Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
What? Oh nothing just thinking about the intricacies of Grace and Strattâs relationship and who they are as characters and the complexity of Strattâs relationship with morals and what I suspect is her relationship with guilt and regret because Iâm willing to bet my left limb that Stratt does not regret what she did to Grace but she does feel guilty.
his soft smile of disbelief when he gets to hold her, looking down at his hands after she pulls away, reaching out to hold her hand UGH it makes me sick (in a good way)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
woking, in the summer, is still⌠well, woking. still grey, still muted in that distinct way that woking always is, except now the air is thick and humid, and the sun hangs just a little too high in the sky for comfort. still, itâs better than winter, better than the biting cold, better than the way february felt like a graveyard of things you didnât know how to bury.
time heals all wounds, eventually, they say. you donât know if you believe in that, but time has made them scab over at least. maybe thatâs enough.
the mclaren headquarters hums with activity, voices overlapping, cameras flashing, the faint buzz of machinery somewhere in the distance. business as usual. you like it here, more than you thought you would. your laptop and phone are heavy with the weight of a job offer, a future you hadnât fully considered, not really. it sits in your inbox, waiting. you have until sunday to decide.
it should be a nice day today. it should be fine. it is fine. except it isnât, because heâs here.
you donât know why nobody told you. maybe because they didnât think it mattered, because it shouldnât matter. and it doesnât. not really. itâs justâ what the everloving fuck? you thought youâd have more time.
but no, there he is, all too familiar, in his team kit, half-zipped hoodie hanging loose around his body, curls unkempt. you can hear his voice even over the ambient chatter of the media crew, see the way he moves, how he carries himself with easy confidence.
his co-driver sees you first, looks at you with a knowing expression, like heâs in on a joke you donât find funny. your mind moves too fast, filling in the blanks of, oh god, he told oscar fucking piastri about me. about the girl who turned down a formula one driver. kind of.
fuck. great. amazing. splendid, even. thatâs just what you are, arenât you? a story, a joke, something whispered in locker rooms and motorhomes. maybe lando didnât even mean it in a bad way. maybe he just said it offhand, absentmindedly, because thatâs what happened. but still, the thought makes your stomach churn. makes your hands itch to leave.
so you do. you mutter some half-hearted excuse to the nearest personâ something about needing to check something, maybe, you donât know, you just need to go.
itâs not cowardice. not really. itâs justâ well, self-preservation. you know the way your pulse picks up when he looks at you, how your breath catches, how the world narrows down to nothing but the space between you. you canât do that today. not now.
but of course, lando follows.
the hallway is long and white and empty, and it kind of reminds you of hospitals, of clean sheets and beeping monitors and the fluorescent lights of a summer ten years ago, when you broke your arm and he sat by your bedside, legs swinging off the chair, promising heâll take you to the lake when youâre all better.
(he never did, though. and maybe that shouldâve been your first clue.)
he says your name.
you donât turn around. just cross your arms, stare down the glossy floor. âi think weâve talked enough, actually, norris. go back to your fans.â
thereâs a beat of silence, then: âokay, but i want to stay.â
you squeeze your eyes shut. breathe. in, out, in, out.
when you turn to face him, heâs already watching you. eyebrows drawn together. his expression is unreadable, but his presence isnât. itâs loud, takes up too much space, even though heâs just standing there, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.
your throat feels tight. you donât know what you were expecting, really. an apology? an explanation? none of it matters anymore. still, the words push past your lips before you can stop them. âdid you do this?â
landoâs brow furrows. âdo what?â
you exhale sharply, frustration creeping into your voice. âdonât play dumb, lan, it doesnât suit you. did you pull strings? talk to someone?â
his face shifts, confusion flickering before something almost sheepish takes its place. âi mean⌠kind of? i orchestrated the whole media day here because i wanted to see you, if thatâs what youâre asking.â
your breath catches, your fingers tighten around your phone, your whole body locks up like youâve been caught off guard. because itâs not fair, the way he says it so easily, so plainly, like itâs the most natural thing in the world. like of course heâd do all this just to see you.
so you swallow hard, shove it down, focus on what you really meant to ask in the first place. you shake your head, press your lips together, steady yourself. âno,â you say, voice even. âi meant the job offer.â
his expression drops, realization hitting all at once. âoh.â his head jerks back slightly, eyes scanning your face, searching. âno. iâ i didnât even know you applied.â
and for a second, just a second, you can breathe again. because his eyes widen a little, mouth parting like heâs about to say something else, and you can see itâ the genuine surprise, the way his expression shifts into something close to excitement, something proud.
