Archive of Our Own

I.

Manon doesn’t know what she’s doing.

She didn’t think that far ahead when she decided to pack her life away and move to New York. Then again, she didn’t do that either, when she decided to move to Los Angeles.

It’s something she has to work on, she thinks.

She’s apartment hunting, which, in hindsight, she probably should have done before she moved and not two weeks after. Sophie has been gracious enough to let her crash at her place, but Manon still feels the urge to move out on her own, despite her best friend’s protests.

(“You can always just stay with me, y’know.” Sophie tells her over brunch.

And, yeah, Manon knows that. Sophie has more than enough room for the both of them. It would be nice to live with her best friend. They’ll probably end up staying over at each other’s places more often than not anyway.

“Rent is expensive,” she shudders. “We could both benefit from spending a little less on that.”

Sophie is making good points. Rent is more expensive here than in Los Angeles. Staying with her would cancel out the risk of getting stuck in a shitty building. Manon already knows that Sophie has decent neighbors. Her landlord has a bit of an attitude, but she’s heard worse horror stories.

Manon counts her arguments on her fingers; they all point towards Sophie’s apartment. It makes sense, and there’s no reason for her to choose otherwise, but—

It doesn’t feel right, though. She moved to New York to find herself, and living on her own feels like a mandatory part of the experience. Manon had to stay with a roommate in Los Angeles, and she grew up in Switzerland with her sister.

A part of her wonders what Sophia would think, too. Manon wouldn’t be too happy if her ex-girlfriend who moved away to figure herself out ended up figuring it out with someone who wasn’t her.

“Yeah, but I kinda need to do this alone, for a while.” Manon looks out the window. There are waves of people weaving in and out of the street, probably on their lunch break. She pictures herself among them, another fish in the sea. She hopes the tide takes her somewhere nice.

“Okay,” Sophie relents. “I hear ya. I’ll send you some listings.”

And that was that.)

Manon stares up at the tall apartment building, one of the many she’s visited today. Fire escapes adorn every floor, something that’s common in the downtown area.

Manon pictures herself up on one, painting in the early mornings. Pictures herself winding down, people-watching as the sun sets.

She pictures late nights, the sound of singing wafting in from the kitchen. She pictures silky, dark hair, and fond eyes waiting to meet hers when she turns to head back inside.

Manon snaps out of it, when a shadow casts itself upon her.

The sun is setting.

The sky turns into a watercolour-blend of pink and orange. She pulls out her phone, angling it above her head to capture how the light reflects off the windows of the building. She absentmindedly snaps a photo, immediately swiping to her messages.

She hovers her thumb over the text thread between her and Sophia, muscle memory kicking in. She stares at the screen for a while, eyes tracing her name. Her contact is still pinned to the top of her messages.

She wonders if Sophia would have liked the apartment she chose.

She shuts off her phone. Manon guesses she’ll never know.

II.

Sophie convinces her to go to a party.

Manon has been to her fair share of networking parties. She had to attend more than a handful, when her modelling career had first started picking up. She’s no foreigner to the experience.

Parties in New York are different though, hosted in small, cramped apartments, instead of the usual Beverly Hills houses she’s used to.

She’s half-listening to the man who’s been waffling into her ear for the past hour. Some indie producer with a genius concept idea where she’ll be covered in green body paint. She thinks she’ll do it, maybe, if she’s bored enough.

Her saving grace comes in the form of an arm swinging over her shoulder.

“Hey! I was looking all over for you.”

Manon has no idea who this girl is. They share a look, and Manon recognizes the out that she’s being offered.

“Yeah, sorry,” she nods towards the man. She can’t recall his name. Dan? She thinks. Or maybe it was Tim. She figures it’s not that important.

“We were just brainstorming. Did you need something?”

“There’s something I gotta show you,” the girl shifts her arm, moving it downwards to hook it with hers. “Mind if I borrow her?”

She’s hurried across the room before Tan can answer. That’s probably not his name but she figures it must be close. She doesn’t really care, if she’s being honest.

Manon is a little tipsy, so the stranger has been a vague blur under the strobing lights. It’s only when they get to the kitchen, a much more subdued area, that her vision refocuses.

“Sorry,” the girl says, letting go of her arm. “You looked like you needed some saving, back there.”

She’s ginger and she looks about her age, maybe younger. Her eyes are a mix of blue and green, which should be a breathtaking combination, but all Manon can think about is how they aren’t dark brown.

“Thank you, actually,” Manon clears her throat. She shakes her head, an attempt at clearing her thoughts. It doesn’t work. “He wasn’t bothering me that much, but I think I would’ve died before that convo did.”

They’re standing in front of the kitchen fridge. The girl is sweet, and she continues making polite conversation, but Manon feels so out of tune she can’t focus on her words. Her consciousness is lying in a different frequency. It feels like she’s outside her body, watching from a higher plane.

Manon can’t help but catalog all the differences between this moment and the first she had shared with Sophia.

There aren’t magnetic alphabets on the fridge door. Manon thinks it’s for good reason; she’d probably, like, accidentally spell out Sophia’s name just so she has something to do with her hands.

God, Manon thinks. This is pathetic.

She finally musters the strength to interrupt the girl. She doesn’t bother asking for her name; she knows she’ll probably forget it anyway—Tan.

“Hey, sorry,” she winces. Maybe she should’ve waited for a pause. “You’re, like, super sweet, but I promised I’d call my girlfriend in a bit.” She shifts her weight from one foot to another.

“So, yeah. I gotta find a quiet room.”

The girl nods understandingly, with what seems like relief flooding her features. Manon wonders if the conversation was also awkward for her, only pushing through because of her silence. She wasn’t the best conversational partner.

