Page 89 of Click of Fate

I don’t bother arguing.

I move through the crowd, the buzz of voices and the clinking of glasses fading into white noise. The curtained section of the gallery is quieter. Less polished. Half the lighting isn’t even switched on yet. A sign leans against an easel at the entrance:

Upcoming Exhibit: Stillness in Motion

Photography by Stella Young.

My chest tightens. There’s movement in every frame. Not the pretty, posed kind.

The kind that makes your ribs ache because you know what it costs to keep moving when standing still would be easier.

A skater mid-wipeout, sneakers scraping the sky before the crash.

City lights bleeding into one another, a smear of neon against concrete loneliness.

A woman frozen on a subway bench while the world shatters past her, a blur of steel and strangers.

Waves breaking themselves bloody against a pier that’s too stubborn to fall apart.

A hawk claws at the air, wings slicing hard against the wind, fighting for altitude.

And the people. Always the people.

Lilly mid-swing, face split with a laugh so wild it dares gravity to try her.

A soaked couple spinning in the rain, rings on their fingers, hope fresh on their faces.

A kid bombing downhill on a rusted bike, reckless and immortal for one sweet second.

None of it’s perfect. That’s what makes it real. Every frame feels like it’s fighting to exist.

Stillness in Motion.

The title’s too damn fitting. Because maybe it’s not about freezing time at all. Maybe it’s about defying it. About marking the moments you’re brave enough to move, even when every bone in your body says stay.

I stare at it all, fists curling without meaning to.

Because I get it.

God, I get it.

You can pretend you're not scared. You can act like you don't care. But when you move, really move, you leave pieces of yourself everywhere you land.

And sometimes? Sometimes you pray someone’s brave enough to catch them.

I drift deeper into the exhibit without thinking. That’s when I see it.

I stop cold. It’s a photo of me.

Mid-climb on one of the training walls at Squeaky Bum.

Muscles taut, fingers straining, every ounce of me reaching for the next hold like it’s life or death.

Not polished. Not staged. Just raw movement and stubborn, reckless hope.

Pinned beneath the frame is a small placard, handwritten in neat, careful letters:

Love Is a Climb.

---