âyou applied to mclaren?â he asks, voice almost⌠hopeful. like the thought of you hereâ with himâ is something good. something worth smiling about.
and for a second, just a second, you think: maybe it is.
maybe youâre not a fraud. maybe you did this on your own, maybe youâre actually good enough, maybe all those nights spent hunched over your laptop werenât all for naught, maybeâ
but no. your mind doesnât let you have that. not yet.
lando shifts on his feet, glances away for a moment, then back at you. he takes a breath, âcan we talk?â
you hesitate. then, âokay.â
his lips part slightly, like he wasnât expecting you to agree, like he was bracing for another rejection. but then he grins, slow and wide, something warm creeping into his features.
you roll your eyes, crossing your arms again. âafter you finish on the podium on sunday.â
he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head, his grin growing impossibly wider. âthat a promise?â
you shrug, feigning nonchalance even as your heart is racing, hoping, praying that he doesnât comment on how red your face has gotten. âjust stating facts.â
andâ god, heâs smiling so hard now, like you just handed him the goddamn moon, like thisâ youâ are something he wants to hold onto. something worth waiting for. and itâs unbearable, the way heâs looking at you, like youâre something precious, like youâre something he wants.
he lingers for another moment, watching you, and you can see it in his faceâ he doesnât want to leave. heâs scared you might disappear if he does. and fuck, part of you wants to tell him to stay, wants to reach out, wants to pull him back in like muscle memory, like instinct. but you donât. you canât.
instead, you nod towards the end of the hall. âyou should probably go.â
he nods, but doesnât move. then, finally, âyeah. yeah.â
he takes a step back. then another. still smiling, before he finally turns, walks back into the crowd.ââyou exhale, half-expecting the breath to feel like release, like something youâd been holding in all this timeâ but no. youâd been breathing just fine.
NOW, 2024.
your parentsâ house still smells like it did when you were tenâ laundry detergent and motor oil, the sharp tang of vinegar from the pickled onions your mum keeps in jars by the kitchen sink. the walls are the same too, yellowed from age and the heat of too many summers, though your dad swears heâll get around to repainting them. he wonât. itâll be fine.
home is home. it always has been.
itâs familiar. more than anything, more than woking, more than the mclaren headquarters. this is home. and for the first time in a while, you let yourself sink into it.
you donât watch the race live. your da is still at the garage, sorting through a backlog of clients before the grand prix weekend floods the town with people who suddenly remember they need their cars fixed. your mum has just locked up the laundromat, and maggie is watching her five-year-old, daisy, try and fit her entire fist into her mouth.
youâve been on your phone exactly twice today. the first was at noon, when you schedule-sent your job acceptance email to mclaren, because somehow tricking your brain into thinking future you was responsible made it feel less like an impending life-altering decision and more like a minor errand. the second is now, as the silverstone race rerun plays on tv, your inbox confirming the email has, in fact, been sent. future you is now present youâs problem.
hamilton finishes p1. lando takes p3. a podium.
you should be happy. and you are, kind of. proud, even. you ignore it, busy yourself with clearing up the empty bowls of crisps and the half-finished drinks on the table, the chatter of your family filling the space around you. you donât even hear the knock at the door at first.
but then daisy is waddling over, tugging at your sleeve before you can reach the kitchen. âsomeoneâs at the door.â she announces, with all the confidence of a five-year-old.
you glance at the clock. past eight. weird. but whatever. you set the bowls down, brush your hands against your jeans before walking over, unlocking the door without much thoughtâ
and then you freeze.
lando stands outside, looking like heâs either just finished a race or sprinted from the gate to your front door in record time. his race suit is gone, replaced with something more comfortable, but the helmet marks on his cheeks remain, deep and red and criminally distracting.
before you can even begin to process the sight of him, daisy walks over, gripping the hem of your shirt and staring up at lando with wide eyes. âholy shit,â she says. âitâs the guy from the tv.â
a full-body cringe overtakes you as maggie barrels in, already midâ âdaisy, what have we said about swearingââ only to cut herself off when she sees lando standing there. she blinks. âholy shit,â maggie echoes. âitâs the guy from the tv.â
lando, menace that he is, has the audacity to laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. you, on the other hand, are actively considering whether itâs possible to spontaneously combust from secondhand embarrassment alone.