Manon shoots her another smile as she brushes past, heading towards the balcony. There isn’t a girlfriend to call, but she wasn’t lying when she said she needed a quiet place.

She feels around the pockets of her jeans for the familiar box she knows she’ll find. When she pulls out a stick and a lighter, she hears Sophia’s voice in her head.

(“Why do you smoke?”

There’s no judgement in her tone. She can tell that Sophia is genuinely, simply curious.

They’re sitting on a bench, a couple feet away from the convenience store. If she strains her ear enough, Manon can still hear the chime of the bell every time the doors open. The area is mostly desolate, though, so the sound doesn’t come often.

“Why don’t you?” She shoots back, teasing. The box of cigarettes sits between them, sealed and untouched. Manon wonders if Sophia would cave in and try one if she prodded her enough.

She probably would, if Manon could convince her it’s essential to the ideal university experience. Sophia would inhale once and walk the five meters to throw it into a bin because she’s, like, a responsible citizen.

An idea floats around in her head, one where Sophia might be more inclined to try it, if the smoke came from Manon’s mouth instead. She mentally waves it away halfheartedly, already planning to come back to it later.

“It’s bad for your throat,” Sophia shakes her head. It almost looks solemn, even though Manon knows Sophia still wouldn’t smoke if she wasn’t a singer. “Not ideal for vocals.”

And Manon kind of knew that already. Sophia never asked, but she did refrain from smoking around her. She’s seen the way she holds her breath when they walk past a group of smokers huddled together in the street. Sophia could probably give her a lecture on the effects of second-hand smoking, if she’d ask.

“You want me to quit?” Manon deflects, picking up the box. She mostly smokes socially, so one lasts her months anyway. She doesn’t really care if they’ve gone stale.

Sophia frowns at her. “Not if it’s not for yourself.” Manon can feel her staring at the side of her head. Sophia is so expressive, it’s difficult for Manon to look her in the eye sometimes.

She fidgets with the box in her hand, thumbs feeling over the embossed label. Manon knows it’s the last box she’ll ever buy.

“Doing it for me is the same as doing it for you.”)

Sometimes, she smokes in the hopes that Sophia can magically sense it all the way from Los Angeles. It’s still the same box Manon bought that day. Her certainty wasn’t misplaced. Though, she supposes she can’t say she’s doing it for Sophia, anymore.

A part of her waits for the buzz of her phone, for a familiar call to come in. She wants to hear Sophia scold her, berate her even—anything to hear her voice.

The voice never comes.

She blows out a puff of smoke, leaning on the railing of the balcony. She watches the wisps dance in the air, eyes drooping blearily. She shuts them completely when the wisps start to look like Sophia.

Manon stubs the cigarette out on the railing, laughing to herself. She can’t even smoke without thinking of her.

She turns to go back inside, already coming up with an excuse to leave early. Manon is only one foot into the living room when she bumps into someone—head onto shoulder.

“Oh shit—” Manon stumbles back, almost out into the balcony again. “My bad, I didn’t see you.”

“No, that’s on me.” The man says, reaching out to steady her. “I was trying to get to the balcony. Didn’t see you were out there.”

He’s tall, with dark brown hair and thick eyebrows. She has to crane her neck a little to look at him.

Manon’s eyes zero onto the camera in his hands. It looks expensive, and her chest floods with belated relief that it didn’t drop when they collided.

“My name is Blake,” he continues, grinning. He follows her eyesight. “It’s a film camera. I came out to take some pictures.”

Manon was planning to call it a night. But Blake seems nice, and a part of her still worries that she had scratched the camera somehow. She can’t recall if she heard the sound of something scraping her belt, or if her paranoia made it up.

“Can I try?” She blurts out, stepping to the side to give him space to move. “I’ve never seen a film camera up close before.”

It isn’t a lie. Manon’s been to many photoshoots, but they’re mostly professional digital cameras—big ones equipped with long lenses. Most of her friends have smaller ones tucked into their purses. The one in Blake’s hands is somewhere in between, familiar but new at the same time.

She has half a mind to take it back, the delayed realization setting in that she’s asking a stranger for permission to use what’s probably a prized possession. Blake beats her to it, though, flashing her an amicable smile as he jerks his head toward the balcony.

“Yeah,” he walks past, careful not to bump into her. “I’ll teach you.”

He configures something on his camera—Manon’s not sure what, only hearing the clicks and turns of the buttons. She guesses he’s changing it to beginner settings, if the camera even has one.

“Here,” he holds the camera out to her. Manon stares at him blankly. She widens her eyes, lifting her hands up when he shakes it again, gesturing for her to take it.

“Dude,” she gawks. “I don’t know how to use that.”

“It’s intuitive. You just aim and click; I’ve got it set up for you.” He laughs. “It’s just a camera. You don’t have to look so scared…” He trails off, tone questioning.

“Manon,” she mumbles, moving to hold the camera. “My name is Manon.”

“Okay, Manon.” It sounds off with his accent. She thinks he might be Australian, maybe. He’s kind of mispronouncing it, even though Manon had just stated it before.

(She thinks of all the times Sophia corrected mispronunciations of her name, even though Manon had grown to not mind them.)

He’s probably drunk, and Manon doesn’t care enough to correct him, so she brushes past him to survey her surroundings for a muse.

“What am I supposed to take a picture of?”

He leans on the railing next to her, a respectable distance away. She’s grateful for that, even if he butchers her name.

“Anything.” He looks out, almost forlornly. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

They stand there for a while, leaning on the railing together. Manon can still hear the music from inside, badly muffled through the thin walls. She recognizes it as a Carti song, and thinks about Daniela. She’s the only one Manon’s kept in touch with since she left Los Angeles—a semi-constant text thread and a streak on TikTok. Manon reminds herself to video-call her one of these days.

