The VistaCollective gallery buzzed with soft chatter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of ambient music floating through the air like perfume. White walls, each one bearing frames of frozen light....images of lives paused, beauty captured, heartbreak stilled. He moved through them with a detached grace, hands shoved in his coat pockets.
VistaCollective had invited him... called him a standout. A storyteller through his pictures. But tonight, as he wandered beneath the warm lights and praise-laden plaques, all he felt was a strange hollowness.
Maybe it was because the person he used to share his wins with wasn't here. Amy would've been first to urge him to attend, first to squeeze his hand when he felt awkward, first to point out his own photo with a gleeful "Look, that one's you!" and mean it like it was the cover of TIME magazine.
He paused in front of one piece. It was his. Shot long before their break, a little boy in a yellow raincoat staring down at his own reflection in the puddled water. The child had a red balloon tied to his wrist, the only pop of color in an otherwise grey, sleepy world. The piece was titled "Things I Still Hope For."
It had been Amy's favorite. Jace stood for a while then moved to his next picture after the memories of the first one stung him. He honestly didn't want to be there but they called twice and insisted that he should be around since his photographs were being displayed.
Jace had mumbled something about not being interested in the spotlight. But when they said he'd be exhibiting alongside six other renowned photographers and that his name alone would draw interest....he finally caved.
Now, standing in front of one of his photographs, he felt adrift. Most of the evening was a blur of nods and polite questions. People recognized him. A few asked for a quick selfie.
He moved again but his feet stopped in front of one particular photograph.....his own.
A low-angle shot of a puddle, taken just days ago. The murky water reflected a warped signboard that read: "You Are Here."
Next to it hung another of his works.....an abandoned swing set in an empty lot, rusted chains, the seat tilted mid-air, caught in a sway even though there was no wind.
"This photographer's got issues," came a voice behind him....sharp, amused, and female.
He blinked. Didn't turn.
"I mean....this one," she went on, pointing at the puddle. "It screams, 'I'm lost but I'm pretending it's deep.' And don't even get me started on the swing. Very 'childhood trauma meets poetic rust.
A half-smirk tugged at the corner of Jace's mouth. He still didn't turn.
"That photographer," he said, voice calm, "probably needs more insight. Or maybe a vacation."
"Oh no," she said, stepping forward, her tone mock-serious. "He needs therapy, a hug, and maybe a new muse. Preferably one who smiles."
Jace turned.
And there she was.
Her eyes widened in an instant, recognition flaring like a match struck too fast.
"You," she said, blinking. "Mr. Daydream?"
Jace tilted his head. "Coffee girl."
"Kyra," she corrected, laughing softly now. "The girl whose cappuccino you assassinated on the subway"
He chuckled. "In my defense, I was carrying a very fragile mind"
"And I was carrying very fragile hopes for that coffee. Now it's gone. Destroyed." She mock-cried, then tilted her head as she studied the photograph again. "So this is what you were doing when you committed coffee manslaughter."
He gave her a look, dry. "Are you always this dramatic at gallery shows?"
"Only when I recognize the suspect." She folded her arms. "Also, did it ever occur to you that puddle reflections are kinda... cliché? Like, one step away from 'shattered mirror' levels of artsy pain."
"And yet you're still standing here," Jace pointed out, smirking now.
Kyra shrugged, clearly unbothered. "I'm a sucker for emotional damage with good lighting."
That made him laugh, a genuine one that crinkled his eyes. It felt like air returning after holding his breath too long.
They stood together for a moment, the gallery's low murmur washing over them.
Then she nudged him lightly with her elbow. "So? You always shoot empty things? Swings. Puddles. Cracked windows. Empty chairs?"
Jace didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted to the photo again.
"Sometimes," he said, voice low. "Empty things have the most to say."
Kyra glanced at him sideways. "That's deep. Almost Tumblr-level deep."
"Don't ruin it," he warned playfully.
She grinned. "Too late."
Then something in her expression softened. "But seriously. Your work's good. Quiet. Sad, maybe. But beautiful. Makes you... stop."
Jace felt his chest tighten a little at that. He gave a small nod. "Thanks."
"Don't let it go to your head, Mr Daydream," Kyra teased again, backing away toward another photograph.
He watched her walk away, still half-smiling.
For the first time that evening, he didn't feel like a misplaced guest in a room full of people. He felt oddly present.
