The camera felt foreign in Daniel's hands.
He turned it over, brushing dust from the viewfinder. It had sat untouched on the closet shelf for over a year, its battery long dead, its lens cap still on from the last time Lila had borrowed it—"Just for fun," she'd said, snapping pictures of their brunch with the casual confidence of someone who'd never cared about aperture or lighting.
Daniel pressed the power button. Nothing.
He rummaged through his desk for the charger, half-expecting it not to work, half-hoping it wouldn't. But when he plugged it in, the screen flickered to life.
And there she was.
The last photo on the roll: Lila, mid-laugh, her hair a mess, holding up a mimosa in their sunlit kitchen. The timestamp read March 14, 9:47 AM—three days before she died.
Daniel's breath caught.
He'd forgotten this moment. Not the big things—her smile, her voice, the way she'd hum off-key in the shower—but the tiny, mundane details. The chipped polish on her thumbnail. The way her favorite sweater stretched at the collar. The smudge of syrup on the corner of her mouth that he'd leaned over to kiss away.
A knock at the door.
"Hey, do you—" Luke froze in the doorway, his eyes dropping to the camera. "Oh."
Daniel didn't look up. "I forgot she took this."
Luke edged closer, peering at the screen. His throat worked. "She looks happy."
"Yeah."
A beat. Then Luke cleared his throat. "I, uh. I finished packing."
Daniel finally tore his gaze away. "All set for Oregon?"
"Almost." Luke shifted. "I was thinking… maybe you could take some pictures? Before I go."
Daniel blinked. "Of what?"
Luke shrugged. "Us. The apartment. Whatever. So I don't forget."
The words hung between them. So I don't forget. As if Luke could ever forget this place, this life, her.
But Daniel understood. It wasn't about forgetting. It was about holding onto the good things before they faded.
He stood, testing the weight of the camera in his hands. "Yeah," he said. "I can do that."
The Shoot
They started in the kitchen.
Luke leaned against the counter, arms crossed, the way Lila used to when she was pretending not to laugh at one of Daniel's terrible jokes.
"Relax," Daniel said, adjusting the lens. "You look like you're about to fight me."
"I am about to fight you," Luke muttered, but his shoulders loosened.
The shutter clicked.
Next, the fire escape—Luke perched on the railing, the city sprawled behind him, his expression softer now, more thoughtful.
"You used to sit out here when you first moved in," Daniel said, snapping another frame. "Drove Lila nuts. She was convinced you'd fall."
Luke smirked. "I was sixteen. I wasn't gonna fall."
"You smoked out here."
"Okay, fair."
Click.
Finally, the living room. Luke flopped onto the couch, tossing a throw pillow at Daniel's head. "Enough artsy shit. Just take the picture."
Daniel raised the camera—and caught Luke mid-laugh, his eyes crinkled, his hair a mess, looking so much like her in that moment that Daniel's chest ached.
Click.
The Realization
Later, Daniel scrolled through the shots on his laptop. Luke peered over his shoulder, breath warm against Daniel's ear.
"That one's good," Luke said, pointing to a shot of the fire escape.
Daniel hummed. "Needs better lighting."
"Or you could just admit you're rusty."
Daniel elbowed him. But as he flipped through the photos—Luke smirking, Luke rolling his eyes, Luke bathed in golden afternoon light—something settled in him.
He'd spent a year preserving memories of Lila. But these? These were something new.
"Send me the good ones," Luke said, straightening. "I'll print them for my dorm."
Daniel nodded. Then, impulsively: "You'll call when you get there?"
Luke paused. "Yeah. Of course."
A promise. Not just to check in, but to remind Daniel that some things didn't fade.