âweâre trying to have daisy unlearn some words,â you mumble, staring at the floor.
âno, no, itâs fine,â lando says, grinning. then he hesitates, glancing between daisy and you, before gesturing vaguely. âis sheâŚ? is there a reason why you didnâtâŚ?â
you register what heâs implying exactly two seconds too late, and the sheer embarrassment slams into you like a freight train. âoh my god, no,â you blurt out, voice an octave too high. âjesus. sheâs maggieâs.â
maggie, the fucking traitor, giggles before ushering the rest of the family back inside, leaving you alone with lando at the doorway.
and just like that, youâre thirteen again, standing in your parentsâ garage while lando tells you heâs going to be a formula one driver someday, and you tell himâ with all the confidence of a preteen who thinks she knows everythingâ yeah, i know.
you donât know what to say. and he, apparently, doesnât either, shifting on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets. the silence stretches, almost unbearable, until he clears his throat.
âi think you owe me a conversation,â he says, and you hate the way it makes your heart stutter.
you force yourself to shrug, crossing your arms. âwe didnât schedule it.â
âi can wait.â he smiles, small but certain. âiâm good at that.â
you donât know what to do with that, with him standing there like this, earnest and real and so painfully him. you lick your lips, then take a step back, gripping the edge of the door. âi'll be back in woking tomorrow.â
his eyes flicker down to your lips, just for a second. then he nods. âokay.â another pause. âokay. i can wait until tomorrow.â
he looks like he means it.
you donât trust yourself to say anything else, so you nod, once, and thenâ because you physically cannot take this any longerâ you shut the door, maybe a little too quickly, pressing your back against it as if thatâll stop your heart from racing.
it doesnât.
when you finally look up, still pressed against the door, youâre met with five sets of expectant eyes staring right at you. your mum, your da, beverly, maggie, even daisy, all watching like theyâre waiting for you to do something, say something.
âwhat?â you say, voice a little too defensive, a little too high.
your mum speaks first, leaning against the arm of the couch, eyes narrowed at you like sheâs trying to work out how she ended up with a daughter this emotionally repressed. âare you seriously turning that boy away?â
you sputter. âiâ i didnâtâ turn him away, per se, i justâ he said tomorrow. weâre talking tomorrow.â you wave a hand vaguely, like that explains anything. âbesides, itâs notââ
âoh my god,â beverly groans. /
              /   âyou absolute idiot,â maggie says at the same time /
  /   â to which daisy gleefully echoes with an, âidiot! idiot!â
âoh my god.â you rub your hands over your face. âyou guys are so annoying.â
but thenâ another realization creeps in, and you glance down at yourself, at your family. your dad, wearing the mclaren quarter-zip youâd gotten from the internship. maggie in an oversized orange long sleeve, beverly with a cap, your mum with the logo on her t-shirt. even daisyâs little socks have a bright orange trim.
oh.
oh, god, no.
thatâs why he was laughing.
if you were embarrassed then, youâre mortified now. âi canât.â you say, groaning. âthis is so embarrassing.â
âwhatâs embarrassing,â maggie says, dead serious, her daughter looking up and mirroring her expression, âis that youâre still standing here.â
daisy gasps dramatically, like this is the most romantic thing sheâs ever witnessed.
âiâm notââ you start, but maggie is already moving, pushing you toward the door, and beverly is right there with her, yanking it back open before you can resist.
âgo,â maggie hisses.
âbefore itâs too late,â beverly adds, way too theatrically.
you hesitate for half a second, but then you see landoâ still lingering by the gate, walking slower than he normally would, like maybe, just maybe, he was hoping youâd do exactly this.
and your heart lurches.
so you do the only thing that makes sense.
you run.