Jace wandered toward Kyra again, his shoes quiet against the hardwood floor. She was now standing in front of a photograph titled Glass Dust, taken by a photographer known for blurry surfaces and obscure shadows. The image on display was of an intentionally smudged mirror leaning against a block wall.
"See," Kyra muttered as he approached, "this guy gets praised for pretending his camera slipped."
Jace glanced sideways at her, amused. "You're relentless."
"Tell me that isn't just a failed bathroom selfie and I'll eat my words."
Kyra shot, "Or he forgot to clean the lens."
Jace tried to suppress a grin as she leaned closer, whispering, "You know, sometimes I come to these things just to mentally roast everyone. It's therapeutic."
"And here I thought people came for the wine" Jace murmured back.
She snorted. "Well, we all need a hobby."
Then she turned to face him fully, her expression playful but earnest. "So, what do you say? Want to get out of here and do something... I don't know...fun? Something that doesn't involve people pretending to understand angst?"
Jace raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious?"
Kyra shrugged, caught off guard by her own impulsiveness. "I mean, unless you're the type who secretly enjoys being praised for puddles."
To her surprise, he nodded. "Let's go."
"…Wait, really?" she blinked. "That worked?"
He looked toward the exit. "Before anyone else starts interpreting my trauma out loud."
She laughed, about to follow, when....
"Jace!"
They both turned to see Marianne with her tight bun, clipboard in hand, stylish and slightly breathless approaching quickly.
"There you are. A lot of people have been asking about you," she said. "Even collectors. Some patrons were hoping you could speak. Just a short few words."
"I don't want to talk," Jace said flatly. No hesitation. "Not tonight."
Marianne blinked. "But...."
"Not tonight," he repeated, gentler this time. "Thanks, though."
Marianne's eyes flicked toward Kyra, clearly filing that detail away, but she gave a curt nod. "Alright. Enjoy the night."
And with that, they slipped away from the gallery lights and into the breath of open city air.
They ended up at a cozy restaurant tucked between an old bookstore and a vinyl shop. No white tablecloths. No performances. Just warm lighting, the scent was giving vanilla.
They settled into a booth by the window.
"Wow," Kyra said as she looked over the menu. "A real menu. With actual food. And not a single description that says 'deconstructed.'"
"You're welcome," Jace murmured.
She smirked. "So what do people like you eat? Rain? Sadness? Light leaks?"
Jace chuckled, resting an arm on the back of the booth. "Usually toast."
Kyra's laugh came easily, the kind that slipped past defenses. "Okay, Mr. Toast. Tell me....do you always go to gallery shows and leave with strange girls?"
"No," he said honestly. "Not even close."
She laughed. They ordered. Pasta for her. Steak for him. And wine....though Kyra insisted on white, which she said paired well with not caring about rules.
As they waited for their order. She kept talking. Jace was stunned by her personality.....she was nothing like Amy. Kyra doesn't care about rules,she just does whatever she wants without caring. She seems very artsy more than she let's on and also nonchalant.
"That photographer Raymond Gray," she said."I swear, every shot looks like it was filtered through a broken Instagram dream. Moody shadows, crooked doors, the occasional bird mid-flight. He's trying too hard to be tragic."
"You're ruthless," Jace said, amused.
Kyra glanced at him. "And yet accurate."
"Probably." Jace smirked. "He's the guy who introduced himself earlier by saying 'light is my lover.'"
She nearly choked. "God. That's even worse than 'my camera is my soul.'"
"He said that too."
She looked horrified. "Tell me you're kidding."
Jace shook his head. "Unfortunately, no."
"I miss the puddle now."She said groaning playfully.
Just then, a soft voice behind them joined in. A middle-aged man in a denim blazer and glasses after their food had been served.
"I thought your photos were bold," he said interrupting them. "Has a beautiful story behind it But haunting. Sorry I had to come out here to tell you this ..... didn't want the other photographers to feel left out ...You ever consider working in installations?"
Jace gave a polite smile. "Not really."
"Alright then but here is my card in case you ever change your mind" He said handing Jace his business card.
"See you around" He said and walked as silently as he entered. Kyra leaned over and whispered, "Was that Dewey? Of New York Light?"
"Yup."
"Why does he look like he teaches haunted pottery classes on the weekends?"
"Because he probably does."
Kyra leaned her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands. "Okay. Random question. If you could have dinner with any three people...alive, dead, fictional, whatever...who would you pick?"
He chuckled. "We're doing that already?"
