I didn't realize how much I'd been watching him until I had the camera in my hands.
Pond stood a few feet away, adjusting his hoodie, his camera bag hanging low, like it always did. The light hit him just right—soft over his hair, shadows falling across his jaw—and I almost forgot I was supposed to be practicing.
-Ready? - he asked, glancing at me.
-Yeah, - I said, though my voice probably sounded louder in my own ears. I lifted the camera, trying to focus on something other than him.
But everything I framed, every shot I took, seemed to have Pond at its edge somehow. The way he moved, the way he tilted his head when he noticed me squinting at the settings… it drew my attention more than the scene I was supposed to capture.
He came closer to guide me again, just like the other day. His hands were steady on mine, adjusting the camera. I could feel the warmth of his shoulder behind me, and for a moment, I froze. Not out of fear or awkwardness—just awareness.
I couldn't stop thinking about it.
The world through my lens suddenly felt different. Shadows, light, textures… they all blended with the quiet weight of his presence. Every frame was a mix of the scene and the way Pond made me feel safe, patient, and careful.
-Perfect, - he said softly. - Now take the shot.
I clicked. The image captured the sunlight just right, but I realized what mattered most wasn't the picture. It was the small things—his hands, his shoulder, the way he stayed close without saying too much.
We walked slowly afterward, reviewing the shots. I could feel him nearby, guiding, present, and the quiet awareness that I didn't want to break. The campus buzzed around us, but for some reason, none of it seemed real. Only the light, the lens, and him.
But sincerely… I never approached him that night to talk about his photos. I was watching him from afar, like I had been doing since my first year. I didn't know… or maybe I wasn't sure if I was gay. I just knew that something in me had completely fallen for him.
How do you hide that from a friend? How do you sit next to him in class, laugh at the same jokes, study together, all while feeling like every look, every word, is quietly… louder than it should be?
Maybe I can't even say he was a friend. I never actually talked to him… not that first night when he was so nervous because of his first exhibition, not ever in my first year. I just… saw him around. Watched him from a distance, like he was part of the background I couldn't reach.
I didn't know—or maybe I wasn't ready to admit—that I was completely fallen for him. Every time I saw him laughing with someone else, carrying his camera like it was an extension of himself, I felt something twist in my chest.
How do you hide that from people who see him too? How do you keep walking past him in the hallways, smile politely when our paths cross, pretend it's nothing, when really… it's everything?
I let the admiration cloak itself as careful observation. I told myself it was just interest in his work, in photography, in what made him… him. But I knew the truth. Every glance, every subtle gesture, every moment he didn't notice me—it all pressed harder.
You smile. You nod. You help him with the camera. You pretend the feeling is nothing more than admiration, nothing more than… respect.
But it isn't. And every time he gets close—every time his hand lingers on mine, even for a second—I feel the truth press against my ribs, hard and quiet.
I feel like I could never tell him. Not about this, not about the way my chest tightens when he laughs, or the way I notice the smallest details about him.
Friendship is so sweet. So simple, so easy to enjoy. And I'm scared. Scared that if I say something, if I even hint at what I feel, I'll ruin it. Something stupid, something clumsy… and it will all fall apart.
So I keep it inside. I watch, I help, I laugh at his jokes, I follow him with the camera, and I pretend my heart isn't racing. Pretend my hands aren't itching to reach out, to stay close just a second longer.
It's safer this way. Safer to be a quiet presence at the edge of his world than to risk everything on a confession that might never be returned.
And yet… every time he stays near, every time his hand lingers just a second too long on the camera, or on me, I feel the truth pressing closer.
Clic. Clic.
The camera is all that matters. Not the warmth of his hand on mine a second ago. Not the way he stays just a little too close. Not the way my chest tightens every time he laughs or shifts his weight.