Emma Carlisle stood on the balcony of her Manhattan loft, camera in hand, watching the sunset bleed pink and gold across the East River. Her latest assignment a series of nighttime cityscapes had her up on rooftops most evenings, chasing glowing towers and neon signs. Below, the bustle of taxis and pedestrians made the familiar city seem brand-new under her lens.
She'd come a long way from Surbiton High, where she and her first boyfriend broke each other's hearts at graduation. Back then, she'd vowed never to let anyone in close enough to hurt her again. But now, at twenty-seven, freelance photography had opened her up to strangers and stories, each portrait a chance to connect. Still, one story had always remained closed: hers and Nate McCall's.
Her phone buzzed. She flipped it over on the wrought-iron railing, scrolled through her messages, and froze.
"Carlisle congrats. You've been selected as lead photographer for Harlow Square redevelopment. Info meeting Monday at 10. Maya"
Her breath caught. Harlow Square: the city's most ambitious revitalization project in decades. An entire block of historic brownstones and vacant storefronts, once the beating heart of Greenwich East, set to become a model of mixed-use, community-centered design.
The kicker, the thing that made her chest pound and hands tremble: the lead architect on the project was Nate McCall.
She clicked through her address book. No scam here. He'd moved to the city right after college, started his own firm, McCall & Ward, grown into one of the most talked-about names in architecture. She'd tracked his career from afar new buildings, interviews, social media posts about his fiancée, Julia Rogers, a marketing executive at a rival firm. Occasionally she'd seen his photos on the evening news, his angular smile still as familiar as it was twelve years ago.
"I can't do this," she whispered to the river. "No way."
Her phone chimed again. Maya's name glowed on the screen.
"You in?" Maya's text read.
Emma sealed her lips, shoved the phone in her pocket, and snapped her camera strap over her shoulder. She had until Monday to decide. That was time enough to weigh the options: safe pays steady, and private portraits gave her control. This project a high-profile public commission was unpredictable, complicated. Team meetings, press conferences, community outreach. And Nate.
She headed inside, flicked on the kettle, and leaned against the kitchen counter. In the years since they'd last spoken, Emma had convinced herself she hated him. He'd left without a word, disappeared after graduation. She'd never known why no goodbye, no closure. She'd filed the pain away, channeled it into her work, her independence. But now his name smoldered in her thoughts, re-igniting questions she'd long stuffed down: What had he been thinking? Did he ever wonder why she never called back?
A mug of Earl Grey steamed in her hands as she thumbed through the project brief on her laptop. Renderings of a modern glass pavilion wedged between two turn-of-the-century façades. A community center, co-working spaces, artisanal storefronts. The plan was ambitious iconic, even. Built with sustainable materials, integrated with public art installations. And here she was, the photographer chosen to capture it all, from blueprint to grand opening.
She zoomed in on the credits page. Architect: McCall & Ward. Lead architect: Nathaniel "Nate" McCall. Underneath, in fine print, the project manager's name: Leo Huang. She recognized Leo from industry events Nate's right hand, always practical, almost dull-spoken.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it was her assistant, Grant.
"Emma, your 8 p.m. shoot tomorrow got bumped to Wednesday. Travel schedule's clear. How's Monday look?"
She told him she'd confirm by Saturday. She closed her laptop, retreated to her bedroom, and stared at the ceiling. No matter how she tried, she couldn't shake the sense of inevitability. Working with Nate McCall meant stepping into memory's crossfire. It meant reliving a romance that ended in tears and unanswered questions. She'd taken pictures of countless couples making new memories, but the story of her deepest connection remained undeveloped film.
The next morning, Emma met Maya at their favorite coffee cart on 14th Street. The midday sun made the line too short for a cool-down, but Maya's iced matcha latte had other ideas. Emma ordered a black coffee and tried to look nonchalant.
Maya handed her the cup with a grin. "So? Are you in or out?"
Emma forced a smile. "I don't know. I—"
Maya fixed her with a solemn nod. "You're terrified."
Emma bit her lip. "Of working with him."
"Of what he might bring up." Maya paused. "Or you might bring up."
Maya was her oldest friend, the one who'd edited her college portfolio, celebrated her first gallery opening, stayed up all night helping her mourn after that breakup. Emma trusted her judgment. Maya had a knack for seeing people's motives, decoding their silences.
"He might be different," Emma ventured. "I mean, twelve years—"
"Can make him mature. Or assholish. But you won't know unless you show up."
Emma sipped her coffee. "Okay." She slammed the cup down. "I'm in."
Maya whooped. "That's my girl. On Monday, you walk in as the pro you are. No pining ex-girlfriend nonsense."