⸝ đ ⸝
you donât think about it, donât hesitate, donât let yourself overanalyze the sheer fucking absurdity of it all: you just move. shoes hitting against the pavement, wind tangling in your hair, breath coming in short, uneven bursts, and you see him, just barely, lingering by a car parked on the curb.
for a moment, your brain doesnât register it beyond an obstacle, something to swerve around, something that shouldnât matter.
but then it does.
and oh. huh.
itâs not his usual car. not the one he takes to woking, not the flashy sports car, not the kind of thing lando norris is expected to be seen in. itâs old, a little worse for wear, the once-sleek paint job now dulled by time and familiarity, fitting in all too well with the rest of the street.
and then it clicks.
âyou still have this thing?â you ask, breathless, as you come to a stop beside him.
lando startles, blinking at you like he hadnât expected you to actually chase him down, even though heâd slowed down just enough to let you. his gaze flickers from you to the car, and thereâs something almost sheepish in the way he shrugs. âthought the sports car would draw too much attention.â
heâs right. it would. but thatâs not the point.
the point isâ this car. this exact car.
you remember the first time you saw it, back when your dad spent weeks fixing it up for a client. you were six, a little too nosy, a little too eager to be involved, peering over the open hood like you knew what the fuck you were doing. and then there was landoâ smaller, scrawnier, grinning wide as he told you he was going to be a race car driver one day.
itâs been years since then, but the memory is so visceral you almost feel like you could reach out and touch it.
lando, squints at you, his gaze snagging on the oversized hoodie youâre wearing. he frowns. âseriously?â
you blink. âwhat?â
he gestures at the bright orange mclaren logo on your chest, then at the number 81 printed just below it. âpiastri?â
you look down at yourself like you hadnât been wearing this hoodie all fucking day. âthey ran out of yours.â
lando stares at you, mouth opening and closing like heâs trying to find the words to properly convey his offense. âthey ran outâ iâm literally on the team.â
âright, and piastri isnât?â
lando groans, dragging a hand down his face, but heâs smiling, the kind of soft, reluctant smile that makes your stomach twist.
and then the moment stretches, lingers, because youâre both just standing there, not quite sure what comes next.
so you get in the car.
you donât ask where youâre going, donât even think to, because it doesnât matter. the whole world could be talking about lewis hamilton right now, about his win, about the way heâs just broken a streak of bad luck with a masterclass drive, and you should careâ you know you should careâ but right now, itâs just lando.
lando, with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear stick, fingers twitching like he wants to reach out, like he wants to touch. lando, glancing at you between streetlights, expression unreadable but eyes unbearably soft.
âcongrats on p3.â you say, because it feels like you should.
he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. âkind of hard to care when everyoneâs just talking about lewis.â
you offer a weak smile. âi care.â
his fingers twitch again.
the car slows, then stops, and it takes you a second to realize heâs parked.
âyou were right,â he says, suddenly.
you blink. âabout what?â
lando turns to face you fully, fingers curling around the steering wheel. âfebruary. i put you on the spot. i shouldnât have done that.â
âlandoââ
âno, i mean it,â he cuts in, shaking his head. âyou were right. i didnât think about how it would feel for you, how it would look. i justâ i was selfish. i wanted you there, and i didnât stop to consider how much pressure that would put on you.â
the way he says it, so genuine, so sincere, makes something crack inside of you. you swallow past the lump in your throat. âit wasnât just you,â you admit, voice quieter. âi didnât think i deserved it. still donât, sometimes.â
landoâs jaw tenses, his grip on the wheel tightening. âyou do.â
you open your mouth, but he doesnât let you argue. âyou do,â he repeats, softer this time, like heâs willing you to believe it. âyouâre fucking brilliant, kit-kat, and i donât know why it took me so long to say it, but you are. i meant what i said back then. i see you, i do.â
itâs not like he fixes you, not like the years of doubt just suddenly disappearâ but maybe, just maybe, the cracks in your armor get a little bigger, letting the truth seep in.
you donât think.
you just move.
you lean over the center console, seatbelt digging into your ribs, and press your lips to his.
itâs dizzying. itâs years of something bottled up so tight that the second it spills, it nearly drowns you.
itâs lando, warm and solid, his lips soft, but still so insistent, like heâs trying to make up for lost time, for all the moments that could have been, should have been, all the moments that werenât.
youâre realizing how uncomfortable the position is, seatbelt straining against your shoulder, but you donât particularly careâ you donât care about anything except the way his hand slides down, fingers pressing into your waist, holding you there.
