Maya lay in bed, eyes wide open, listening to the low murmur of the city outside her window. The photograph rested on her nightstand, half-hidden under a stack of books she used as a makeshift coaster. It felt heavier in the dark—like a promise she wasn't sure she wanted to keep.
She'd never been good at secrets. But this one felt different. It belonged to someone else, not her. Still, the discovery that Elise had already existed in Maya's life—caught on film, framed in another time—unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
When dawn light leaked around the curtains, she reached out and touched the photograph. The paper was cool, the image slightly grainy. Elise's smile, frozen in that single moment, seemed to shift as Maya's finger traced the corner of her jaw. This was who Maya had been waiting for, even before she knew it.
She couldn't go back to normal. Not now.
Breakfast was the usual: black coffee, burnt toast, and Bean silently judging from her perch. Maya tried to settle into routine—opened the fridge, made the coffee, slapped the bread into the toaster—but nothing felt right. Every clink of spoon against mug echoed like a question: What are you going to do?
By the time she left her apartment, she had an answer.
She would talk to Elise. Today.
The library was quiet when Maya arrived—only three patrons scattered among the reading tables, heads bent low over newspapers. Neil hadn't shown up yet, which meant she had a half-hour alone before the morning rush. The perfect window.
Maya went directly to the circulation desk, slid the photograph out of her cardigan pocket, and stared at it. She rehearsed what she would say. Something casual, nonchalant.
"Hey, remember when you asked for photography archives? I think I misidentified one of your photos."
She frowned. That sounded clumsy. Worse, it sounded defensive.
She tried a different approach: "I, uh, I have something that belongs to you."
She let out a breath. The words felt heavier than they should.
She tucked the photo safely into the pocket of her apron, then leaned forward and pressed the buzzer for the staff door. Footsteps sounded. The door clicked open.
There stood Elise—denim jacket still dark, hair pinned up this time, droplets of rain still clinging to the curls at her nape.
"Good morning," Elise said, voice soft as silk. She set her camera bag on the desk with careful deliberation. "Did you find that contact sheet?"
Maya's heart skipped. "I—I did. But before that, I found something else."
Elise raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Maya took a breath. "You might want this back."
She pulled the photograph from her pocket and placed it on the desk, face up. Elise leaned in, eyes narrowing as she recognized the image.
"It's…me," she said finally, tone flat but not unkind.
Maya's cheeks heated. "I—I figured."
Elise reached out and touched the photo's edge. "This is from '98. My first show. You have good eyes."
The tension inside Maya shifted. "I didn't know. I mean, I didn't put two and two together until—until I saw you here."
Elise smiled a little, an almost rueful twist of lips. "I guess my archives don't say much about me. Most of these negatives have been locked away for years."
Maya's throat tightened. "Why?"
Elise's hand lingered on the photo. "I wasn't ready. That exhibit was supposed to be my first big break. But my…life got complicated."
She tucked the photo into her jacket pocket. "Thank you for bringing it back. And I'm sorry I didn't mention it sooner."
Maya swallowed. "I wish you did. It would have saved me a few sleepless nights."
Elise's eyes softened. "I'll do better."
There was an infinitesimal pause, charged and electric. Nothing needed to be said. Maya felt her heart unclench as Elise closed the short distance between them, just enough to share a knowing glance.
"I've got a shoot at dawn tomorrow," Elise said, lifting her camera. "Lower East Side rooftop. I'm…testing some new film stock. Would you like to come? I could use a second pair of eyes."
Maya blinked. The city skyline flashed in her mind: rusted water towers, neon fire escapes, the horizon catching golden light. She realized she was smiling before she knew why.
"I'd love to," she managed.
"Great," Elise said with a quick nod. "Meet me back here at 5:30 a.m.? We'll grab coffee and head over."
Maya nodded again. "I'll be there."
Elise turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Thank you, by the way. For bringing back the photo."
Maya watched her go, the door closing softly behind her. She stood alone, fingers grazing the spot where Elise had picked up the photograph. Everything inside her felt strangely bright—like the sunlight she would wake up to in just a few hours.
She went home that evening in a daze. The city's sounds—the steady hum of traffic, the distant wail of sirens, the occasional shout of a street vendor—felt different. Electric. Alive.
Bean meowed when Maya walked in, and she found herself laughing without meaning to. She poured herself a cup of tea, sat cross-legged on the floor, and looked at the photograph again. This time, it felt less like a secret and more like an invitation.
