(not exactly a poem...) They met behind old cameras, fingers stained with developer fluid and hearts learning how to expose gently. In the red-lit darkroom, she taught him patience — how sometimes you have to wait for the image to reveal itself. He fell in love with her silences, the way she saw beauty in imperfections. Somewhere between shutter clicks and shared glances, he knew she was never his to keep — just a moment captured too briefly. But it wasn’t just the photographs. In the evenings, she played the piano in the studio’s corner, soft like rainfall after a storm. He played too — not well, but loud — like thunder trying to understand grace. He didn’t fall for her in a kiss, or a glance, but when she missed a note, laughed, and kept playing. He thought: this is someone I could break with and still remain whole. Time passed. Her music grew quieter, her hands steadier with light. His focus less steady. Life pulled them into separate rooms — different songs, different frames. Before leaving, she fixed his collar like she always did. Then she smiled — the kind of smile you give when something hurts but you still mean it. He watched her go, still loving her, still full of questions. She didn’t stop loving him either. That was never the problem. She never promised forever, only that she'd remember him whenever the film caught a light flare — like the ghost of something once bright. And when she left, she slipped a photo in his coat: blurry at the edges, warm in the center — like love, learning how to fade. And sometimes, in his quiet room, he still imagines that click. That note. Just in case she starts again. Just in case he captures her again.