She doesn’t know how long they’ve been out there. Somewhere along the way, the camera was passed back to its rightful owner, Blake clicking away every so often.

Manon likes his company, surprisingly. He doesn’t push, letting the silence engulf them comfortably. She thinks she’ll ask to trade socials, maybe, and then call it a night. Her mouth is half-opened when movement catches her eye.

Across the street below them, warmth bleeds through a window. It looks like a cafe, or a bakery. There’s someone opening up shop. The sun is beginning to rise, so it must be around five or six in the morning. Whoever it is must be punctual.

(Manon tries not to think much about punctuality, these days. She’s been trying not to think about a lot of Sophia-related things, which just so happens to be everything, most of the time.)

“Hey,” she reaches out to pull on Blake’s sleeve. Her other hand points at the lit window. “Do you think we could go down there?”

Blake turns his head to follow her finger. Manon can see the question in his eyes, but it never comes. Curious, but not hesitant.

“Yeah,” he nods, firmly. “Let’s take the elevator, though. It’s safer.”

The wait in the elevator is uneasy. Manon feels restless, itching to capture the moment before it slips away. She doesn’t know why—she’s not entirely sure what she saw.

She bolts out as soon as the doors open, but halts to a stop once her feet reach the pavement. Manon stands across the street, what she confirms to be a bakery on the other side. She has the urge to cross, to get closer, but something roots her in place.

Blake hands her the camera when he catches up to her. He doesn’t say anything, but Manon can see him nod from her peripheral.

There’s lettering on the window, handwritten in white marker. There are two workers inside, slowly moving aside chairs into position. She imagines a group of bakers in the kitchen—kneading dough, pushing trays into ovens.

She’s not used to their pace. One thing Los Angeles and New York had in common was the hustle. Everything moved fast, if she even stopped to blink she’d miss it.

It’s only when she lifts the camera, eye peeking through the viewfinder, that she understands.

The slower we move, the faster we return home.

She hears the shutter click. The world starts again.

“Huh,” Manon says, lowering the camera. Her eyes stay on the lettering. “You really do know it when you see it.”

III.

She ends up tagging along when Blake invites her to get their film roll developed. He insists on calling it theirs, even though Manon took, like, one picture. Granted, it was a picture she couldn’t stop thinking about, but he couldn’t have known that.

She thinks of the knowing look he gave her when she handed back his camera. Manon doesn’t like the possibility of being so transparent, so she hopes it was a shared look of love over photography and nothing else.

(She knows it’s everything else.)

They end up in a small store downtown. Manon scans the room, noting that there’s only a counter and a door, presumably to the development room. Film pictures cover the wall entirely, overlapping one another.

Blake greets the man behind the counter, going for a fist bump. It’s clear they’re close friends; Manon recalls him mentioning that it’s a place he frequents.

His hair is bleach blonde, and he has a couple silver piercings adorning his ears, glinting in the light. Manon isn’t sure if it’s because he’s slouching, but from where she stands, he looks shorter than Blake. He’s around her height, maybe, or a tad bit shorter.

“Just one roll today,” Blake tosses over the counter. “My friend’s interested in getting a cam of her own, too.” He jerks a thumb back towards her.

“Wait—” Manon interrupts, but his friend had already disappeared out the door. She turns to Blake, bewildered. “I never said I wanted a camera.”

“But do you?” He challenges. His eyebrows are raised but he doesn’t look smug. Manon thinks that if she really denied it, he’d drop it.

“I do,” she admits, quietly. She hasn’t done enough research to warrant a clear choice, but she would be lying if she said she didn’t do some quick Google searches the morning after the party.

Blake grins, putting his hands together. “Okay, then let’s get you one, girl!”

“I don’t have the funds for that,” she says, eyeing the cameras on display. They look expensive, the kind of expensive that she’d immediately feel bad for as soon as she paid. There’s also the addition of buying more film and then getting them developed.

“It sounds complicated, too,” Manon adds, shaking her head. “You had it set up for me yesterday, right? I know nothing about cameras, dude.”

“We can get you a beginner one, something easy and cheap,” Blake says as he moves, scanning the array of cameras. He picks one up from the basket near the register, shaking it in her face. “See, we can even get you a disposable one if you’re so unsure.”

Manon swats the camera away. “Okay, I’ve used disposable ones.” They’re literally in New York. Besides, Manon isn’t entirely sure she wants to invest so much time and effort into this. She just moved here; she has enough on her plate.

“Look, I just don’t know if it’s worth—”

Their conversation is interrupted by the return of the worker—Malcolm, his nametag states. He swipes through a couple prints in his hands, counting under his breath.

“—35, 36. Okay, that should be everything,” Malcolm says, coming up to the register. “Do you want me to wrap ‘em up or?”

“Nah,” Blake waves, reaching over to grab the prints. “Let me have a look real quick.”

He goes through each print quickly. Manon has an urge to tease; it’s like he’s trying to make a flipbook with how fast he’s going. Before she can, a picture is shoved into her hands, so urgently that she fears getting a papercut.

“What—” Her words die on her tongue when she recognizes the picture.

It’s the one she took. It might be the colouring of the film, but Manon swears she can feel the warmth from the bakery at her fingertips as she traces the picture.

“Okay.” Manon relents, hoping she doesn’t regret it. She tries to return the print, but Blake refuses, only taking it to tuck it into her coat pocket. “What’s, like, the best beginner camera you would recommend?”

Blake and Malcolm run her through some options, but Manon tunes them out when they start debating against each other on their recommendations. There are too many terms, all going in from one ear and out the other.

