Chapter 4 – The Things We Almost Do
It started with a photograph.
Three days after open mic night, Liam texted me mid-afternoon.
Are you at work?
I was, technically. Sitting at my desk in a marketing office that smelled perpetually like burnt coffee and printer ink. My inbox was open. A spreadsheet glared accusingly from my screen.
Yes, I typed. Why?
A moment later, another message came through.
Step outside for five minutes.
I frowned at my phone.
That sounds suspicious.
It's not. I promise.
I hesitated.
Old Maya would've ignored it. Told herself she didn't have time for spontaneity. Told herself not to rearrange her day around someone else's whim.
New Maya—whatever that meant—closed her laptop.
"I'll be back in five," I told my coworker Jenna, who didn't look up from her screen.
Outside, the late afternoon sun washed the sidewalk in pale gold. The air was crisp, carrying that early-autumn edge that hinted at colder days ahead.
I scanned the street.
No Liam.
My phone buzzed again.
Look up.
I tilted my head back.
Across the street, on the second floor of the brick building opposite mine, a window slid open.
And there he was.
Camera in hand.
I stared at him, stunned.
He lifted the camera briefly, then lowered it, grinning.
I crossed my arms. "Are you serious?" I shouted across the street.
He cupped a hand around his mouth. "Yes."
"You told me to come outside so you could ambush me with a lens?"
"It's not an ambush if you're aware of it."
"I wasn't!"
"You are now."
I tried to look annoyed.
I failed.
"What are you doing over there?" I called.
"Friend's studio. Borrowing space."
"And I'm your subject?"
"Only if you want to be."
The offer hung between us.
Cars passed, momentarily obscuring him from view.
I had always hated being photographed. In group pictures, I angled myself slightly away. Smiled carefully. Adjusted posture. Controlled.
Daniel used to joke that I treated cameras like interrogation lights.
"Relax," he'd say. "It's just a picture."
But it never felt like just a picture.
It felt like evidence.
Proof of whether I was enough.
Liam raised the camera again—but didn't take the shot.
He waited.
"Why?" I asked, lowering my voice even though he probably couldn't hear the nuance.
He seemed to understand anyway.
"Because you don't see what I see," he called back.
I rolled my eyes reflexively. "That's dangerously close to being a line."
"It's not a line."
"Then what is it?"
"Truth."
My pulse shifted.
"What do you see?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He lowered the camera slowly.
"Someone standing in sunlight like she's not sure she's allowed to be there."
The words hit harder than they should have.
I glanced down at my hands, then back up at him.
"And?" I pressed.
"And I think you are."
A car honked behind me. I stepped closer to the curb without thinking.
He lifted the camera again.
This time, I didn't flinch.
I didn't pose.
I just stood there.
Breathing.
He clicked the shutter once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then lowered the camera.
"That's it?" I called.
"That's it."
I waited for him to take more.
He didn't.
"You're not going to show me?"
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because I want you to forget what you think you look like."
"That's cryptic."
He shrugged slightly.
"Trust me."
The words should've made me bristle.
Instead, they settled somewhere warm.
That night, he sent the photo.
No warning. Just a message with an attachment.
My heart pounded as I opened it.
It wasn't what I expected.
I wasn't mid-laugh or artfully serious. I wasn't styled or composed.
I was simply… there.
Standing in front of the office building, sunlight catching the side of my face. My hair slightly wind-tousled. Eyes lifted, uncertain but open.
There was something in my expression I didn't recognize.
Not sadness.
Not guardedness.
Possibility.
I stared at the image for a long time.
Then typed:
That doesn't look like me.
The reply came quickly.
It is.
I don't look like that.
Like what?
I hesitated.
Like I'm not bracing for something.
There was a pause before his response.
You weren't.
I swallowed.
You don't know that.
I do.
I stared at the screen.
How?
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Because you forgot to protect yourself for a second.
My chest tightened.
I set the phone down.
Sat back against my couch.
And let myself feel it.
The strange, fragile shift happening beneath my ribs.
Two days later, Daniel called.
I almost didn't answer.
My thumb hovered over the screen as his name flashed.
Then instinct won.
"Hi," I said carefully.
"Hey."
His voice sounded the same.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
"How are you?" he asked.
Loaded question.
"I'm okay."
A pause.
"I've been thinking," he said.
Of course he had.
I closed my eyes briefly.
"About?"
"Us."
There it was.
The word that still held weight.
"I don't know if we ended things the right way," he continued. "It felt rushed."
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
"It didn't feel rushed to me," I said.
"It didn't?"
"No."
Silence.
"I just—" He exhaled sharply. "I miss you."
My heart reacted automatically.
Memory is powerful like that.
It doesn't ask permission.
"I miss parts of you too," I admitted.
Honesty felt easier now.
"But?" he prompted.
"But I don't miss who I was becoming."
That stopped him.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"It means I was shrinking," I said quietly. "And I didn't even realize it."
"That's not fair," he said, defensiveness creeping in. "I never asked you to shrink."
"You didn't have to."
The words landed heavy.
"I supported you," he insisted.
