Page 1 of Loving Lauren
Chapter 1
Three years of playing it safe had left Sierra Turner excellent at capturing everyone else’s life through a camera lens and terrible at living her own. Having perfected the art of staying invisible, Sierra felt comfortable behind the viewfinder, polite smiles, and the familiar lie that work was enough.
But some moments refuse to stay safely framed.
She’d been walking through the park for twenty minutes that afternoon, camera in hand, chasing the light. The late spring air was making her slow down, making her notice things... the way the sun broke through in scattered bits, how the grass grew greener in places, the sweetness of lilacs mixed with cut grass.
A couple picnicked under the blossoms. Kids circled an old oak nearby. She lifted her camera, framing shots without really seeing them. Photography had always been her anchor. Through the lens, life arranged itself. Mess turned into meaning. Lately, her art felt like the only part of her life that stayed steady. It was the one thing she could count on to make sense.
A breeze moved through the branches above, carrying a hint of jasmine. She watched the light shift through the branches, patterns that would never repeat. But just when she pressed the shutter, movement caught her lens.
Sierra swung toward the path and froze. A girl stood laughing in a swirl of sparrows, maybe five-five, with long black hair lifting in the wind. Something in Sierra’s chest went still. The girl moved with the birds like she belonged to them, but when she thought no one was watching, her smile faltered, like joy was something she carried carefully.
Click. Sierra snapped another shot, then another, and again.
She could attribute it to the lighting, composition, or the symmetry of the motion, but none of that was true. Something about this girl tugged at her and left her a little breathless. She fit into the scene like a secret, as if light itself had chosen her.
The girl tossed her head back and laughed again, sunlight catching the tips. Sierra’s finger froze on the shutter. Her stomach fluttered. Not a crush. Not yet, but more like recognition. A silent alarm went off inside her chest.
She imagined walking over, crossing the lawn with practiced steps, offering a compliment or a question. Maybe she’d ask about the birds. Maybe the girl would smile back. But by the time Sierra lowered her camera and stepped toward the path, the spot was empty. The sparrows had scattered. Only the rustle of branches remained.
Back at her apartment, Sierra eased the door open. It was quiet inside, the kind that sits heavy before the city goes dark. The air still held a trace of chamomile from the tea she’d left cooling that morning. Somewhere overhead, a single bulb hummed.
Then Salem shattered it all with a yowl that could wake the dead.
Sierra nearly dropped her keys. “Damn, Salem.”
He strutted out from behind the couch, tail high, eyes wide. Another meow, this one somehow more indignant than the first. He circled her ankles then sat and stared up at her with an expression that could only be described as theatrical betrayal.
“You have food and water. You’re not starving.”
Salem blinked slowly. Unimpressed.
She crouched down and scratched behind his ears anyway, and he leaned into it with a purr that sounded like a small engine turning over. Drama king. But hers.
Her camera bag waited on the table, still zipped. She stepped over a pile of crumpled magazines, sidestepping a scatter of loose photo prints. Her fingers trailed along the back of the chair as she dropped into it. The SD card slid into place with a sharp click. Her screen lit up, casting a pale glow across her face. Image after image blinked into view... flowers, hedges, wide shots of the park.
And then: the girl with the birds.
Sierra leaned closer, zooming in until the photo took over her screen. The girl’s head tipped back mid-laugh. Her hair had lifted in the moment, caught by the wind. A scatter of freckles crossed her cheeks, and her eyes—icy blue, touched with bits of gray and violet—seemed to hold light even frozen on the screen.
A stranger. Just a stranger. But something about her pressed into Sierra’s chest like a thumbprint.
She leaned forward, palm to her forehead, tugging at the roots of her hair as if pressure might untangle the question in her mind.
What is it about this girl?
Sierra had spent three years avoiding this exact feeling—the pull toward something unknown, something that might actuallymatter. Maybe it was time to stop hiding. Maybe she was lonelier than she’d let herself believe.
The silence pressed down. Sierra pushed back from her desk. She needed to move.
Outside, the wind cut cool across her cheeks. Her sneakers found an easy beat on the sidewalk as she jogged through streets tilting toward night. Streetlights blinked awake here and there. She passed the coffee shop, neon light spilling into puddles, the damp smell of wet cement lifting as she went by.
She cut through the park toward that spot. Part of her still expected to see the girl leaning against a lamppost, maybe, or disappearing around the next corner, but the streets stayed empty. The girl, like the birds, had vanished.
Later, after peeling off damp clothes and washing the sweat from her skin, Sierra slid into bed. Her hair was still wet. Her thoughts were too. She stared at the ceiling, the soft hum of the city slipping in through the window.
Why can’t I let this go?