Her eyes scan through the shelves, landing on a camera near the bottom, almost covered by the rest.

“Hey,” she interrupts, breaking through their conversation. “How about that one?”

Malcolm moves to where she’s standing, picking up the camera she’s pointing at. “This?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. “It’s pretty old. It’s kinda wonky so I haven’t been able to sell it off.”

He pulls his sleeve over his wrist, wiping the dust off. “It’s supposed to sell pretty well in mint, but nobody’s been interested.” He hands it to her once it’s clean.

Blake is muttering behind her about people not having taste anymore. Manon turns the camera over in her hands, inspecting it, despite not knowing what warrants a good camera. There’s a small crack on the top display, and some of the ink on the labels have been scratched off. She doesn’t mind though, as long as it works.

“How much?” She looks up, bringing the camera to eye view. It feels good in her hands.

“You want it?” Malcolm balks. “I haven’t even told you the specs. You’re not hoping to, like, fix it to sell, right? ‘Cause I’ve tried everything.”

Manon lowers the camera, deadpanning. “Do I look like someone who would know how to fix a camera?” Blake nods dourly next to her. She couldn’t even set the router right when she moved in. Him and Sophie are the prime victims of her shitty internet when they come over.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Here, I’ll throw in its lens, too. And pick up a roll before you leave, on the house.”

“Seriously?” Manon follows him to the register. “Thanks dude, you didn’t have to do that.”

Malcolm rings her up, securing the lens to the mount. “Just as long as you promise to get those pics developed here,” he grins, handing her the camera.

“Wait—” She pauses, catching a glimpse of the box. “What’s this camera called?”

“This?” He hums, sliding the box over the counter. “It’s from Pentax. Good brand for newbies.”

Manon doesn’t care about the brand. Her eyes zero in on the text below the company name—SF7. 

She can’t help but laugh in disbelief. The letters aren’t even the right initials, but she still thought of her.

Doing it for me is the same as doing it for you.

Manon is doing this for herself, but she supposes that she can’t get rid of someone she was so deeply intertwined with. A part of Sophia will always exist in a version of herself.

“Yeah,” she affirms. “Good brand.”

She doesn’t use the camera until later. Malcolm had encouraged her to—a way to make sure that the camera was working. I’m not running a scam shop, he had said.

Manon didn’t want to just, like, take a random picture to test it out, though. She knows it’s only a film camera, but it’s her first one and it feels significant.

Blake is dozing off in the subway, eyes drooping despite standing up. Sophie, sitting next to her, is snapping away at him using her phone camera. Blackmail material, Manon thinks. Or maybe for a birthday post.

“So,” Sophie starts, pocketing her phone once she’s satiated. “Film photography?”

Manon nods, eyeing Blake warily. She has no idea how he’s still standing up. He’s like a horse. “It was an impulsive decision.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Sophie nudges her shoulder. “Seems pretty personal, though.” Manon can sense the question in her tone, but she doesn’t know what she’s asking.

“It’s fun,” she tries, finding the words in her head. “Just trying out something new.”

Sophie hums, leaning her head on her shoulder.

“Are you happy with it?”

Manon can tell she isn’t talking about the camera.

“Yeah.”

They part ways after two stations. Manon leaves first; Sophie is a station away and Blake is on an entirely different line. She waves at them through the closing doors, Blake taking her place next to Sophie. She hopes he doesn’t fall asleep and miss his stop.

The lights are bright when she steps out of the station. It still catches her by surprise, how illuminated the walk home is, despite having lived there for almost a year.

Her apartment is in a more secluded area, so the lights trickle out as she walks. More trees start to appear, casting her in shadows. When she looks to the ground, there are mosaics made out of light.

(“Manon, look!”

Sophia is holding up a glass of champagne to her eye. She’s looking at the hanging lights through them, colours blurring into each other.

Sophia’s had too much to drink, but it’s her birthday and—Manon checks the clock on her phone, 11:52—almost New Years, so she thinks it’s warranted.

“They look like lanterns,” she giggles to herself. Manon knows her well enough to know that she’s thinking about the scene from Rapunzel.

Tangled, her mind corrects, in Sophia’s voice. Rapunzel is her name, but Tangled is the name of the movie.

“So pretty,” Sophia mumbles, leaning on Manon. She lifts the glass, wanting her to look through it too. “I hope we can stay like this forever.”

“Yeah.” Manon is only looking at Sophia. “Me too.”)

She pulls out her camera from her bag, powering it on and making sure the switches are set to Blake’s recommendations. She steps back, letting her silhouette fall over the dancing lights on the ground.

Manon angles the camera, holding her breath as she stills. She only exhales once she hears the shutter, marking the capture of the scene.

She doesn’t get to see the preview—doesn’t know if it’s a good picture. She supposes that’s the point.

“The slower we move,” Manon mutters to herself. The faster we return home, her mind finishes. Sophia doesn’t have to say the quote for Manon to hear it in her voice.

She tucks the camera back into her bag and continues her trek home. If she smiles at the way her silhouette sways on the ground, that’s between her and her shadow alone.

IV.

Manon starts bringing her camera everywhere.

It’s small enough to fit in her bag, and light enough that it doesn’t strain her shoulder. She finds herself bringing it out more and more these days, finding beauty in things she never spared a second glance to.

She’s been watching videos online; Blake and Malcolm show her the ropes when they meet up. They’ve formed a small friend group, the three of them with the addition of Sophie. Malcolm apparently dabbles in videography, so it was an instant match with the girl’s interest in directing.

“When are you gonna get them developed?” Blake nods towards the camera in her hands. “You’ve gone through a couple rolls, no?”