"You did," I agreed. "In your way."
"And that wasn't enough?"
I thought of Liam's hand resting open on the café table.
Of sunlight and photographs and quiet presence.
"I think," I said carefully, "we wanted different things."
"Like what?"
"Like… being seen."
Another silence.
"I saw you," Daniel said.
I believed that he thought he had.
But there's a difference between looking and seeing.
"I know," I said softly. "But I don't think you understood what I needed."
"And what do you need?" he asked.
The question felt bigger than he intended.
"I'm still figuring that out."
He exhaled again, frustrated.
"Is there someone else?"
The question came sharper than the rest.
My pulse jumped.
"No," I said honestly.
There wasn't.
Not yet.
"Then maybe we can fix this," he pressed. "Maybe we just needed space."
Space.
I thought of the space between Liam and me. Charged but patient. Unrushed.
"Daniel," I said gently, "we didn't break because we needed space. We broke because we stopped meeting in the middle."
He didn't respond immediately.
"I don't want to lose you," he said finally.
The words hurt.
Because they were real.
"I don't want to lose you either," I admitted. "But I think we already did."
The silence that followed felt final.
"Okay," he said quietly.
"Okay."
We said goodbye without saying it.
When I hung up, I didn't cry.
I stood there in my kitchen, breathing steadily.
And realized something had shifted permanently.
I didn't tell Liam about the call right away.
Not because I wanted to hide it.
But because I wanted to sit with it first.
To understand what it meant.
Three nights later, he knocked on my door.
Actually knocked.
I stared at it in mild shock before opening it.
He stood there holding a small paper bag.
"You live dangerously," I said.
"You gave me your address."
"That doesn't mean you can appear unannounced."
He held up the bag. "Peace offering."
I stepped aside.
"Fine."
He walked in slowly, glancing around like he was cataloging details.
My apartment wasn't messy—but it wasn't curated either. Books stacked on the coffee table. Blanket draped carelessly over the couch. Notebook still open on my desk.
"What's in the bag?" I asked.
"Pastries."
"That's suspiciously specific."
"I pay attention."
I shook my head, but smiled.
We sat on the floor instead of the couch.
Close enough that our knees almost touched.
"You okay?" he asked after a few minutes.
There it was.
The perceptiveness again.
"Daniel called," I said.
His posture shifted subtly—not tense, not jealous. Just attentive.
"And?"
"He wants to try again."
Liam nodded once.
"And you?"
"I said no."
He didn't react dramatically.
Just watched me.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
The question surprised me.
"Why would you ask that?"
"Because closure isn't always clean."
I studied him.
"I'm sure," I said finally.
"Okay."
A beat passed.
"You're not going to ask if I still have feelings for him?" I said.
"You probably do."
The honesty startled me.
"That doesn't threaten you?"
He met my gaze steadily.
"It's normal."
Something in my chest loosened.
"I think I loved him," I said quietly.
"I'm sure you did."
"But it wasn't enough."
"Sometimes love isn't the problem."
"Then what is?"
He considered that.
"Alignment," he said finally.
The word echoed.
Alignment.
"I don't know if I've ever had that," I admitted.
His eyes held mine.
"You deserve to."
The air between us shifted.
Softened.
Dangerous.
"You're very certain about what I deserve," I said lightly.
"I'm certain about what I see."
"And what's that?"
"Someone who's done settling."
My pulse skipped.
Silence stretched.
His knee brushed mine accidentally.
Neither of us moved away.
"I'm trying not to rush," I said.
"I know."
"I don't want to confuse gratitude with something else."
"You're not."
"How do you know?"
"Because gratitude doesn't look at someone like that."
Heat flooded my face.
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to step closer."
The truth of it made my breath hitch.
I was.
Not physically.
But emotionally.
And that scared me more.
He lifted his hand slowly.
Paused inches from my face.
"May I?" he asked.
The question mattered more than the gesture.
"Yes," I whispered.
His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek.
Light.
Careful.
Electric.
He didn't lean in.
Didn't push further.
He just let his hand fall.
"See?" he said softly. "Not rushed."
My heart pounded in the quiet.
This wasn't like my relationship with Daniel.
That had escalated quickly. Intense from the start.
This felt deliberate.
Like laying bricks instead of lighting matches.
"Stay," I said before I could rethink it.
He looked at me.
"Okay."
We didn't kiss.
We didn't redefine anything.
We just sat there on my living room floor, shoulders eventually leaning together, talking about everything and nothing.
About childhood embarrassments.
About the worst photos he'd ever taken.
About the first poem I ever wrote.
And somewhere between laughter and silence, I realized something profound:
I wasn't trying to impress him.
I wasn't editing myself.
I wasn't shrinking.
I was just… there.
And he was too.
Later, when he finally stood to leave, he paused at the door.
"You don't owe me anything," he said quietly.
"I know."
"I'm here because I want to be."
"I know."
His hand rested briefly against the doorframe.
"Goodnight, Maya."
"Goodnight, Liam."
When the door closed behind him, the apartment felt full.
Not because he had stayed.
But because I hadn't hidden.
And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.