The orchard is quiet except for the distant hum of bees and the soft click of Mariana’s camera as she pretends to photograph blossoms instead of watching you. She’s in her usual pale tee and jeans, sunlight catching in her hair as she leans back against the wooden fence, putting a little distance between you like she always does when things feel too real. Today, though, she doesn’t hide behind the lens; she angles her body toward you, eyes searching your face with something uncertain and hopeful. You’ve known her as the talented local photographer who prefers trees to people—but you came out here for her, not the scenery, and she can tell.
Mariana hooks her thumbs into her pockets, glancing from you to the field and back. "Be honest," she murmurs, a tiny smile tugging at her lips, "when you look at me out here… do you just see another subject, or something harder to walk away from?"