Manon nods, fiddling with the switches on the camera. She knows what they do now. “Only two, actually.” The third roll is still loaded in the camera, only used halfway. “I might get Malc to develop one tomorrow, maybe.”

Manon doesn’t want to develop the first film roll yet. It feels much too intimate, despite knowing that most of the pictures were scenery. A part of her wants to shrink it down, wear it as a pendant on a necklace. Close to the heart.

“Yo,” Malcolm interrupts, flashing a peace sign. Corny, Manon rolls her eyes, but a smile forms on her face. “Sophie had this genius idea for us to go to Central Park.”

“What’s so genius about that? We go there, like, all the time.” Manon’s eyes search for Sophie’s, asking for an explanation.

“You need to give them context, Malcolm.” Sophie chides in an Australian accent. Blake swats at her, but misses by a long shot. “I wanted to have a picnic. Got some concept ideas in my head for a music video, so I need to brainstorm. What better way than to do it on the spot?”

Manon sighs, already moving to a stand. She knows that once Sophie’s set her mind to something, she’s determined to get it done. It’s not like she had any other plans for the day, anyway.

“Okay, but we’re taking the subway. I’m not walking all the way there.”

The walk is short to the station. She lets herself get lost in the bustle, surrounded by people with places to go. The subway manages to be lively at all times of the day, carriages filled to the brim. Though, Manon supposes that was what she was looking for when she moved, so. She doesn’t really have the right to complain.

They don’t even have a picnic blanket. There are a couple people lounging; Manon follows Sophie as she marches around the park until she finds a place she’s satisfied with. She can see her eyes darting around—scanning the area—but she has no idea what she’s looking for. She’s content with just enjoying the warmth of the day.

Sophie seems to have found something, whipping her head around to call out for Malcolm. She starts going on a tangent, her passion giving her words a nitrous boost. Manon doesn’t bother keeping up with the two, already knowing that they’ll break it down for her later.

“There’s quite a crowd here today, huh,” Blake mumbles from behind her. She hums noncommittally. It’s not that bad today, actually. Manon has seen worse, especially during the summers—tourists come to visit from all over.

She lets her gaze travel across the park, watching couples on picnics, some people on a run. Blake has his camera out already, never one to waste a moment.

She knows the chances are low, but Manon can’t help but imagine bumping into Sophia. She pictures their shoulders knocking together, the look of surprise flashing across Sophia’s face when they make eye contact. She pictures the surprise shift into recognition, and then maybe into anger.

In an odd way, Manon misses it. They didn’t get into fights often; Sophia was always so mature when it came to communicating—structured, even. And Manon wasn’t one to hold grudges, so. Things sailed smoothly up until their breakup.

(“What do you mean New York?”

Sophia’s voice cracks towards the end. Manon winces. Sophia’s never even had a pitchy voice. She has, like, warm-up routines that she does every morning to make sure that never happens. Manon doesn’t think a bad voice day is something that exists in Sophia’s world.

“Like,” Manon starts, trying to pick her words carefully. She hadn’t expected this reaction out of her. “New York City.”

“New York City,” Sophia parrots. She sits up on her elbows, staring at Manon from above. The grass beneath her is making her itch. “Is this a prank?”

“What?” Manon moves to match her position, meeting her gaze. They’re face to face now, only inches apart, but Sophia feels so far away. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. “Why would I be joking about this?”

“Because,” Sophia presses, eyes growing sharper. A crinkle forms between her eyebrows. Manon itches to smoothen it out, but she knows it isn’t the right time. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

That hits a nerve, one that she didn’t know existed. It throbs at the back of her head, dulled by the distance, but she feels it travel down to her chest. “You don’t think I can do it?” Manon asks, hurt. Sophia had always been the ambitious one between them—always pushing her to do better. To do more.

“Do what, Manon?” Sophia is too caught up in the argument to hear the hurt in her voice. She moves to get up, her stature casting a shadow over Manon, blocking the sun. Somehow, Manon thinks the intensity of her stare burns more. “What the hell are you planning on doing?”

And, well. Manon doesn’t have the answer to that yet. Something. Everything.

“I don’t know.” She admits, quietly. Shame creeps up her neck. It wasn’t a concrete plan yet. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Sophia sighs, but it comes out tight, almost like a whistle. Manon can tell that her patience is wearing thin. “And you can’t figure that out here?” The edge in her voice is so unfamiliar.

“No,” Manon looks down, feeling the grass slip between her fingers. They must be freshly cut, blades slipping out no matter how tight she grasps. Her hands try anyway. “Not here.”

That must be the wrong answer, because something shifts in Sophia’s stature. She straightens up, her face freezing like she’s been struck. Manon moves on instinct—her hand reaching out to touch her. The motion snaps Sophia back into reality, and she steps back before Manon can get to her. Sophia’s never avoided her touch before.

“Not here,” Sophia repeats. “Not with me.”

Manon doesn’t know what she means by that. All she can think is—wrong, wrong, wrong. Always with Sophia. Manon has never considered otherwise, in whatever way Sophia means.

“What do you mean?” Manon scrambles to get up, following after Sophia. “Why not with you?”

Sophia whirls around, incredulous. “Why not with me? I’m not moving to New York with you, Manon. I built an entire life here, this past year.” She waves her hand around wildly. “I built one here, with you.”

She emphasizes the last two words, jabbing her finger into Manon’s shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, even though Manon knows Sophia could push harder. Even now, she’s still so gentle with her.

“You can’t have both New York and me, Manon.” She trails off. “You have to choose.”

“I can’t stay here, Sophia.” Manon tries, looking for the right words. She can’t seem to find any. “That doesn’t mean I don’t choose you.”