"Come on. I'm good company. Let's see if I make the cut."
Jace took a moment. "Alright. First… probably David Bowie."
"Unexpected," she said, impressed.
"He lived weird boldly. I respect that. Second… maybe Haruki Murakami."
Kyra narrowed her eyes. "You want to have dinner with Murakami?"
"Yeah."
"You'd just sit there in silence while he talks about cats and jazz records."
"Exactly."
She laughed. "And the third?"
He hesitated. His jaw tensed slightly.
"…My sister," he said quietly. "Emma."
Kyra's smirk melted into something softer. "She passed?"
"Yeah. Years ago."
"I'm sorry."
He nodded but didn't elaborate. And she didn't push.
To break the weight, she said, "Okay, my turn. First, I'm inviting Oscar Wilde. I need at least one person at the table who can outwit me."
"Cocky."
"Second… Maya Angelou. Because she's Maya Angelou. And third…" She smirked. "The guy who invented Nutella."
"Why?" he asked very much surprised.
"Because I have questions.....like why is it named nutella...sounds like a person's name and why is it so brown." They laughed.
They continued enjoying their meals. The food was surprisingly good....well seasoned and generous in portion. Conversation flowed like they had known each other longer than the bumping into themselves at the subway and meeting again at the gallery.
"So," Kyra said after sipping from her wine glass. "Worst first date. Go."
Jace smiled slowly. "Easy. She was into tarot. Brought the whole deck. Didn't even let me finish my drink before flipping three cards and telling me our 'energies clashed.'"
Kyra snorted. "She ghosted you with a prophecy."
"Yup. Said that I'd never understand a water sign."
Kyra reached for her wine again. "She sounds like a Pisces."
"She was. I think."
"Of course she was." She sipped. "Mine's a tie. First one.....this guy took me to his mom's yoga studio. Midway through our 'couple's yoga session,' he told me he felt our 'spiritual chords aligning.' He also cried."
Jace blinked. "He cried during yoga?"
"They stepped on his hand."
Jace laughed, the sound peeling out of him unexpectedly.
Kyra leaned back. "The other one? A mime. Not kidding. Showed up in full outfit. Didn't speak the whole date. Communicated through invisible walls and dramatic sighs. I left before dessert."
"No. That can't be real."
"It is I swear. He gave me a flower he pulled from his jacket sleeve."
"That's so tragic it's almost impressive."
Kyra grinned. "My therapist thinks so too."
They both laughed again, the ease between them effortless. Jace leaned back, the smile slowly fading into something more pensive.
"You know," Kyra said, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, "your photos talk about loosing someone when there is still a little hint of hope."
Jace looked at her. "Haven't I?"
Kyra shrugged. "I know. But… love like that doesn't just fizzle out. And people don't stop needing each other just because they're hurt. Maybe you've been looking at it wrong."
"How so?"
She paused, tilting her head. "You've been trying to make sense of it all, trying to put your emotions into pictures.... although that is also valid but maybe all you need is a reminder of how you love. Just… something real."
And suddenly, it clicked.
Jace sat up straighter, eyes distant as if something had just punched through a fog in his mind.
Kyra raised a brow. "You okay?"
He blinked. "Yeah. I just....yeah." He stood, grabbing his phone. "I need to make a call."
"Wait....seriously? You're pulling a ghost move right now?"
Jace paused at the edge of the table, thrown.
Kyra grinned. "You're not about to ghost me like your tarot date, are you?"
He chuckled. "Touché." He said.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim business card. "Here," he said, offering it. "If you ever want to talk again. Or if your next date's another mime and you need someone to make fun of him with."
Kyra took it, eyebrows raised in amusement. "That's… surprisingly charming of you."
He laid a few folded dollar notes on the table beside her glass. "This should cover the food. And your ride back."
"Jace...."
"Please." He met her eyes. "I still owe you for the coffee incident. That jacket deserved better."
Kyra smiled softly, fingers grazing the business card. "Then I guess I forgive you."
He started backing away, then stopped and added, more gently, "Thanks for tonight. You helped more than you know."
Kyra raised her glass slightly. "Good luck, photographer boy."
He offered a genuine smile, then turned and walked out into the evening phone pressed to his ear, hope returning to his step like a long-lost rhythm.
The line picked up. "Sophie?" he said, his voice more alive than it had been in days. "Hey, it's Jace. Listen, I need your help....this is important. I think… I finally know what to do."