Page 77 of Seven Lost Summers
Soon after, Kit called.
There was no small talk. No drawn-out waiting game. She went straight to the point, rattling off flight details and timelines as if this wasn’t the biggest fucking moment of my career. Two weeks to capture the behind-the-scenes while they record the album. Two weeks of living in their space, watching through my lens, pretending my hands don’t shake every time I lift the camera.
I half expected to wake up the second I hung up. Part of me still does.
Photography has always been my escape.
A way to leave fingerprints on the world without saying a word. But this gig is different. From the way Kit laid it out, these photos could go everywhere. My name on something real. Something massive. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. Everything I’ve ever wanted.
I just hope I don’t fuck this up.
The plane landed twenty minutes ago, and I’ve been hiding in the airport bathroom ever since, gripping the edge of the sink like it’s the only thing keeping me steady.
My reflection doesn’t help. I look flushed, nervous, hair refusing to stay down no matter how many times I try to flatten it. I drag my fingers through it again anyway, pretending it’ll make a difference. Pretending I come across as someone who’s got her shit together.
But I don’t.
I tell myself it’s only Nate and Theo. The same boys from high school.
Theo, the one who used to sit beside me at parties, trading bullshit theories about the universe until sunrise. Nate with that dumbass smirk and even dumber pickup lines I shut down every time without blinking.
Bianca’s boys.
But that was before.
Now they’re the walking wet dream of every girl with a pulse. All bad-boy swagger and tattooed charm, with that too-cool, too-famous shine that makes you forget they were ever only boys you shared smokes with behind a gym.
They’re larger than life now. Nate and Theo, front and center of the hottest fucking band on the planet.
So yeah… I think I’ve earned this minor breakdown in an airport bathroom. Because I’m not simply photographing two guys I used to know. I’m stepping into the eye of the storm and praying I don’t get swallowed whole.
I wanted to crawl out of my own skin when they saw where I lived.
The cracked walls. The thrifted couch with one leg that wobbled every time someone sat down. The stack of ramen boxes shoved into a corner pretending to be a pantry. It wasn’t only small; it screamed survival. I caught it in their faces the second they stepped inside—that flicker of pity, guilt, surprise.
For one sharp, breathless second, I almost told them to leave. Almost let the shame take over and drive me straight into an excuse. But I didn’t. Because I know who I am. I’m not chasing pay checks, comfort, or some polished version of success. I’m chasing moments. That click of the shutter when the world holds its breath. That rush when I catch something too honest to fake.
Photography isn’t my job. It’s the only thing I’ve ever loved.
So yeah, my place is a dump. But it’s mine. And they weren’t there to judge me.
They were there for Bianca.
After that day in my apartment, after the beers went warm and the pizza went cold, when we sat there drowning in memories of the girl who once held all our broken pieces together, I thought I’d get a call from them. I hoped those hours meant more than a trip down memory lane. That we weren’t strangers anymore.
But only Theo texted.
A simple thank you for the box of memories I’d handed him.
And that was it.
No call or message from Nate. No sign that either of them was still sitting in that moment the way I was.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting. I wanted to believe we’d found our way back to something real, even if only for a moment.
But the truth is, they’re in a different world now.
One with sold-out shows, flashing lights, and people screaming their names. A world too loud to catch the echoes of what we used to be.
