perfection but the thrill of the moment, the shared emotions, and the stories captured through our lenses.

Now, I see you running through a field of dandelions, arms wide open, inviting. I'm sorry for the pain I caused.
But can we keep it this way forever?