post 10

“You ready?”
I look up, biting my lip distractedly as my eyes meet his, and I look away almost immediately, my breath whooshing out in a faint sigh.
Spending an hour alone with the guy who you’ve been hopelessly in love with since fourth grade is not and never will be—not even remotely—a good idea.
Yet I respond, “Yeah. Where to?”
He shrugs. “I thought we could do the shoot by the Physics hall.”
Too nervous to say anything, we leave the empty classroom following through flights of stairs to the ground floor. I slip off my backpack and pretend not to watch him as he paces the length of the corridor, searching for better camera angles and shadow gradients that only he can see.
Then he turns around. “Could you sit by the windows?”
“Sure.” I try to walk normally, even as my heart jumps at the sound of his footsteps escorting me. I take my position by the window. He observes for a few seconds; his stare open and direct, at me.
“Could you let out your hair?”
I wordlessly undo my braids.

“Cool.”
He exhales and cocks his head to the side, squinting at me in a way that instantly makes me feel unbelievably self-conscious. “Can you sit cross-legged … and maybe look slightly down and to your right?”
I comply, sitting on the floor, cross-legged, glancing down over my right knee.
“Perfect.”
There is snap-click of the shutter, followed by the whir of the Polaroid camera cautiously spitting out its product. I hold still, marvelling at the fact that this boy—the one I’ve been staring at longingly since I was nine years old, the one I’ve had to muster up courage just to talk to—has just taken a picture of me, an everlasting memory of mine. But I also wonder ruefully whether twenty years from now he’ll still have that picture, and if he’ll look back on it and ever realise that it’s the face of a girl who secretly loved him.
“It’s good,” he finally says, and I can tell from the low, relaxed tone of his voice he’s telling the truth. “I’ll probably only need a couple more, and then we’ll be done.”
I swallow. “Okay.”

post 9

“You ready?”
I look up, biting my lip distractedly as my eyes meet his, and I look away almost immediately, my breath whooshing out in a faint sigh.
Spending an hour alone with the guy who you’ve been hopelessly in love with since fourth grade is not and never will be—not even remotely—a good idea.
Yet I respond, “Yeah. Where to?”
He shrugs. “I thought we could do the shoot by the Physics hall.”
Too nervous to say anything, we leave the empty classroom following through flights of stairs to the ground floor. I slip off my backpack and pretend not to watch him as he paces the length of the corridor, searching for better camera angles and shadow gradients that only he can see.
Then he turns around. “Could you sit by the windows?”
“Sure.” I try to walk normally, even as my heart jumps at the sound of his footsteps escorting me. I take my position by the window. He observes for a few seconds; his stare open and direct, at me.
“Could you let out your hair?”
I wordlessly undo my braids.

“Cool.”
He exhales and cocks his head to the side, squinting at me in a way that instantly makes me feel unbelievably self-conscious. “Can you sit cross-legged … and maybe look slightly down and to your right?”
I comply, sitting on the floor, cross-legged, glancing down over my right knee.
“Perfect.”
There is snap-click of the shutter, followed by the whir of the Polaroid camera cautiously spitting out its product. I hold still, marvelling at the fact that this boy—the one I’ve been staring at longingly since I was nine years old, the one I’ve had to muster up courage just to talk to—has just taken a picture of me, an everlasting memory of mine. But I also wonder ruefully whether twenty years from now he’ll still have that picture, and if he’ll look back on it and ever realise that it’s the face of a girl who secretly loved him.
“It’s good,” he finally says, and I can tell from the low, relaxed tone of his voice he’s telling the truth. “I’ll probably only need a couple more, and then we’ll be done.”
I swallow. “Okay.”

post 8

“You ready?”
I look up, biting my lip distractedly as my eyes meet his, and I look away almost immediately, my breath whooshing out in a faint sigh.
Spending an hour alone with the guy who you’ve been hopelessly in love with since fourth grade is not and never will be—not even remotely—a good idea.
Yet I respond, “Yeah. Where to?”
He shrugs. “I thought we could do the shoot by the Physics hall.”
Too nervous to say anything, we leave the empty classroom following through flights of stairs to the ground floor. I slip off my backpack and pretend not to watch him as he paces the length of the corridor, searching for better camera angles and shadow gradients that only he can see.
Then he turns around. “Could you sit by the windows?”
“Sure.” I try to walk normally, even as my heart jumps at the sound of his footsteps escorting me. I take my position by the window. He observes for a few seconds; his stare open and direct, at me.
“Could you let out your hair?”
I wordlessly undo my braids.

“Cool.”
He exhales and cocks his head to the side, squinting at me in a way that instantly makes me feel unbelievably self-conscious. “Can you sit cross-legged … and maybe look slightly down and to your right?”
I comply, sitting on the floor, cross-legged, glancing down over my right knee.
“Perfect.”
There is snap-click of the shutter, followed by the whir of the Polaroid camera cautiously spitting out its product. I hold still, marvelling at the fact that this boy—the one I’ve been staring at longingly since I was nine years old, the one I’ve had to muster up courage just to talk to—has just taken a picture of me, an everlasting memory of mine. But I also wonder ruefully whether twenty years from now he’ll still have that picture, and if he’ll look back on it and ever realise that it’s the face of a girl who secretly loved him.
“It’s good,” he finally says, and I can tell from the low, relaxed tone of his voice he’s telling the truth. “I’ll probably only need a couple more, and then we’ll be done.”
I swallow. “Okay.”

post 7

“You ready?”
I look up, biting my lip distractedly as my eyes meet his, and I look away almost immediately, my breath whooshing out in a faint sigh.
Spending an hour alone with the guy who you’ve been hopelessly in love with since fourth grade is not and never will be—not even remotely—a good idea.
Yet I respond, “Yeah. Where to?”
He shrugs. “I thought we could do the shoot by the Physics hall.”
Too nervous to say anything, we leave the empty classroom following through flights of stairs to the ground floor. I slip off my backpack and pretend not to watch him as he paces the length of the corridor, searching for better camera angles and shadow gradients that only he can see.
Then he turns around. “Could you sit by the windows?”
“Sure.” I try to walk normally, even as my heart jumps at the sound of his footsteps escorting me. I take my position by the window. He observes for a few seconds; his stare open and direct, at me.
“Could you let out your hair?”
I wordlessly undo my braids.

“Cool.”
He exhales and cocks his head to the side, squinting at me in a way that instantly makes me feel unbelievably self-conscious. “Can you sit cross-legged … and maybe look slightly down and to your right?”
I comply, sitting on the floor, cross-legged, glancing down over my right knee.
“Perfect.”
There is snap-click of the shutter, followed by the whir of the Polaroid camera cautiously spitting out its product. I hold still, marvelling at the fact that this boy—the one I’ve been staring at longingly since I was nine years old, the one I’ve had to muster up courage just to talk to—has just taken a picture of me, an everlasting memory of mine. But I also wonder ruefully whether twenty years from now he’ll still have that picture, and if he’ll look back on it and ever realise that it’s the face of a girl who secretly loved him.
“It’s good,” he finally says, and I can tell from the low, relaxed tone of his voice he’s telling the truth. “I’ll probably only need a couple more, and then we’ll be done.”
I swallow. “Okay.”