Sophia lets out a breath, her shoulders dropping with it. It looks like she’s lost all the fight in her body.

Manon hates how it looks.

“It kind of does, Manon.”)

“Do you think, like, long-distance stuff ever works out?” Manon breaks the silence, pushing a pebble around with the bottom of her shoe. “Like do they actually last?”

“Long distance?” Blake asks, putting his camera down. “My boyfriend is back in Australia.” He beams, obviously happy from the thought of him. “I’d like to think we’ll last.”

“Wait—” Manon stops him, whipping her head to look at him. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, nodding. “I only moved here recently, remember? A little bit before you did. Good photography program and all that?”

“You never mentioned having one.” Manon feels a twinge of guilt. No one except Sophie knows about her breakup, but she thinks a long-term boyfriend would be worth mentioning to a friend. Has she unintentionally been a bad friend this whole time?

“We don’t talk much when we hang out,” he points out placidly. “We mostly take pictures. It’s a nice change of pace.”

Manon hums in agreement. She does like the comfortable silence that inherently comes with Blake. “Still, I wish you told me,” she exaggerates a pout. “Are we not besties, Blakey?”

“First of all, don’t ever call me Blakey again.” He deadpans, flicking her forehead—Ow. “Second, of course we are. I tell him about you, y’know? You, Sophie, and Malc. He wants to meet you guys, one day.”

“I’d love that.” Manon can’t help but long to be the one to say that instead. I have a girlfriend, she’ll say proudly. Her name is Sophia, and she’s the best in her department back in Los Angeles. I want you guys to meet her, the person I love most.

“Is it hard?” She can’t help but ask. “Being so far away from each other?”

“It is,” Blake admits. “I miss him all the time. We do our best to make it work, but I won’t lie and say there aren’t, like, a million hurdles that come with it, too.”

Manon wonders if they could’ve made it work, if Sophia had given them a chance to try. Moving to New York was never a long-term decision. Not until she realized Los Angeles had nothing for her to come back to anymore.

“I think people tend to mistake their commitment for each other as commitment for the relationship.” Blake thinks out loud. “Sometimes, they focus too much on the idea of the relationship and not who they’ve chosen to be with.”

Manon feels her breath catch, thinking back on the argument she had with Sophia.

Sophia, who is so Type A, Manon didn’t even get a chance to ask what that meant before she explained to her in full detail. Sophia, who never fails to stick to her structured routine, rinse and repeat. Sophia, who plans everything out, her future always at the forefront of her mind.

Her Sophia, who started including Manon in those plans, too.

“It only works out if both are working towards the same thing,” Manon realizes. They had hit a fork in the road. Their paths were always parallel—so close she hadn’t noticed, but parallel lines were never meant to meet.

“The relationship isn’t the end goal, I think.” Blake says, wistfully. “It took me a while to realize that. I couldn’t ask him to leave his home, the same way he couldn’t ask me to give up my dream.”

It’s eerily similar to what happened between Manon and Sophia. She supposes that maybe, they just weren’t meant to stay together. Maybe they’ve always been on different paths, as much as it kills her to admit.

“I don’t think you have to sacrifice connection for your dreams, though.” Blake interrupts. It’s like he can read her mind. “I knew him, even when I didn’t know myself.” He laughs, shaking his head.

“I’m figuring out who I am now, and I still want to know him. One day, when we’ve grown up into different people, I know I’ll still want to know him.”

“That’s the best part,” Blake concludes. “You’ll never find the same love twice, even within the same person.”

“Taking pictures,” he says, gesturing to his camera. “It’s a way to remember—snapshots in time.”

“Is that why you do it?” Manon asks. “Nostalgia?”

“Sometimes.” Blake shrugs. A flock of birds soar above them, wings flapping in the distance. He brings his camera to his face, the click of the shutter following suit. “Everyone has a different reason, though.”

Manon thinks back to her picture of the bakery. The warmth she felt holding the camera. The warmth she could still feel when she held the picture.

The warmth she wanted Sophia to feel, too.

“What about the uncertainty?” Her voice is low, pushed down by her fear. It feels like they’re on the brink of something, and Manon is scared to find out what.

“What if you change, or he does, and then it just—” Her throat closes up and she forces herself to take a breath. Blake doesn’t say anything, giving her the time she needs.

Manon feels a little guilty, having relied on Blake so much since they first met at the party. She can only hope she gets the opportunity to return the favor.

“Doesn’t work out anymore?” She forces it out. The walls of her throat feel raw and achy.

“Then it doesn’t. I can’t control how it goes,” Blake looks at her. “No amount of worry can spare me from that. Freezing it in time won't save it either.”

“You can face those uncertainties together, though.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll always need people. Those people will change. We will too.”

“I just have faith that I’ll want to know the person he becomes.” He squeezes, before letting go of her. “And that he’ll want to know me, too.”

“The right people will want to stick around, Manon. Sometimes you have to fall apart before coming back together.”

It's quiet for a while, Manon stewing in her thoughts. Before she can thank him, a whistle pierces through the air, effectively breaking the moment.

“What are you guys still standing there for?” Malcolm yells, hands cupped over his mouth. Manon thinks it’s ridiculous, because they’re only a few feet away from them. He didn’t even have to raise his voice.

“Get over here!” Sophie doubles down, yelling louder. Manon narrows her eyes, knowing it’s one of her tactics. Forcing them to yield through embarrassment.

Blake gives her a look, checking to see if she’s alright. Manon nods reassuringly, hoping that her gratitude shows through her eyes. She moves to sit on the grass, Blake trailing behind. Sophie makes quick work, catching them up to speed on the spirit of creative visions that possessed her while they were gone.