She set an alarm for 4:45 a.m.—long before she needed to wake up—but she didn't mind. She felt too awake for sleep anyway.
At 4:30 a.m. the next day, Maya was already dressed and waiting by her door, coffee thermos in hand and camera bag slung over her shoulder. She had slept for maybe three hours, but that was enough. The city at dawn was a promise she didn't want to miss.
She checked her watch. 5:17. Elise would be here any minute.
The street was quiet. Only a few lights flickered in apartment windows. The air had that crisp edge you only find before sunrise. She buttoned her coat and leaned against the brick building.
At precisely 5:30, footsteps approached. Maya looked up to see Elise emerging from the shadows, camera bag in place, hair tucked under a wool beanie.
"You made it," Elise whispered, voice muffled by the beanie.
Maya grinned. "Wouldn't miss it."
They walked in companionable silence toward Elise's favorite subway station, the city slowly brightening around them. They didn't speak until they reached the platform.
"Elise," Maya said as the train closed its doors, "thank you for inviting me."
Elise shrugged. "Partly selfish. Makes me feel less alone out there on the roof."
Maya frowned. "You're never alone."
Elise's shoulders relaxed. "Maybe it's just habit."
They stood side by side as the train rattled underground. When they emerged on the Lower East Side, the sky had turned pale rose. Steam rose from manhole covers, swirling in the dawn light like ghosts.
They climbed the five flights of narrow stairs to the rooftop. Maya's legs ached by the top, but she didn't mind. The city stretched before them, endless and raw. Rusted water towers loomed like silent sentinels. Brick walls bore the scars of graffiti and weather. And the East River glinted silver in the distance.
Elise set up her tripod by the edge, lens trained toward the sunrise. Maya stood a few feet away, holding the contact sheet from the old archives as if it were a map.
"Ready?" Elise asked.
Maya nodded. "Do you want help with the lighting?"
Elise laughed, a soft spark in the quiet. "It's film. We chase light; light doesn't chase us."
Maya watched as Elise clicked the shutter. Each snap felt like a heartbeat, a moment caught in film grain. She felt her own heart pulse in time. She moved closer, drawn by the ritual, by the precision with which Elise worked.
"Here," Elise said, handing her the second camera. "Take one."
Maya lifted it, awkward but eager, and framed the horizon. The skyline looked alien—a silhouette of steel and possibility. She pressed the shutter. The click echoed in the dawn air.
Elise joined her, shoulder brushing Maya's. "See? You're a natural."
Maya's cheeks warmed. "I'm no photographer."
Elise tilted Maya's chin up gently. "You are to me."
Maya's breath caught. The world narrowed to the space between them: the rising sun, the humid breeze, the hum of the city waking up. Elise's eyes were calm, open. They held a question.
Maya didn't have to speak. She dropped her gaze and held Elise's hand, small and sure.
Back at the library that morning, Maya felt lighter—like she'd shed a layer of her old self. The usual chaos of returns and reshelving didn't ruffle her. Neil peeked over the top of his monitor.
"You look…glowy," he observed.
Maya laughed. "I shot film on a rooftop at dawn with a professional photographer."
Neil whistled. "Right. That'll do it."
Maya caught her reflection in the window behind the stacks—eyes bright, shoulders relaxed. For the first time in a long time, she felt visible. And she no longer wanted to hide.
That afternoon, she found a blank journal in the donations cart—a battered Moleskine with half its pages unmarked. She tucked it under her arm, planning to begin her own story, one sentence at a time.
That evening, Maya rummaged through her pantry, searching for something to cook. She stopped when she saw the spice jars—neatly arranged, color-coded. And thought: life wasn't about perfect order. It was about salt and pepper thrown in recklessly, about unexpected flavors. About seasons.
She tossed cumin into the stew without measuring. Threw in cinnamon as an experiment. Bean watched her with feline skepticism, but Maya just smiled and stirred.
When her phone buzzed, she almost ignored it—until she saw Elise's name.
Elise: Your shots came out amazing. Can't wait to develop the film. Want to see them together tomorrow?
Maya typed back without hesitation.
Maya: I'd love that.
She set the phone down and took a deep breath. Her kitchen smelled like possibility—tomato, garlic, spice. The city lights outside the window flickered on. Bean hopped onto the counter, demanding attention.
Maya laughed and scooped her up. "You don't know how good tonight is, huh?" she said, stroking Bean's fur.
Bean purred. And in that moment, Maya knew.
She was exactly where she was meant to be.