he exhales against your mouth, shuddering, and it makes your head spin. you scrape your nails against the base of his neck, threading your fingers into the curls at his nape, and he groansâ actually groans, and oh god youâre hoping you can hear more of that laterâ low and breathy, like youâve just knocked the wind out of him. it shoots straight through you, heat pooling in your stomach, and you feel drunk on it, on him, on the sheer fucking magnitude of it all.
when you pull back, breath uneven, lando is staring at you like youâve just upended his entire world. he exhales, then grins. âis it presumptuous of me to ask you to tell your family not to wait up for you tonight?â
your brain short-circuits. so you say the only thing you can think to actually say: âi accepted the job at mclaren.â
lando blinks. then, âwhy do i find that so hot?â
you donât realize how much space there still is between you until he moves again, his fingers tracing a slow path down your spine, and thenâ
click!
the seatbelt snaps loose, and before you can react, his hands are on you again, tugging you properly into his lap, so seamlessly smooth you almost donât register what just happened.
âdid you just unbuckle my seatbelt?â you ask incredulously.
lando hums, utterly unbothered, leaning up to close the distance between you. âmhm.â
âwithout looking?â
he grins, teeth scraping against your bottom lip, and itâs so unfair, how effortlessly he makes you lose your train of thought. âthank you, driver reflexes.â
you scoff, but it comes out breathless, and before you can come up with something sarcastic, something that might actually wipe that stupid smug expression off his face, he kisses you again.
he pulls back just enough for his lips to brush against yours as he speaks, breathless and wrecked and so fucking lando. âokay, i can't wait to get you out of this hoodie.â
you huff out a laugh, still trying to remember how to breathe. âokay, now thatâs presumptuous of you.â
he startles, blinking, and thenâ âi mean, itâs my teammateâs number,â he says, a little too quickly, like thatâs what he meant all along, like he wasnât just thinking about peeling it off of you. âitâsâ iâm just saying, itâsââ
you know.
you know, and you grin against his mouth before kissing him again.
THEN, 2010 ⌠which blurs into NOW, 2025.
the toaster isnât working.
this, in your opinion, is a grave offense.
itâs been sitting on the kitchen counter for weeks now, abandoned and replaced, but you canât stop thinking about it. you hate when things break. it doesnât make sense to youâ how something can work perfectly fine one day and then be completely useless the next.
itâs not fair, really, that your parents replaced it already. the new one is shiny and red and stupid. you could fix the old one. you know you could.
so youâve taken it upon yourself to fix it. of course.
the toaster is in pieces. a dozen little metal parts scattered across the floor of your bedroom, lined up in careful, meticulous order so many little pieces, all clicking and moving together like a puzzle. you love puzzles.
your tongue pokes out the side of your mouth as you grip the tiny screwdriver in one hand, twisting, tugging, wedging the tip under a stubborn screw that refuses to budge. your fingers ache from prying at things that donât want to be pried at, but youâre closeâ so close to figuring out whatâs wrong, to fixing it.Â
you love figuring out how things work.
youâre so focused you donât even hear your sisters leaving. you donât notice when the house empties out, donât register the hurried voices, the sharp slam of the front door. you donât realize youâre alone.
not until the doorbell rings.
you jump. huh. you werenât expecting that. you wipe your hands on your shirt, nevermind the grease and dust, carrying the toaster and your toolkit down to the kitchen.
where is everyone?
the house eerily quiet now that youâre aware of it. no footsteps. no murmured voices. no maggie bossing josie around. no beverly humming some stupid song under her breath. a strange, twisting feeling settles in your stomach as you make your way to the door, stretching up on your toes to look through the peephole. and thenâ
lando is standing on the porch.
you blink at him.
he blinks back.
âhi,â he says.