Her hand moves instinctually to grasp at the grass. She’s momentarily taken back to that day at the park. The blades are longer here, softly yielding under her palm. There’s something to be said about growth, Manon thinks.

She’s not the best with words—that was made clear in the breakup. She pulls out her camera, instead.

She lays back on the grass, shifting her weight to her left arm. Manon has never taken pictures in this orientation, but she figures there’s a first for everything. She barely knew anything about photography a year ago, and now it’s all she does.

Her composition is probably horrible, but she wants to fit in everything: the grass, the trees, and the sun. It almost looks like an ant’s perspective of the park. It’s such a similar view to the one she had that day, except Sophia is missing from it.

Sophia, she thinks, hovering her finger over the shutter button. Manon wonders if Sophia can feel her in Los Angeles, the way she always does in New York. I want to get to know you again.

She presses the button, capturing the frame.

I hope you want to get to know me again, too.

V.

Manon gets an email from Sophia one night, while she’s walking home from a shoot.

She almost thinks it’s a hallucination, or something, induced by her fatigue. She’s been doing a lot these days—shoots, driving lessons, hell, she’s even adopted a couple plants. It’s embarrassing to admit, but it wouldn’t be the first time Manon sees Sophia in things that aren’t her.

She has to reread the notification three times before she lets herself swipe it open.

It’s long, formal and structured, in a way that only further confirms that it’s from Sophia. Still, it feels like a scam email, and Manon forces herself to read through each word carefully—looking for any typos that might indicate that it’s a fraud.

It obviously isn’t one. She spelled out every letter of the email address. She knows it’s Sophia’s.

Manon breaks the email down into points, an attempt to avoid feeling overwhelmed. She learned that from her driving instructor.

Sophia needs a roommate. She heard that Manon is coming back to Los Angeles and needs one too. She has a good place. She wants Manon to be her roommate.

Manon feels a little dizzy. She wonders if she accidentally walked into an alternate reality, one where Sophia doesn’t hate her and can stand being in the same room with her. One where she’s asking her to share one with her.

Daniela must have told her. Manon did tell the girl she was coming back to Los Angeles, but that was always the plan from the start.

(“Girl, when are you gonna come visit me.”

Her voice is staticky through her phone speaker, but Manon can still hear the sass in her tone. She has her phone propped up on her table—they finally got around to doing a video call.

“I’ll come back soon. I told you guys, I don’t plan on staying in New York forever.” She rolls her eyes. Manon doesn’t know why everyone assumed that her move was a permanent thing. Her sister thought the same, when she called to tell her the news.

People can be so dramatic, sometimes.

“Okay,” Daniela groans, elongating the word. She puts two fingers up. “When is—” She bends her fingers, making quotation marks. “—soon?”

“Girl, I don’t know.” Manon whines. She wants to kick her feet but controls herself. “I need to find a new place again. Start over. Soon is soon.”

“Are you gonna talk to Sophia?” Daniela asks. Manon usually appreciates the girl’s candor, but it does come back to bite her in times like these.

“I don’t think she wants to talk to me,” she deflects. She’s technically still being honest, even if it doesn’t answer Dani’s question.

“Do you want to talk to her?” Daniela stands her ground. Her defense is impenetrable. Curse her for knowing Manon so well.

“A conversation has to go both ways,” Manon thanks Blake in her head. Good advice. “I can’t, like, force her to talk to me. I don’t even know what I would say.”

“Oh, take me back Sophia. I’ve changed since New York. I’m still in love with you, and I want to have your babies.” Daniela clasps her hands together, fluttering her eyelashes at the camera.

“That is not how I sound,” Manon deadpans. She hovers her thumb over the call button, “I’m going to hang up on you.”

“You’re the one who scheduled this call,” Daniela complains. “Which is crazy, by the way. Since when do you schedule things?”

They both know where Manon picked up that habit from. Daniela’s grin is shit-eating. Manon reminds herself that she’s two years older, and she’s mature, and she won’t fall for the bait.

“Do you think Sophia would RSVP to getting back together if you sent her a calendar invite?”

So maybe she will fall for it.

“Shut up,” she hisses. Daniela bursts out laughing, her phone falling backwards, showcasing her ceiling. “What is wrong with you? This is what happens when I try to be a good friend and catch up with you.”

“Okay, okay,” Daniela relents, picking up her phone. Only her eyes and above are visible. Manon can hear a song bleed through. She’s fucking watching TikToks.

“You have a big ass forehead, by the way.” She can’t help herself. “Fuck you,” she adds in a British accent.

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.” Daniela mimics. “God, you guys are so similar y’know. You get crazy at the smallest mention of each other.”

Manon doesn’t think that’s fair, because Daniela did not just mention Sophia. She’s too busy focusing on what Daniela said to defend herself, though.

“You guys still talk about me? What does she say about me?” Manon quickfires. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Is she still mad?”

“Sophia was never mad, Manon,” Daniela rolls her eyes. Manon hopes they get stuck there. “She was hurt. I think she still might be now, but only because she misses you.”

“She misses me?” Manon had hoped she did. It’s selfish, but some nights, she’d wish that Sophia missed her too so she’d feel less pathetic about it. “I miss her too.”

“Then tell her that.” Daniela groans, dropping her phone back on her bed. Manon is a little grateful for that. She’s always been bad at making eye contact when she’s vulnerable, even with the buffer of a phone screen. “Don’t tell me, tell her.”

“It’s not that easy, Dani.” Manon wishes it was. She doesn’t know what Daniela sees that she doesn’t.

“It can be.” The phone is picked up again, Daniela’s face fully visible now. She’s looking straight into the camera. Manon would think it looks funny—take some screenshots, even—if the look in her eyes wasn’t so intense. “The only thing holding you guys back is each other.”

