Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
CAMERON
Cameron’s Apartment
Brooklyn, New York
The late afternoon light turns my living room soft.
I collapse onto the sofa, my mind still replaying my session with Dr. Sage, and I absently stroke the edge of a throw pillow.
My suitcase is already packed, uniform pressed, and I have just enough time to relax before having to get ready to go to the airport.
But then my eyes register Drew’s desk. The same desk that has been sitting preserved and untouched for over a year.
Papers are still stacked in uneven piles.
A couple of his old cameras rest right where he left them, their straps coiled like sleeping snakes, and rolls of undeveloped film fill a ceramic bowl.
Photographs scatter across the surface, some framed, most not.
A layer of dust coats everything, and I swallow hard, pulling myself up and walking closer.
The wood creaks faintly under my hand as I pull out the chair and sit. “Okay,” I murmur to the empty room. “Let’s do this.”
I pick up the first photograph. It’s a black and white street photo of a woman mid-laugh on the subway. The lighting is perfect, something he always had an eye for. I run my thumb lightly along the edge of it.
Then another. A skyline at dusk, a stranger crossing the street in the rain. Then there's me, candid and unaware, holding a coffee cup and looking at something off-frame. I huff a quiet breath. “You never asked before shooting, did you?”
The cameras are heavier than I remember when I lift one, peering through the viewfinder out of habit.
The world narrows instantly, framed and contained.
I set it down gently and exchange it for a stack of negatives in a small envelope.
I pull one out and hold it up to the window, angling it toward the fading light.
Tiny inverted images shimmer across the plastic as moments frozen in time.
This feels like some type of archaeology. Like I’m excavating a life that stopped mid-sentence.
I begin sorting. I put photos into piles, receipts into a small stack, equipment into a neat row. It’s slow, and emotional work.
Toward the back of the desk, tucked almost deliberately out of sight, I notice a small black film container, the kind you’d get from a photo lab with no label and no date.
It’s wedged behind an old lens cap, and curiosity sparks in me.
I pick it up, surprised it’s so light. I give it a small shake expecting the hollow silence of plastic, but instead there’s a faint rattle and a soft rustle.
I pop the cap off carefully with a small snap, and tilt the container over my hand, catching three items.
A plain gold band, a single frame of a negative, and a piece of paper that had been folded in on itself again and again until it was barely the size of a postage stamp.
The ring is heavier than it looks and warm in my hand.
There’s no engraving and it's simple and unassuming. I place the negative gently on the desk and begin to unfold the paper layer by layer. The creases seem to resist at first, like they were meant to keep what was written hidden inside. My heart pounds in my ears, and by the time it’s fully open, my hands are shaking.
I spread the paper flat and take it in. It’s worn soft at the edges and folds, ink is pressed firmly into the page, unmistakably Drew’s handwriting, slightly slanted, confident and intentional. At the top, in dramatic caps: STOP.
I swallow and begin to read.
STOP.
If you’re reading this, you found my hiding spot, and it’s not for you. Yet.
But who am I kidding? You were always going to keep reading. You have never respected a boundary in your life when curiosity is involved. And I mean that in the best way.
Hi, Cam.
I don’t know when you’re reading this. Maybe it’s the night before our wedding.
Maybe it’s years from now. Maybe I’ve chickened out and hidden this somewhere else entirely.
Or maybe I’m reading it to you in front of our family and friends.
But I needed to get this down. Before I overthink it. Before life gets loud.
I knew from the moment we met on that rooftop gallery in the thick August air that you were trouble. Do you remember what you said? “If I’m being honest, I’m not the biggest fan of photography.” You said it so casually and brazenly. To the artist. To me.
I think I should’ve been offended, but instead I was fascinated.
You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t trying to flatter me.
You were challenging me, photography versus paint.
You pushed me and forced me to defend what I loved.
And I knew, standing there under those string lights, that if I let you, you would challenge me like that for the rest of my life.
In the best way possible. You don’t let me hide behind my work. Or my talent, or any ego. You see me.
I love the way you move through the world. You’re curious, compassionate, and observant. I love the way you notice the small things, and the way you can make a stranger feel safe at thirty-five thousand feet in the air. I love that you are brave in ways you don’t even recognize.
When I think about what our life will look like, I don’t see anything static.
I see movement with bridges being crossed and countries being explored.
I see us arguing over directions in foreign languages, and me insisting we try street food that you’ll pretend to resist before inevitably caving.
I see us building something steady after all the motion.
A home. A table with too many chairs because we’ll always want room for one more person.
I see kids. God, I see kids. I see you teaching them how to be gentle and strong at the same time. And I see myself trying to capture it all on film and failing because some moments are too sacred to freeze.
I still don’t know when we’ll set a date, and I don’t know what the future will hand us. But I do know this: Loving you has already been the greatest adventure of my life.
And no matter what happens, no matter where life takes us, I will always remember you exactly as you are in that photo I tucked in here.
Wind in your hair. Laugh halfway formed. Looking at me like I’m your whole horizon.
If someday things change. If time pulls us in directions we can’t predict, remember I will always love you and want you to be incredibly happy.
You have been, and will always be, my favorite adventure.
- Drew
The paper trembles in my hands and I wipe enormous crocodile tears from my cheeks.
I pick up the gold band and rotate it between my fingers, and it glints softly in the light.
My throat is so tight, and I sniff back more tears.
I pick up the negative from the desk, it’s almost weightless, and I twist toward the window, holding it up to the light.
It’s a shadow at first, but then the image sharpens.
Two figures close together. One is unmistakably Drew, his head tilted the way he always did when he was trying not to laugh.
The other—me. And I remember. We’re standing on the beach in Hilton Head, the light surf lapping around our legs.
The wind tugs at my shirt, with one of my arms wrapped around him, the other held far out accepting the sun and the sky.
My eyes are closed and I’m smiling peacefully into the world.
This was the moment just before he pulled out the ring that was currently on my nightstand and asked me to marry him. All this time, the key to fully letting go was here on this cluttered desk. I read the last line again.
You have been, and will always be, my favorite adventure.
I’m trembling slightly, but not in the same way I used to when I thought too hard about Drew. It’s warm, not suffocating. Dr. Sage’s voice drifts back into my mind. Fate will do what fate does. All you can do is rely on your strengths and move through life as best you can.
The red deer in the mist. I’ve wandered far enough. Maybe wandering isn’t about getting lost. Maybe it’s about finding the edge of something and deciding to step forward anyway.
I look again at the negative, holding it up to the light. There we are, wind-tangled, and certain. Drew doesn’t look afraid, he looks proud, as if he knew loving me would never be a mistake.
A slow breath fills my lungs. Everything will be okay.
If I was brave enough to love once fully, recklessly, why wouldn’t I be brave enough to try again?
Why shouldn’t I carry what he gave me into whatever comes next, even if too much damage has already been done.
I fold the vows carefully and slip them back into the container with the ring and the negative, kept safe like a tiny time capsule.
I stand, tuck the chair back neatly under the desk, and rub the wet tension from my eyes. It’s time to get ready.