âhi.â you frown. âwhat are you doing here?â
âjosie called me,â he says, holding up his phone like it explains anything. âshe said theyâre at the hospital with beverly. asthma attack.â
your stomach twists.
beverly gets bad asthma sometimes. you know that. youâve seen it before, seen the way her face crumples as she gasps for breath, the way maggie and josie move fast, faster than youâve ever seen them move, scrambling for inhalers and car keys and coats.
you swallow hard. âoh.â
lando shifts on his feet. âyour parents are there too. josie asked me to come over. to, uh.â he scratches at his nose. âkeep you company.â
youâre not sure what to do with that. you cross your arms, eyeing him carefully. âdo you have anything better to do?â
he shrugs. ânot really.â then he grins. âbesides, youâre great company.â
you squint at him, trying to gauge if heâs making fun of you. youâre used to people making fun of you. youâre the smartest kid in your classâ actually, youâre the smartest kid in the whole school, probablyâ and sometimes people donât like that. but lando doesnât look like heâs teasing.
which is⌠fine. whatever.
you step aside, jerking your head toward the kitchen. âwell, i was busy.â
âyeah?â he kicks off his shoes, follows you inside. âdoing what?â
you gesture to the counter, where the toaster sits in pieces. lando stops, tilts his head. âuh. you know you guys have a new one, right?â
âobviously,â you say. âbut this oneâs not working. so iâm fixing it.â
he hums, wandering closer. âyou sure you know how?â
âof course i do.â you scowl at him. âiâve read like, ten manuals. and i looked it up. and iâve fixed other stuff before.â
âlike what?â
you open your mouth, then pause. âwell. nothing yet. but i know i can.â
lando just grins, like he finds that funny. you donât get whatâs so funny about it.
but then he holds the pizza box he brought, setting it on the table. âyou wanna eat first?â
you hesitate, glancing back at your toaster. itâs important, obviously. but your stomach is growling, and lando did bring food, andâ well. itâs not like you canât finish later.
so you nod, dragging the toaster pieces toward the kitchen counter while lando opens the box. he slides a slice onto a plate for you, then one for himself.
you eat while you work, half-focused on the toaster, half-focused on the conversation.
landoâs been karting for a while now, long before you even met. he talks about it sometimes, but not as much as youâd like, because you want to know everything. not about the racing, reallyâ you donât care that much about thatâ but about the karts. about the mechanics of it, about how they work, about what makes them faster than normal cars.
âaerodynamics,â he answers, when you ask.
you scoff. âyeah, obviously. but what kind?â
he blinks. âthe fast kind? what do you know about aerodynamics?â
you huff, setting down your pizza, wiping your hands on a napkin before grabbing two of the toasterâs metal panels. âokay. see these?â lando nods.
âpretend theyâre wings,â you say, holding them up at an angle. âif a car is going really fast, air hits the wings, right? but if theyâre tilted down like this, the air pushes against them, which pushes the car down. thatâs downforce. more downforce means the car stays on the track better, but too much can slow it down.â
he watches, amused. âwhat about drag?â
you pick up a wire, twirling it between your fingers. âdrag is when air pushes against the car in the opposite direction. good aerodynamics means less drag, so the car can go faster.â
lando watches you, eyebrows raised.
you huff. âyou should know this already.â
âi definitely should,â he admits, grinning. âbut itâs more fun when you explain it.â
your face feels warm. you pretend you donât hear that.
after dinner, you pick a movie. you let lando choose, because he did bring the food, after all, and he picks something you donât totally hate. you sit side by side on the couch, chewing absently on the crust of your last pizza slice, eyes half-focused on the screen. at first, you keep your arms crossed over your chest, but after a while, they loosen, and your head tips back against the couch cushions.
the toaster sits in pieces on the counter. beverly is in the hospital. your parents and sisters arenât home. but none of it feels as heavy as it did earlier.
your eyes slip shut. just for a second.
when your family comes home, the front door creaks open, footsteps shuffling in. your mum pauses, standing in the doorway of the living room, watching.
you and lando are curled up on the couch, the tv still playing, the glow flickering over your faces. your head rests against his shoulder, his cheek tipped slightly against your hair.
she exhales, soft. âoh, how cute.â then reaches for her camera, snaps a picture.
later, it gets printed, tucked into a photo album, slipped between birthday parties and holiday dinners and old school plays.
(you donât find it until years later, flipping through old pictures on a trip home, fingers pausing on the slightly worn edge of the page.
"oh, thatâs a sweet one," your mum says over your shoulder, like itâs just another picture.
you slip the photo out of its plastic sleeve, take it back to your flat, left forgotten as you toss your bag onto the counter, too lost in the flurry of work and groceries.
later, someone else finds it. picks it up from where you left it on the counter.
âwe were always like this, werenât we?â a voice says, and when you look up, heâs already smiling.)