Emma nodded, only half convinced. The weekend crawled by in a haze of editing photo files and fiddling with lighting setups. She spent Saturday evening on the balcony, scouting the site through binoculars: hulking scaffolding, construction crews hauling beams, a giant crane lifting steel girders. The place felt both raw and regal, like a sleeping giant waiting to be awakened.
On Sunday, she double-checked her gear. Two camera bodies, five lenses, plenty of memory cards. Batteries, chargers, backup drives. She set out her outfit for Monday smart black trousers, designer sneakers, crisp white blouse and rehearsed a confident smile in the mirror until her cheeks ached.
Monday dawned humid and gray. Emma arrived downtown at nine-thirty, her heart thudding in her chest. She showed her badge at security and ducked under yellow caution tape into an unfinished colonnade. Concrete floors were slick with mortar. Wooden beams arched overhead, forming the skeleton of the future public gallery. Somewhere inside, the project briefing was underway.
She navigated the maze of steel and rebar, scanning for a cluster of white-shirted people. At last she reached a glass-walled conference trailer. "Photographer Carlisle?" called a man in a navy suit. His voice was warm, with just a hint of a southern drawl.
"Emma Carlisle," she replied. He shook her hand firmly.
"I'm Leo Huang, project manager. We're about to start. Come on in."
Inside, a long table held piles of printed renderings, floor plans, coffee thermoses, and muffins. Around it sat a dozen people, laptops open, tablets glowing. At the head of the table stood Julia Rogers, tall and poised in a charcoal sheath dress, scrolling through slides on a mounted screen. Emma recognized Julia immediately svelte hair, perfect posture, that calm, practiced smile. Nate must have met her here already.
Leo led Emma around to an empty seat next to Julia. Emma forced a courteous nod. Julia inclined her head, lips flattening for a moment in a microexpression Emma caught only because she'd trained herself to notice subtleties. Emma sat, placed her gear on the table, and took a deep breath.
Julia clicked the remote. A rendering of the new community plaza filled the screen. "Good morning, everyone. I'm glad we could gather to discuss our media strategy. Emma, thanks for joining us. We'll be relying on your photographs to tell the story of Harlow Square from inception through ribbon-cutting."
Emma nodded. Julia continued, outlining deadlines, shot lists, key milestones. As Julia spoke, Emma focused on her tone assertive but collaborative. Then Julia finished, and the floor opened for introductions.
Twelve chairs down, a tall man rose. Dark hair combed back, square jaw, trimmed beard. He wore slacks and a crisp polo shirt stamped with the McCall & Ward logo. His presence filled half the room. Emma's pulse leapt. He was just as she remembered broad-shouldered, easy confidence, that familiar ridged laugh line under his left eye.
"Sorry I'm late," he said in a low voice. "Traffic's a nightmare." Then he offered one hand after the other in quick succession. "I'm Leo. And " he turned to Emma "you must be Emma Carlisle."
Emma barely controlled her startled laugh. "Yes. Nice to meet you."
Nate McCall nodded, pulled up a chair, and slid in next to her. "I've admired your work for years. Those night shots of Brooklyn Bridge? Incredible." His eyes met hers, and for a moment time seemed to shift. Behind him, the granite bones of the city carried on indifferent to the spark between them.
"Thanks," she said, voice tighter than she wanted. "I'm excited for this project."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Instead he clicked his pen and leaned forward. "Shall we get started?"
As they launched into discussion angles, sightlines, access points Emma kept her attention split between her notebook and his broad back. She noticed how his shirt hugged his shoulder blades, the angle of his biceps when he raised his arm to point at a blueprint. She reminded herself, he's just a colleague. Professional. Past is past. Yet every time their hands brushed when passing a binder, she felt a flash of something she hadn't felt since her first love.
By noon, the team broke for lunch. Emma retreated to the balcony again, though this one was still wrapped in plastic sheeting and smelled of fresh paint. She stared out at the skyline, inhaled deep. Nathaniel Samuel McCall: architect, ex-boyfriend, ghost she had just exhumed. Had he planned it this way? Was there an architect's logic in orchestrating her return? Or was she reading too much into the universe?
She told herself it didn't matter. This was her chance to capture how transformative architecture could be how spaces become living places because of the souls that inhabit them. And maybe, just maybe, it was her chance to capture him again, through her lens, on her terms.
She squared her shoulders and stepped back inside. Monday's meeting would be just the first of many. The camera slung at her hip felt reassuringly solid. She flipped it on and faced the future. Too late to call you mine, the last note in her memory whispered. But not too late to tell the story anew.