She stays silent, letting the truth hang uncomfortably in the air. Daniela sighs, already knowing the conversation is over. She lets Manon off, concluding with a final thought.

“It doesn’t have to be hard, Manon.”)

Manon wasn’t, like, serious about coming back so soon. She said she would, but she hadn’t even looked up flight tickets or anything. Going back to Los Angeles just always felt like an inevitability.

It must be bad if Sophia is reaching out to her for a roommate. Even if she doesn’t hate Manon, she doubts an ex-girlfriend would be her first choice.

She lets the email marinate in her phone for the rest of her walk. Manon toys with the idea in her head, picturing different scenarios of how things could play out. Sophia was very detailed in her email, so Manon already has a brief idea of the logistics of the arrangement.

The place has two bedrooms, so she’d have a private space to retreat to if things get tense between them. It’s well-located, so Manon can get to most places on foot. She’d have to arrange to get a new driving instructor, but she can make-do for the first couple months.

Sophia still has classes, so Manon won’t have to see much of her in the day. If she’s strategic enough, they might not even see each other at all.

But that’s not what she wants.

It doesn’t have to be hard, Manon.

Okay, Manon thinks. And then: Fuck you, Dani. She hopes Daniela senses it somehow, all the way in Los Angeles. Maybe she’ll, like, stub her toe or something.

She sends a response on her phone later that night—which is four in the morning. A part of her did it because she knows Sophia is likely asleep and won’t reply immediately. Manon needs time to recuperate.

It’s short and simple, because she’ll never end up replying if she keeps overthinking every word she types out. Multiple tabs are opened on her browser, different flights back to Los Angeles shown on her laptop screen.

A week should be enough to pack. She’ll give her plants to Blake and Malcolm, maybe, and she only really needs to bring her clothes and camera along. She can get Sophie to ship the rest.

“Am I really doing this?” Manon mutters to herself. She shuts her laptop and gets up, heading towards the balcony. This might be the last week she gets to have one, since Sophia didn’t mention having one in her apartment.

Their apartment, soon. It feels surreal to think about.

Manon stands there for a while, crossed arms sitting on the railing. She watches the windows of the building across hers. The lights are subdued by curtains, but they seep through enough to be visible. She pictures stories of different lives—a couple who had just moved in together, a girl in her first year of art school, childhood best friends that grew up together.

Her thoughts inevitably stray to Sophia, as they always do. Manon knows it will be tense at first, but maybe they can overcome that. She wonders if they’d get to have dinner together, maybe share a kitchen in the early mornings.

The universe must be conspiring with her, because the sun begins to rise, as if providing lighting for her hopes. The warmth is nice, and Manon lets herself bask in it for a while.

Her hand twitches where it rests on the railing, trigger finger pushing down. The feeling is familiar enough for her to know what she needs now.

She turns, quickly scanning through her room to locate her camera. The sun doesn’t stop rising. She doesn’t have much time.

Manon rummages through her bag, grasping onto anything and hoping to feel the familiar plastic. Once she finally grabs it, she books it back to the balcony, already holding it up for the shot.

It feels perfect. The sun is only half-up, so parts of the sky are still painted dark from the night. The trees cast long shadows on the pavement. She thinks of the light mosaic, one of the first pictures she’d taken in New York.

Manon has watched the sun rise and fall a million times, but she’d never thought to capture it on camera until now. When she heads back inside, she wonders what made this one so different.

(It dawns on her three days later, once she finally develops her rolls. She kept the first one for herself, but she wanted Malcolm to develop at least one before she leaves.

“We’ll miss you,” he says as he hands her the prints. Manon feels nostalgic, thinking back to her first visit. “Come back often, yeah? There’ll always be a place here for you.”

Her plants sit behind him, scattered around the shop. Blake had kept one, insisting that he isn’t responsible enough to keep more alive.

“Duh,” she replies mockingly. It comes off too fond. “Don’t be so dramatic. Come visit me in LA, too.” She looks through the prints, stopping once she reaches the last one.

“Hey, Malc? Do you have, like, a pen I can borrow?” She asks, flipping the print around. She steps closer, laying it flat on the counter. Malcolm slides a pen towards her, already knowing what she’s about to do.

to new beginnings, she scrawls in blue. i want to keep trying, for you.)

I.

Sophia is asleep on the couch. Manon is on the floor, head tilted at an awkward angle to look at her.

It’s late afternoon, Sophia having passed out after braiding Manon’s hair. She had sat her down in between her legs, insisting that she could do it too, after finding out that Lara had braided her hair before.

She did pretty well, Manon thought to herself when she looked in the mirror. Sophia preened when she told her, liking the sense of accomplishment. Manon likes feeling Sophia close and seeing her happy, so she figures it’s an obvious win-win.

Sunlight filters through the window, the curtains only half-drawn. It’ll ruin Sophia’s sleep schedule if Manon lets her nap for too long, but waking her up would feel like kicking a puppy. She figures the light could wake her up more gently than she could.

Sophia looks so peaceful like this; her face is completely bare and relaxed, lips set in a pout. Manon reaches out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t even budge.

“You must be really tired,” Manon murmurs. She feels a tug in her heart. How incredibly lucky she is to be able to see Sophia like this.

Manon sits up slowly, blindly feeling for her camera on the table next to them. Her eyes don’t leave Sophia.

She forces her gaze away when she gets ahold of the camera. Her thumb moves across the buttons, so much more experienced with the settings now. She’s come a long way.

"I love you," Manon whispers, moving the camera up to eye view. She doesn't hold back her smile. Thank you for letting me come home.