Three days. The roof was empty. He went up. Every day. Sat. Smoked. Listened to the dead discman. Static. She never came.
Fear was a taste. Metallic. Like sucking on a battery.
On the fourth day, the door opened. His heart lunged.
It was her. Pale. Dark under her eyes. She looked thinner. Like the wind could take her.
She didn't smile. Just walked over. Sat. Not close. A foot of cold gravel between them.
"They know," she said. Flat.
He felt sick. "Know what?"
"About the roof. The cigarettes. Not you. Not yet. But they know I'm… somewhere. With someone." She pulled her knees up. A fortress. "They're watching."
The silence was thick. Poison.
"So that's it?" he said. Voice cracked.
"No." She dug in her coat pocket. Pulled out a camera. A cheap, plastic thing. Disposable. The kind you buy at the drugstore. "We get one shot."
He stared at it. "For what?"
"Proof," she said. Simple. Devastating.
She stood up. Held the camera out. Arm's length. Pointed back at them. "Come here."
He got up. Stiff. Moved into the frame. They stood side by side. Not touching. The wind whipped her hair across her face. The sky behind them was that same endless, cruel blue.
"Smile," she said. Didn't smile herself.
He tried. His face felt like rubber. A grimace.
She clicked the button.
A whirr. A grind. The film advanced.
She looked at the little plastic window. A preview in murky gray. "We look like ghosts," she said. Handed him the camera.
He took it. It was warm from her hand. "Your turn."
She shook her head. "Just the one. That's all we get."
One shot. One piece of evidence they existed in the same space. At the same time.
She sat back down. He sat beside her. Closer now. Their shoulders touched. He could feel her shaking. Or maybe it was him.
"When do you get it?" he asked. Nodded at the camera.
"A week. I'll have to sneak it to the shop." She rested her head on his shoulder. A brief surrender. "I'll give you half."
"Half?"
"We tear it. Down the middle. You get your half. I get mine."
The idea was so stupid. So painfully romantic. It carved a hole in his chest. He wanted to laugh. Or scream.
"Okay," he whispered.
They sat. As the blue faded. The security light flickered on. Harsh. Unforgiving.
"I'm scared," she said. So quiet the wind almost stole it.
He put his arm around her. Pulled her in. She didn't resist. Melted against him. Her face in his neck. He felt her breath. Hot. Her tears. Hotter.
"Me too," he said into her hair.
They stayed like that. Until the cold was a living thing, biting at them. Until the world felt small and far away. Just them. And the un-developed photo in the cheap plastic shell. A latent image. A secret waiting to be born.
When she left, she took the camera. Slipped it back into her coat. A bulge over her heart.
"One week," she said at the door.
He nodded. Couldn't speak.
The door closed.
He was alone with the ghost of her weight against him. The ghost of the click. The whirr.
One week. Then a torn piece of paper. A blur of two kids against the blue. That was the future. That was all they got.
He walked home. The city felt like a set. Like none of it was real. The only real thing was the image slowly forming in a dark tube somewhere. A chemical memory. Trapped behind plastic.
He'd carry his half. In a book. In a wallet. Until the edges frayed. Until the colors faded. Until it was just a stain. A blur.
It was all they had. It was everything.